Literary and Musical Memories

Now and then during the early forties I contributed poems to the “Saturday Evening Post” and the “Clinton Signal,” for which paper Mr. J. F. Chamberlain and Mr. F. J. Warner also wrote; and the compositor was continually confusing the initials of our names, so that it was sometimes difficult for our friends to tell just which of us wrote a certain piece. Mr. William Wye Smith wrote for the “Saturday Emporium,” under the name of “Rusticus,” and I answered him, using my own name. He afterwards became an Episcopalian clergyman and the translator of the Bible into the old Scotch language; and he is still living in St. Catherines, Ontario. I also wrote occasionally for the “Fireman’s Journal,” a weekly supported by the volunteer companies of New York, in which I took an ardent interest. Most of my poems, in those years, were imaginative and sentimental; and one of them, which I now happen to remember, begins like this,

“Let me die on the prairie, and o’er my rude grave ‘Mid the soft winds of summer, the tall grass shall wave; I would breathe my last sigh, when the bright hues of

even Are fading away in the blue arch of heaven,”

During these years we received visits from a large number of literary men and women, among them Thurlow Weed, Mrs. Sigourney and Bayard Taylor.

One bright morning in April, when the violets were opening their tiny buds to the warm sunshine of early spring, the Mayor, Common Council, and a part of the Legislature came to make their annual call. With them also came Martin F. Tupper, the English poet, who at that time was a very popular author of a proverbial philosophy in verse. He was asked to make an address; but, not being an adept at extempore speaking, he told us that he would rather recite one of his poems; and he chose one entitled, “Never Give Up,” the first stanza of which runs as follows:

“Never give up, it is wiser and better
Always to hope than once to despair,
Throw off the yoke with its conquering fetter,
Yield not a moment to sorrow or care.
Never give up, though adversity presses,
Providence wisely has mingled the cup;
And the best counsel in all our distresses
Is the stout watchword, Never give up.”

But when Mr. Tupper reached the third line of his poem he broke down; and as I happened to be familiar with it, and was sitting directly behind him, I prompted him. Then he began again, and this time reached the third line of the second stanza, when his memory failed a second time. I repeated the line; but, evidently not wishing to continue, in spite of his title —” Never Give Up” — he turned to the audience and said:

“It is of no use; this lady knows my poem better than I do myself; and therefore I will sit down.”

“William Cullen Bryant is coming to our musical” was the watchword that passed through the Institution one day in 1843; and teachers, as well as pupils, could hardly restrain their impatience until the hour of the evening entertainment. We knew Mr. Bryant by reputation, as the able editor of the “Evening Post” for almost twenty years; and we had been delighted by the stories of travel in foreign lands which he occasionally wrote. For about twenty-five years he had been recognized by all classes as the foremost living American poet; and he was frequently called “the first citizen of the Republic.” “Thanatopsis” was a household classic, and is said to be the sweetest apology for Death that our literature affords. And the very hand of Death had been stayed and the gray haired patriarch spared to enjoy the plaudits of his countrymen. But the mind of a man of the calibre of Bryant is never turned aside, either by the world’s censure or its praise.

Wherever he went impromptu receptions were held in his honor; and we had the privilege of meeting him after our musical; but I had small hope of being received otherwise than in the conventional manner by so great a poet. To my astonishment, however, Mr. Bryant warmly grasped my hand; and said a few words in commendation of my verses, urging me to press bravely on in my work as teacher and writer. By those few words he did inestimable good to a young girl, who had not dared even fancy that she would be able to touch the robe of such a great poetic genius.

From the pleasant recollection of Bryant, I turn to a far different, though also a very kindly man, Horace Greeley. In some respects he was the most remarkable person I have known, because of his personal eccentricities and because of his natural brilliance. Yet he was not always at his best as a conversationalist; and I am free to say that my introduction to him was by no means under favorable circumstances. I was invited to a New Year’s party in 1844 at which many notable guests were to be present, but expectation centered around Mr. Greeley; and when he was announced I believe that I actually held my breath, so great was my eagerness.

