Part 11

Richard Watson Gilder is the son of a clergyman, the Rev. William H. Gilder, who published two literary reviews in Philadelphia. He was born in Bordentown, New Jersey, February 8th, 1844, and with such ancestry and home influence came easily to journalism and literary work. He got his schooling in the Bellevue Seminary, which was founded by his father. As with so many young Americans of the time, the war came to interrupt his studies; and in 1863 he served in the "Emergency Corps," in the defense of Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Mr. Gilder is one of the American writers who have successfully combined journalism and literature. He began by doing newspaper work, and then by a natural transition became in 1869 editor of Hours at Home, and shortly thereafter associate editor of Scribner's Magazine with Dr. J. G. Holland. This representative monthly was changed in name to The Century, and upon the death of Dr. Holland in 1881 Mr. Gilder became its editor-in-chief. His influence in this conspicuous position has been wholesome and helpful in the encouraging of literature, and in the discussion of current questions of importance through a popular medium which reaches great numbers of the American people. The Century under his direction has been receptive to young writers and artists of ability, and many since known to fame made their maiden appearance in its pages.

In addition to his influence on the literary movement, Mr. Gilder has been active in philanthropic and political work. He has secured legislation for the improvement of tenements in cities; he has taken interest in the formation of public kindergartens; and given of his time and strength to further other reforms. His influence in New York City, too, has been a factor in developing the social aspects of literary and art life there. From Dickinson College he has received the degree of LL.D., and from Princeton that of L.H.D.

Mr. Gilder's reputation as a writer is based upon his verse. Only very occasionally does he publish an essay, though thoughtful, strongly written editorials from his pen in his magazine are frequent. But it is his verse-writing that has given him his place--a distinct and honorable one--in American letters. The fine quality and promise of his work was recognized upon the publication of 'The New Day' in 1875, a first volume which was warmly received. It showed the influence of Italian studies, and contained lyric work of much imaginative beauty. The musicalness of it and the delicately ideal treatment of the love passion were noticeable characteristics. In his subsequent books--'The Celestial Passion,' 1887; 'Lyrics,' 1885 and 1887; 'Two Worlds, and Other Poems,' 1891; 'The Great Remembrance, and Other Poems,' 1893: the contents of these being gathered finally into the one volume 'Five Books of Song,' 1894--he has given further proof of his genuine lyric gift, his work in later years having a wider range of themes, a broadening vision and deepening purpose. He remains nevertheless essentially a lyrist, a maker of songs; a thorough artist who has seriousness, dignity, and charm. His is an earnest nature, sensitive alike to vital contemporaneous problems and to the honey-sweet voice of the Ideal.

[All the following citations from Mr. Gilder's poems are copyrighted, and are reprinted here by special permission of the author and his publishers.]

TWO SONGS FROM 'THE NEW DAY'

I

Not from the whole wide world I chose thee, Sweetheart, light of the land and the sea! The wide, wide world could not inclose thee-- For thou art the whole wide world to me.

II

Years have flown since I knew thee first, And I know thee as water is known of thirst; Yet I knew thee of old at the first sweet sight, And thou art strange to me, Love, to-night.

"ROSE-DARK THE SOLEMN SUNSET"

Rose-dark the solemn sunset That holds my thought of thee; With one star in the heavens And one star in the sea.

On high no lamp is lighted, Nor where the long waves flow. Save the one star of evening And the shadow star below.

Light of my life, the darkness Comes with the twilight dream; Thou art the bright star shining, And I but the shadowy gleam.

NON SINE DOLORE

What, then, is Life,--what Death? Thus the Answerer saith; O faithless mortal, bend thy head and listen:

Down o'er the vibrant strings, That thrill, and moan, and mourn, and glisten, The Master draws his bow. A voiceless pause: then upward, see, it springs, Free as a bird with unimprisoned wings! In twain the chord was cloven, While, shaken with woe, With breaks of instant joy all interwoven, Piercing the heart with lyric knife, On, on the ceaseless music sings, Restless, intense, serene;-- Life is the downward stroke; the upward, Life; Death but the pause between.

Then spake the Questioner: If 't were only this, Ah, who could face the abyss That plunges steep athwart each human breath? If the new birth of Death Meant only more of Life as mortals know it, What priestly balm, what song of highest poet, Could heal one sentient soul's immitigable pain? All, all were vain! If, having soared pure spirit at the last, Free from the impertinence and warp of flesh We find half joy, half pain, on every blast; Are caught again in closer-woven mesh-- Ah! who would care to die From out these fields and hills, and this familiar sky; These firm, sure hands that compass us, this dear humanity?

