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William Cullen Bryant (search for this): chapter 8
sh him from his father, Walter — was four, the family moved to Brooklyn. The boy had scanty schooling, and by the time he was twenty had tried type-setting, teaching, and editing a country newspaper on Long Island. He was a big, dark-haired fellow, sensitive, emotional, extraordinarily impressible. The next sixteen years were full of happy vagrancy. At twenty-two he was editing a paper in New York, and furnishing short stories to the Democratic review, a literary journal which numbered Bryant, Longfellow, Whittier, Poe, Hawthorne, and Thoreau among its contributors. He wrote a novel on temperance, mostly in the reading-room of Tammany Hall, and tried here and there an experiment in free verse. He was in love with the pavements of New York and the Brooklyn ferry-boats, in love with Italian opera and with long tramps over Long Island. He left his position on The Brooklyn Eagle and wandered south to New Orleans. By and by he drifted back 199 to New York, tried lecturing, worked
Drum Taps (search for this): chapter 8
me were startled by the frank sexuality of certain poems. But Emerson wrote to Whitman from Concord: I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed. Until the Civil War was half over, Whitman remained in Brooklyn, patiently composing new poems for successive printings of his book. Then he went to the front to care for a wounded brother, and finally settled down in a Washington garret to spend his strength as an army hospital nurse. He wrote Drum Taps and other magnificent poems about the War, culminating in his threnody on Lincoln's death, When Lilacs last in the Dooryard Bloomed. Swinburne called this the most sonorous nocturn ever chanted in the church of the world. After the war had ended, Whitman stayed on in Washington as a government clerk, and saw much of John Burroughs and W. D. O'Connor. John Hay was a staunch friend. Some of the best known poets and critics of England and the Continent now began to recognize his genius.
John Hay (search for this): chapter 8
or a wounded brother, and finally settled down in a Washington garret to spend his strength as an army hospital nurse. He wrote Drum Taps and other magnificent poems about the War, culminating in his threnody on Lincoln's death, When Lilacs last in the Dooryard Bloomed. Swinburne called this the most sonorous nocturn ever chanted in the church of the world. After the war had ended, Whitman stayed on in Washington as a government clerk, and saw much of John Burroughs and W. D. O'Connor. John Hay was a staunch friend. Some of the best known poets and critics of England and the Continent now began to recognize his genius. But his health had been permanently shattered by his heroic service as a nurse, and in 1873 he suffered a paralytic stroke which forced him to resign his position in Washington and remove to his brother's home in Camden, New Jersey. He was only fifty-four, but his best work was already done, and his remaining years,.until his death in 1892, were those of patien
Byron (search for this): chapter 8
s literature was mainly at second-hand and through the medium of British and American periodicals. Poe, who was older than Whitman by ten years, was fifteen when Byron died, in 1824. He was untouched by the nobler mood of Byron, though his verse was colored by the influence of Byron, Moore, and Shelley. His prose models were DeByron, though his verse was colored by the influence of Byron, Moore, and Shelley. His prose models were De Quincey, Disraeli, and Bulwer. Yet he owed more to Coleridge than to any of the Romantics. He was himself a sort of Coleridge without the piety, with the same keen penetrating critical intelligence, the same lovely opium-shadowed dreams, and, alas, with something of the same reputation as a dead-beat. A child of strolling plaByron, Moore, and Shelley. His prose models were De Quincey, Disraeli, and Bulwer. Yet he owed more to Coleridge than to any of the Romantics. He was himself a sort of Coleridge without the piety, with the same keen penetrating critical intelligence, the same lovely opium-shadowed dreams, and, alas, with something of the same reputation as a dead-beat. A child of strolling players, Poe happened to be born in Boston, but he hated Frogpondium his favorite name for the city of his nativity-as much as Whistler hated his native town of Lowell. His father died early of tuberculosis, and his mother, after a pitiful struggle with'disease and poverty, soon followed her husband to the grave. The boy, by physica
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (search for this): chapter 8
m his father, Walter — was four, the family moved to Brooklyn. The boy had scanty schooling, and by the time he was twenty had tried type-setting, teaching, and editing a country newspaper on Long Island. He was a big, dark-haired fellow, sensitive, emotional, extraordinarily impressible. The next sixteen years were full of happy vagrancy. At twenty-two he was editing a paper in New York, and furnishing short stories to the Democratic review, a literary journal which numbered Bryant, Longfellow, Whittier, Poe, Hawthorne, and Thoreau among its contributors. He wrote a novel on temperance, mostly in the reading-room of Tammany Hall, and tried here and there an experiment in free verse. He was in love with the pavements of New York and the Brooklyn ferry-boats, in love with Italian opera and with long tramps over Long Island. He left his position on The Brooklyn Eagle and wandered south to New Orleans. By and by he drifted back 199 to New York, tried lecturing, worked at the ca
