THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
ITHOUT the rich imagination of Stoddard, or the versatility of Stedman, Mr. Aldrich surpasses them both in delicate and artistic skill. His jewelled lines, exquisitely pointed, express a single mood or a dainty epigram with a pungent and tasteful beauty that places him easily at the head of our modern lyrical writers.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, November 11, 1836. In childhood he was taken to Louisiana, where he remained a number of years, his father being a merchant at New Orleans. After returning to Portsmouth, he was preparing for college when his father suddenly died, making it necessary for him to relinquish this design, to take a position of immediate remuneration, which he found in his uncle’s counting house in New York. This pursuit he found so far removed from the bent of his mind, however, that he gave it up after three years to take a situation as a reader in a New York publishing house. During his mercantile career he contributed to the current press, and afterwards became attached to various periodicals as contributor or in an editorial capacity. Among others, he worked on N. P. Willis’ “Home Journal,” the “Illustrated News,” and the “New York Evening Mirror.” During the Civil War he was for a time with the Army of the Potomac, as a newspaper correspondent. In 1865, he married, and removed to Boston, where he edited “The Weekly Journal” every Saturday. He remained with this paper until 1874. In 1881 he succeeded William Dean Howells as editor of the “Atlantic Monthly.” This position he resigned in 1890 in order to devote himself to personal literary work and travel. The degree of A. M. was conferred upon him in 1883 by Yale, and in 1896 by Harvard University.
Mr. Aldrich had published one volume of verse, “The Bells” (1854), a collection of juvenile verses, before the “Ballad of Baby Bell and Other Poems” appeared in 1858, and made his reputation as a poet. Other volumes of his poetry issued at the following dates are entitled: “Pampinea and Other Poems” (1861), “Cloth of Gold and Other Poems” (1873), “Flower and Thorn” (1876), “Friar Jerome’s Beautiful Book” (1881), “Mercedes and Later Lyrics” (1883), “Wyndham Towers” (1889), “Judith and Holofernes, a Poem” (1896).
Among the prose works of the author we mention “Out of His Head, a Romance” (1862), “The Story of a Bad Boy” (1869),—which became at once a favorite by its naturalness and purity of spirit,—“[♦]Marjorie Daw and Other People” (1873), “Prudence Palfrey” (1874), “The Queen of Sheba” (1877), “The Stillwater Tragedy” (1880), “From Ponkapog to Pesth” (1883),“The Sisters Tragedy” (1890), “An Old Town by the Sea;” and “Two Bites at a Cherry and other Tales” (1893), “Unguarded Gates” (1895). “Complete Works,” in eight volumes, were published in 1897. Mr. Aldrich is said to be a man of the world as well as a man of letters and his personal popularity equals his literary reputation. We cannot better illustrate his companionable nature and close this sketch than by presenting the following pen picture of an incident, clipped from a recent magazine:
[♦] ‘Majorie’ replaced with ‘Marjorie’
During a visit to England, upon one occasion, Mr. Aldrich was the guest of William Black, with a number of other well known people. An English journalist of some distinction, who had no time to keep in touch with the personality of poets, met Mr. Aldrich, and they became excellent friends. They went on long shooting expeditions together, and found each other more than good companions. The last night of their stay came, and after dinner Mr. Black made a little speech, in which he spoke of Mr. Aldrich’s poetry in a graceful fashion. The London journalist gave a gasp, and looked at Mr. Aldrich, who rose to make a response, as if he had never seen him before. As the poet sat down he leaned over him, and said:—
“Say, Aldrich, are you the man who writes books?”
“Yes,” Mr. Aldrich said. “I am glad you don’t know, for I am sure you liked me for myself.”
THOMAS B. ALDRICH’S STUDY.
ALEC YEATON’S SON.[¹]
GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720.
HE wind it wailed, the wind it moaned,
And the white caps flecked the sea;
“An’ I would to God,” the skipper groaned,
“I had not my boy with me!”
Snug in the stern-sheets, little John
Laughed as the scud swept by;
But the skipper’s sunburnt cheek grew wan
As he watched the wicked sky.
“Would he were at his mother’s side!”