But instead of the brilliant and genial editor I found him cool and laconic; and very soon he bade us good evening. When I informed our hostess, who was a good friend of mine, that I was rather disappointed in Mr. Greeley, she laughed, and the incident passed; but within five months I was given a delightful chance to change my opinion of the great editor and founder of the “New York Tribune.” We again met in the same drawing room as before and many of the guests were the same, — but Mr. Greeley was completely transformed; at least he seemed so to me. For the entire evening he was the center of an attentive company, and everyone wanted his opinion on a great variety of subjects. His answers were direct and simple, with no parade of wisdom; no consciousness on his part of intellectual superiority; and music, art and politics, in fact nearly every department of human knowledge or of human endeavor, seemed to interest him and to share his own wit.

The second meeting with Horace Greeley taught me that first impressions, although they are sometimes most lasting, yet often are most unjust. This was my thought as I returned homeward after enjoying the sparkle of Horace Greeley’s wit, and I was willing to crown his brow with fadeless laurels.

We also had the privilege of listening to some of the world’s greatest singers. Jenny Lind came to our school, taking us by surprise; and for three-quarters of an hour she charmed us with such music as I never heard before, or since, nor do I hope to listen to such melodies again until I hear the choirs of the Eternal City.

The year before, that is, 1843, one of the great New York newspapers had offered a prize for the best poem on any subject that one chose to select. Some of my indulgent friends persuaded me to enter the competition, and I chose to write a tribute to Jenny Lind. My friend Bayard Taylor won the prize; but I believe I won as great an honor; and I know an honor more pleasing to me, in being permitted to deliver my poem in the presence of Jenny Lind herself; for, when she came to visit us, I welcomed the “Swedish Nightingale” in the following stanzas:

“We ask no more why strains like thine
Enchant a listening throng,
For we have felt in one sweet hour
The magic of thy song.

“How like the carol of a bird,
It stole upon my ear!
Then tenderly it died away
In echoes soft and clear.

“But hark! again its music breaks
Harmonious on the soul;
How thrills the heart, at every tone,
With bliss beyond control!

“If strains like these, so pure and sweet,
To mortal lips be given,
What must the glorious anthems be
Which angels wake in heaven?

“‘Tis past; ’tis gone. That fairy dream
Of happiness is o’er;
And we the music of thy voice
Perhaps may hear no more.

“Yet, Sweden’s daughter, thou shalt live
In every grateful heart;
And may the choicest gifts of heaven
Be thine, where’er thou art.”

Among the singers who came a number of times were Adeline Patti and Clara Louise Kellogg; and the visit of Madam LeGrange, while she was in America on a special tour, was also a notable event. Madam LeGrange was asked to sing in the chorus of “Stabat Mater.” In the midst of one of the solos she burst into tears because of her sympathy for our pupils in what she took to be a great affliction; but, with a noble effort, she suppressed her emotion, lest she might injure the feelings of those who were sensitive; and thereby won our hearty admiration.

In the midst of these pleasant surroundings my muse occasionally plumed herself for a flight. “The Blind Girl and Other Poems” had been so cordially received by the public that my friends urged me to publish another book; but, in view of the fact that my health for five or six years had been somewhat impaired, such a task seemed out of the question. A number of public occasions, however, had called for special efforts on my part, with the result that another volume of poems was collected and published in 1851. The first piece, which gave the title to the book, was called “Monterey”; and it was a long-spun poem, the chief merit of which is a few sincere words of dedication to three of my friends, Mr. Murray, Dr. Clements and Mr. Chamberlain. Now as I realize that these three dear men have passed beyond the sound of human voices the remembrance of their many kind acts is sweetened and deepened as I recall my early tributes to them; and these flowers of memory are still fadeless and fragrant.