Again the Answerer saith:-- O ye of little faith, Shall then the spirit prove craven, And Death's divine deliverance but give A summer rest and haven? By all most noble in us, by the light that streams Into our waking dreams, Ah, we who know what Life is, let us live! Clearer and freer, who shall doubt? Something of dust and darkness cast forever out; But Life, still Life, that leads to higher Life, Even though the highest be not free from immortal strife.

The highest! Soul of man, oh be thou bold, And to the brink of thought draw near, behold! Where, on the earth's green sod, Where, where in all the universe of God, Hath strife forever ceased? When hath not some great orb flashed into space The terror of its doom? When hath no human face Turned earthward in despair, For that some horrid sin had stamped its image there?

If at our passing Life be Life increased, And we ourselves flame pure unfettered soul, Like the Eternal Power that made the whole And lives in all he made From shore of matter to the unknown spirit shore; If, sire to son, and tree to limb, Cycle on countless cycle more and more We grow to be like him; If he lives on, serene and unafraid, Through all his light, his love, his living thought, One with the sufferer, be it soul or star; If he escape not pain, what beings that are Can e'er escape while Life leads on and up the unseen way and far? If he escape not, by whom all was wrought, Then shall not we, Whate'er of godlike solace still may be,-- For in all worlds there is no Life without a pang, and can be naught.

No Life without a pang! It were not Life, If ended were the strife-- Man were not man, nor God were truly God! See from the sod The lark thrill skyward in an arrow of song: Even so from pain and wrong Upsprings the exultant spirit, wild and free. He knows not all the joy of liberty Who never yet was crushed 'neath heavy woe. He doth not know, Nor can, the bliss of being brave Who never hath faced death, nor with unquailing eye Hath measured his own grave. Courage, and pity, and divinest scorn-- Self-scorn, self-pity, and high courage of the soul; The passion for the goal; The strength to never yield though all be lost-- All these are born Of endless strife; this is the eternal cost Of every lovely thought that through the portal Of human minds doth pass with following light. Blanch not, O trembling mortal! But with extreme and terrible delight Know thou the truth, Nor let thy heart be heavy with false ruth.

No passing burden is our earthly sorrow, That shall depart in some mysterious morrow. 'Tis His one universe where'er we are-- One changeless law from sun to viewless star. Were sorrow evil here, evil it were forever, Beyond the scope and help of our most keen endeavor God doth not dote, His everlasting purpose shall not fail. Here where our ears are weary with the wail And weeping of the sufferers; there where the Pleiads float-- Here, there, forever, pain most dread and dire Doth bring the intensest bliss, the dearest and most sure. 'Tis not from Life aside, it doth endure Deep in the secret heart of all existence. It is the inward fire, The heavenly urge, and the divine insistence. Uplift thine eyes, O Questioner, from the sod! It were no longer Life, If ended were the strife; Man were not man, God were not truly God.

"HOW PADEREWSKI PLAYS"

I

If songs were perfume, color, wild desire; If poets' words were fire That burned to blood in purple-pulsing veins; If with a bird-like thrill the moments throbbed to hours; If summer's rains Turned drop by drop to shy, sweet, maiden flowers; If God made flowers with light and music in them, And saddened hearts could win them; If loosened petals touched the ground With a caressing sound; If love's eyes uttered word No listening lover e'er before had heard; If silent thoughts spake with a bugle's voice; If flame passed into song and cried, "Rejoice! Rejoice!" If words could picture life's, hope's, heaven's eclipse When the last kiss has fallen on dying eyes and lips; If all of mortal woe Struck on one heart with breathless blow on blow; If melody were tears, and tears were starry gleams That shone in evening's amethystine dreams; Ah yes, if notes were stars, each star a different hue, Trembling to earth in dew; Or if the boreal pulsings, rose and white, Made a majestic music in the night; If all the orbs lost in the light of day In the deep, silent blue began their harps to play; And when in frightening skies the lightnings flashed And storm-clouds crashed, If every stroke of light and sound were but excess of beauty; If human syllables could e'er refashion That fierce electric passion; If other art could match (as were the poet's duty) The grieving, and the rapture, and the thunder Of that keen hour of wonder,-- That light as if of heaven, that blackness as of hell,-- How Paderewski plays then might I dare to tell.

II

How Paderewski plays! And was it he Or some disbodied spirit which had rushed From silence into singing; and had crushed Into one startled hour a life's felicity, And highest bliss of knowledge--that all life, grief, wrong, Turn at the last to beauty and to song!

