George Ticknor, to whom the dying historian Prescott made such interesting allusion, was born at Boston, Massachusetts, on August 1st, 1791, and from early childhood displayed a passion for books. He became a barrister, but could not long keep away from literature and learning. In 1815 he came to Europe, and haunted some of the best libraries and universities of the Old World. Actually, before his return home to America, he was, in 1817, appointed Smith Professor of Modern Languages and Literature in Harvard College. In 1819 he returned to America, and for fifteen years held this chair of teaching, delivering all the while the most valuable courses of lectures. In 1835 he gave up his professorship in order to go again to Europe and study for preparing his great book. After three years he came back to his native land, and, in 1849, The History of Spanish Literature was first published in New York by Harper and Brothers, in London by John Murray.
Of it Washington Irving wrote to the author: “No one that has not been in Spain can feel half the merit of your work, but to those who have it is a perpetual banquet. It is well worth a lifetime to achieve such a work.”
Washington Irving, almost the first author noticed as a native of the city of New York, was born on April 3rd, 1783. His father was a Scot, and his mother English. Passing over interesting publications like Salmagundi; or, The Whim-Whams, and Diedrich Knickerbocker’s History of New York, we come to The Sketch Book, first issued in 1819. Curiously enough, Washington Irving, as a fact, wrote the MS. for this in England; but it was at first only printed and published in New York. Incidentally, Lockhart, in Blackwood’s Magazine, February, 1820, paid a high compliment:—
“We are greatly at a loss to comprehend for what reason Mr. Irving has thought fit to publish his Sketch Book in America earlier than in Britain; but, at all events, he is doing himself great injustice by not having an edition printed here of every number after it has appeared in New York. Nothing has been written for a long time for which it would be more safe to promise great and eager acceptance.”
Washington Irving’s fame was now secure, and these few concluding words, from Allibone, must suffice: “When Bracebridge Hall was ready for the press, in 1822, Mr. Murray was ready to offer 1,000 guineas for the copyright without having seen the MS. He obtained the coveted prize at his offer, and subsequently gave the same author £2,000 for the chronicle of The Conquest of Granada, and 3,000 guineas for the History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus.”
Very few words here must be written of John Lothrop Motley, born in Massachusetts in 1814. It is enough to mention his splendid work, The History of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. Now, from what is gone before, it will readily be granted that America was well prepared, by the work of her own sons, to take a proud position in Literature, and in concluding these introductory remarks only one honoured name shall be mentioned further.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine, on February 27th, 1807, and was descended from William Longfellow, who, born in Hampshire, England, in 1651, emigrated to Massachusetts. The chief incidents of the life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow are like household words, and to think of all that is pure and noble in America without naming him, is impossible. All his writings are instinct with the breath of a pure and noble life.
“Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.
Thus dwelt together in love those simple Acadian farmers,—
Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.
Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;
But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.”
Naturally we turn, at first, to look at books taken to America by early English and Dutch settlers. They and their near descendants, when using a bookplate at all, mostly adopted an armorial plate. Copper-plate engraving was, of course, in vogue then, and most of their ex libris are from copper-plates. There are a few from wood-blocks. Of comparatively late plates, some are steel plates; but the copper are usually the more satisfactory; the steel being so difficult to work. In comparing a number of the earlier specimens of bookplates in America an interesting point involuntarily arises. From which of two views is an ex libris the more interesting? Is it a work of art or a piece of history? In spite of all that skilled designers and cunning workers in metals may say, the majority will probably value most what for want of a better name may be called the historical aspect. When the Tudor, Stuart, and Guelph Exhibitions were held in London, somewhat unfortunately so many of the expert critics, in writing of portraits, groups, or historical scenes, seemed only able to write from a pure art point of view. As an instance, not connected with any exhibition, I had, but am afraid that I have lost it, a somewhat seedy-looking oil painting, perhaps 18 × 12 inches, which depicted an earnest, bent old figure on horseback returning the salute of a wonder-struck old countryman and his good dame. Following the keen old horseman is another horse, bearing the groom with despatch-bag. The scene is, in fact, a contemporary representation from life of “The Duke” just before passing out of Birdcage Walk for Apsley House. In the left background is the Wellington Monument, as many of us remember it, and on the right the Hercules statue. These accessories fix the date as in the last few years of the great Duke’s life.
What thousand-guinea portrait, plastered with elaborate uniform and robes and saturated with a learned artist’s technical postures and perfections, could have so perfectly pourtrayed the most interesting figure ever seen in London half a century ago? Field-Marshal Moltke was respected throughout Germany as Der Schweiger—the Silent. Wellington, too, and the late Lord Salisbury as well, did not revel in long-winded talk. Once, in the Duke’s last years, he had become very unpopular with the ignorant crowd. Stepping out of the House of Lords into Old Palace Yard, he was met by the howls and threats of an angry mob. His groom was there with the aged Duke’s horse for him to ride home as usual. By a sign, sending away horse and groom, the calm old veteran walked into and with the mob. Before he and they came to Apsley House, the wild threats and jeers had become good British cheers. The old man spoke no single word, but only pointed to his study windows, which had lately been barred up owing to a mob breaking the glass.