And the skipper’s eyes were dim.
“Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide,
What would become of him!
“For me—my muscles are as steel,
For me let hap what may:
I might make shift upon the keel
Until the break o’ day.
“But he, he is so weak and small,
So young, scarce learned to stand—
O pitying Father of us all,
I trust him in thy hand!
“For Thou, who markest from on high
A sparrow’s fall—each one!—
Surely, O Lord, thou’lt have an eye
On Alec Yeaton’s son!”
Then, steady, helm! Right straight he sailed
Towards the headland light:
The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed,
And black, black fell the night.
Then burst a storm to make one quail
Though housed from winds and waves—
They who could tell about that gale
Must rise from watery graves!
Sudden it came, as sudden went;
Ere half the night was sped,
The winds were hushed, the waves were spent,
And the stars shone overhead.
Now, as the morning mist grew thin,
The folk on Gloucester shore
Saw a little figure floating in
Secure, on a broken oar!
Up rose the cry, “A wreck! a wreck!
Pull, mates, and waste no breath!”—
They knew it, though ’t was but a speck
Upon the edge of death!
Long did they marvel in the town
At God His strange decree,
That let the stalwart skipper drown
And the little child go free!
[¹] By special permission of the Author.
ON LYNN TERRACE.[¹]
LL day to watch the blue wave curl and break,
All night to hear it plunging on the shore—
In this sea-dream such draughts of life I take,
I cannot ask for more.
Behind me lie the idle life and vain,
The task unfinished, and the weary hours;
That long wave softly bears me back to Spain
And the Alhambra’s towers!
Once more I halt in Andalusian Pass,
To list the mule-bells jingling on the height;
Below, against the dull esparto grass,
The almonds glimmer white.
Huge gateways, wrinkled, with rich grays and browns,
Invite my fancy, and I wander through
The gable-shadowed, zigzag streets of towns
The world’s first sailors knew.
Or, if I will, from out this thin sea-haze
Low-lying cliffs of lovely Calais rise;
Or yonder, with the pomp of olden days,
Venice salutes my eyes.
Or some gaunt castle lures me up its stair;
I see, far off, the red-tiled hamlets shine,
And catch, through slits of windows here and there,
Blue glimpses of the Rhine.
Again I pass Norwegian fjord and fjeld,
And through bleak wastes to where the sunset’s fires
Light up the white-walled Russian citadel,
The Kremlin’s domes and spires.
And now I linger in green English lanes,
By garden plots of rose and heliotrope;
And now I face the sudden pelting rains
On some lone Alpine slope.
Now at Tangier, among the packed bazars,
I saunter, and the merchants at the doors
Smile, and entice me: here are jewels like stars,
And curved knives of the Moors;
Cloths of Damascus, strings of amber dates;
What would Howadji—silver, gold, or stone?
Prone on the sun-scorched plain outside the gates
The camels make their moan.
All this is mine, as I lie dreaming here,
High on the windy terrace, day by day;
And mine the children’s laughter, sweet and clear,
Ringing across the bay.
For me the clouds; the ships sail by for me;
For me the petulant sea-gull takes its flight;
And mine the tender moonrise on the sea,
And hollow caves of night.
[¹] By special permission of the Author.
SARGENT’S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT “THE PLAYERS.”
By Permission of the Author.
HAT face which no man ever saw
And from his memory banished quite,
With eyes in which are Hamlet’s awe
And Cardinal Richelieu’s subtle light
Looks from this frame. A master’s hand
Has set the master-player here,
In the fair temple[¹] that he planned
Not for himself. To us most dear
This image of him! “It was thus
He looked; such pallor touched his cheek;
With that same grace he greeted us—
Nay, ’tis the man, could it but speak!”
Sad words that shall be said some day—
Far fall the day! O cruel Time,
Whose breath sweeps mortal things away,
Spare long this image of his prime,
That others standing in the place
Where, save as ghosts, we come no more,
May know what sweet majestic face
The gentle Prince of Players wore!
[¹] The club-house in Gramercy Park, New York, was the gift of Mr. Booth to the association founded by him and named “The Players.”