George Eliot (search for this): chapter 8
four other men and one woman, seated at a dinner-table laid for six, and talking of their art and of themselves. What would the others think of Poe? I fancy that Thackeray would chat with him courteously, but would not greatly care for him. George Eliot, woman-like, would pity him. Hawthorne would watch him with those inscrutable eyes and understand him better than the rest. But Stevenson would be immensely interested; he would begin an essay on Poe before he went to sleep. And Mr. Kipling riefest fashion, for Whitman's own prose and poetry relate the essentials of his biography. He was born on Long Island, of New England and Dutch ancestry, in 1819. Lowell, W. W. Story, and Charles A. Dana were born in that year, as was also George Eliot. Whitman's father was a carpenter, who leaned to the Quakers. There were many children. When little Walt --as he was called, to distinguish him from his father, Walter — was four, the family moved to Brooklyn. The boy had scanty schooling,
Abraham Lincoln (search for this): chapter 8
. He wrote Drum Taps and other magnificent poems about the War, culminating in his threnody on Lincoln's death, When Lilacs last in the Dooryard Bloomed. Swinburne called this the most sonorous noc creed is the unity of America. Here he voices the conceptions of Hamilton, Clay, Webster, and Lincoln. In spite of all diversity in external aspects the republic is one and indivisible. This unity, in Whitman's view, was cemented forever by the issue of the Civil War. Lincoln, the Captain, dies indeed on the deck of the victor ship, but the ship comes into the harbor with object won. Third f them have had their say, it will remain true that he was a seer and a prophet, far in advance of his own time, like Lincoln, and like Lincoln, an inspired interpreter of the soul of this republic. f them have had their say, it will remain true that he was a seer and a prophet, far in advance of his own time, like Lincoln, and like Lincoln, an inspired interpreter of the soul of this republic.
Coleridge (search for this): chapter 8
ars, was fifteen when Byron died, in 1824. He was untouched by the nobler mood of Byron, though his verse was colored by the influence of Byron, Moore, and Shelley. His prose models were De Quincey, Disraeli, and Bulwer. Yet he owed more to Coleridge than to any of the Romantics. He was himself a sort of Coleridge without the piety, with the same keen penetrating critical intelligence, the same lovely opium-shadowed dreams, and, alas, with something of the same reputation as a dead-beat. Coleridge without the piety, with the same keen penetrating critical intelligence, the same lovely opium-shadowed dreams, and, alas, with something of the same reputation as a dead-beat. A child of strolling players, Poe happened to be born in Boston, but he hated Frogpondium his favorite name for the city of his nativity-as much as Whistler hated his native town of Lowell. His father died early of tuberculosis, and his mother, after a pitiful struggle with'disease and poverty, soon followed her husband to the grave. The boy, by physical inheritance a neurasthenic, though with marked bodily activity in youth, was adopted by the Allans, a kindly family in Richmond, Virginia.
Whistler (search for this): chapter 8
lovely opium-shadowed dreams, and, alas, with something of the same reputation as a dead-beat. A child of strolling players, Poe happened to be born in Boston, but he hated Frogpondium his favorite name for the city of his nativity-as much as Whistler hated his native town of Lowell. His father died early of tuberculosis, and his mother, after a pitiful struggle with'disease and poverty, soon followed her husband to the grave. The boy, by physical inheritance a neurasthenic, though with marlowed. He enlisted in the army and was stationed in Boston in 1827, when his first volume, Tamerlane, was published. In 1829 he was in Fortress Monroe, and published Al Aaraf at Baltimore. He entered West Point in 1830, and was surely, except Whistler, the strangest of all possible cadets. When he was dismissed in 1831, he had written the marvellous lines To Helen, Israfel, and The city in the sea. That is enough to have in one's knapsack at the age of twenty-two. In the eighteen years f
1844 AD (search for this): chapter 8
But when he was drinking he was about one of the most disagreeable men I have ever met. I am sorry for him, wrote C. F. Briggs to Lowell. He has some good points, but taken altogether, he is badly made up. Badly made up, no doubt, both in body and mind, but all respectable and prosperous Pharisees should be reminded that Poe did not make himself; or rather, that he could not make himself over. Very few men can. Given Poe's temperament, and the problem is insoluble. He wrote to Lowell in 1844: I have been too deeply conscious of the mutability and evanescence of temporal things to give any continuous effort to anything — to be consistent in anything. My life has been whim--impulse-passion — a longing for solitude-a scorn of all things present in an earnest desire for the future. It is the pathetic confession of a dreamer. Yet this dreamer was also a keen analyzer, a tireless creator of beautiful things. In them he sought and found a refuge from actuality. The marvel of his ca
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