THE SONNET

What is a sonnet? 'Tis the pearly shell That murmurs of the far-off murmuring sea; A precious jewel carved most curiously; It is a little picture painted well. What is a sonnet? 'Tis the tear that fell From a great poet's hidden ecstasy; A two-edged sword, a star, a song--ah me! Sometimes a heavy-tolling funeral bell. This was the flame that shook with Dante's breath; The solemn organ whereon Milton played, And the clear glass where Shakespeare's shadow falls: A sea this is--beware who ventureth! For like a fiord the narrow floor is laid Mid-ocean deep to the sheer mountain walls.

AMERICA

From 'The Great Remembrance'

Land that we love! Thou Future of the World! Thou refuge of the noble heart oppressed! Oh, never be thy shining image hurled From its high place in the adoring breast Of him who worships thee with jealous love! Keep thou thy starry forehead as the dove All white, and to the eternal Dawn inclined! Thou art not for thyself, but for mankind, And to despair of thee were to despair Of man, of man's high destiny, of God! Of thee should man despair, the journey trod Upward, through unknown eons, stair on stair, By this our race, with bleeding feet and slow, Were but the pathway to a darker woe Than yet was visioned by the heavy heart Of prophet. To despair of thee! Ah no! For thou thyself art Hope; Hope of the World thou art!

ON THE LIFE-MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

This 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.

"CALL ME NOT DEAD"

Call me not dead when I, indeed, have gone Into the company of the ever-living High and most glorious poets! Let thanksgiving Rather be made. Say:--"He at last hath won Rest and release, converse supreme and wise, Music and song and light of immortal faces; To-day, perhaps, wandering in starry places, He hath met Keats, and known him by his eyes. To-morrow (who can say?) Shakespeare may pass, And our lost friend just catch one syllable Of that three-centuried wit that kept so well; Or Milton; or Dante, looking on the grass Thinking of Beatrice, and listening still To chanted hymns that sound from the heavenly hill."

AFTER-SONG

From 'The New Day'

Through love to light! Oh, wonderful the way That leads from darkness to the perfect day! From darkness and from sorrow of the night To morning that comes singing o'er the sea. Through love to light! Through light, O God, to thee, Who art the love of love, the eternal light of light!

GIUSEPPE GIUSTI

(1809-1850)

Giuseppe Giusti, an Italian satirical poet, was born of an influential family, May 12th, 1809, in the little village of Monsummano, which lies between Pistoja and Pescia, and was in every fibre of his nature a Tuscan. As a child he imbibed the healthful, sunny atmosphere of that Campagna, and grew up loving the world and his comrades, but with a dislike of study which convinced himself and his friends that he was born to no purpose. He was early destined to the bar, and began his law studies in Pistoja and Lucca, completing them a number of years later at Pisa, where he obtained his degree of doctor.

In 1834 he went to Florence, under pretence of practicing with the advocate Capoquadri; but here as elsewhere he spent his time in the world of gayety, whose fascination and whose absurdity he seems to have felt with equal keenness. His dislike of study found its exception in his love of Dante, of whom he was a reverent student. He was himself continually versifying, and his early romantic lyrics are inspired by lofty thought. His penetrating humor, however, and his instinctive sarcasm, whose expression was never unkind, led him soon to abandon idealism and to distinguish himself in the field of satire, which has no purer representative than he. His compositions are short and terse, and are seldom blemished by personalities. He was wont to say that absurd persons did not merit even the fame of infamy. He leveled his wit against the lethargy and immoralities of the times, and revealed them clear-cut in the light of his own stern principles and patriotism.

The admiration and confidence which he now began to receive from the public was to him a matter almost of consternation, wont as he was to consider himself a good-for-nothing. He confesses somewhat bashfully however that there was always within him, half afraid of itself, an instinct of power which led him to say in his heart, Who knows what I may be with time? His frail constitution and almost incessant physical suffering account for a natural indolence against which he constantly inveighs, but above which he was powerless to rise except at vehement intervals. No carelessness, however, marks his work. He was a tireless reviser, and possessed the rare power of cutting, polishing, and finishing his work with exquisite nicety, without robbing it of vigor. His writings exerted a distinct political and moral influence. His is not alone the voice of pitiless and mocking irony, but it is that of the humanitarian, who in overthrow and destruction sees only the first step toward the creation of something better. When war broke out he laid aside his pen, saying that this was no time for a poet to pull down, and that his was not the power to build up. His health forbade his entering the army, which was a cause of poignant sorrow to him. His faith in Italy and her people and in the final triumph of unity remained unshaken and sublime in the midst of every reverse.

His mastery of the Tuscan dialect and his elegance of idiom won him membership in the Accademia della Crusca; but his love for Tuscany was always subservient to his love for Italy. To those who favored the division of the peninsula, he used to reply that he had but one fatherland, and that was a unit. He died in Florence, March 31, 1850, at the home of his devoted friend the Marquis Gino Capponi. In the teeth of Austrian prohibition, a throng of grateful and loving citizens followed his body to the church of San Miniato al Monte, remembering that at a time when freedom of thought was deemed treason, this man had fearlessly raised the battle-cry and prepared the way for the insurrection of 1848. Besides his satires, Giusti has left us a life of the poet Giuseppe Parini, a collection of Tuscan proverbs, and an unedited essay on the 'Divine Comedy.'

LULLABY

From 'Gingillino'

[The poem of 'Gingillino,' one of Giusti's finest satires, is full of personal hits, greatly enjoyed by the author's countrymen. The 'Lullaby' is sung by a number of personified Vices round the cradle of the infant Gingillino, who, having come into the world naked and possessed of nothing, is admonished how to behave if he would go out of it well dressed and rich. A few verses only are given out of the many. The whole poem was one of the most popular of all Giusti's satires.]

Cry not, dear baby, Of nothing possessed; But if thou wouldst, dear, Expire well dressed....

Let nothing vex thee,-- Love's silly story, Ghosts of grand festivals Spectres of glory;

Let naught annoy thee: The burdens of fame, The manifold perils That wait on a name.

Content thyself, baby, With learning to read: Don't be vainglorious; That's all thou canst need.

All promptings of genius Confine in thy breast, If thou wouldst, baby, Expire well dressed....

Let not God nor Devil Concern thy poor wits, And tell no more truth Than politeness permits.

With thy soul and thy body, Still worship the Real; Nor ever attempt To pursue the Ideal.

As for thy scruples, Let them be suppressed, If thou wouldst, baby, Expire well dressed.

Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature.'

THE STEAM-GUILLOTINE

[The monarch satirized in this poem was Francesco IV., Duke of Modena, a petty Nero, who executed not a few of the Italian patriots of 1831.]

A most wonderful steam-machine, One time set up in China-land, Outdid the insatiate guillotine, For in three hours, you understand, It cut off a hundred thousand heads In a row, like hospital beds.

This innovation stirred a breeze, And some of the bonzes even thought Their barbarous country by degrees To civilization might be brought, Leaving Europeans, with their schools, Looking like fools.

The Emperor was an honest man-- A little stiff, and dull of pate; Like other asses, hard and slow. He loved his subjects and the State, And patronized all clever men Within his ken.

His people did not like to pay Their taxes and their other dues,-- They cheated the revenue, sad to say: So their good ruler thought he'd choose As the best argument he'd seen, This sweet machine.

The thing's achievements were so great, They gained a pension for the man,-- The executioner of State,-- Who got a patent for his plan, Besides becoming a Mandarin Of great Pekin.

A courtier cried: "Good guillotine! Let's up and christen it, I say!" "Ah, why," cries to his counselor keen A Nero of our present day, "Why was not born within _my_ State A man so great?"

Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature.'

WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE

(1809-)

In view of his distinguished career, it is interesting to know that it is a part of Mr. Gladstone's unresting ambition to take a place among the literary men of the time, and to guide the thoughts of his countrymen in literary as well as in political, social, and economic subjects. Mr. Gladstone's preparation to become a man of letters was extensive. Born in Liverpool December 29th, 1809, he was sent to Eton and afterwards to Oxford, where he took the highest honors, and was the most remarkable graduate of his generation. His fellow students carried away a vivid recollection of his _viva voce_ examination for his degree: the tall figure, the flashing eye, the mobile countenance, in the midst of the crowd who pressed to hear him, while the examiners plied him with questions till, tested in some difficult point in theology, the candidate exclaimed, "Not yet, if you please" and began to pour forth a fresh store of learning and argument.

From the university Mr. Gladstone carried away two passions--the one for Greek literature, especially Greek poetry, the other for Christian theology. The Oxford that formed these tastes was intensely conservative in politics, representing the aristocratic system of English society and the exclusiveness of the Established Church, whose creed was that of the fourth century. Ecclesiasticism is not friendly to literature; but how far Oxford's most loyal son was permeated by ecclesiasticism is a matter of opinion. Fortunately, personality is stronger than dogma, and ideas than literary form; and Mr. Gladstone, than whom few men outside the profession of letters have written more, is always sure of an intelligent hearing. His discussion of a subject seems to invest it with some of his own marvelous vitality; and when he selects a book for review, he is said to make the fortune of both publisher and author, if only the title be used as a crotchet to hang his sermon on.