MRS. BROWNING'S SONNETS.

1895

Edmund Gosse Tells an Interesting Story of How They Were Named.

Edmund Gosse tells in his late essay on Mrs. Browning's sonnets how her volume of "Sonnets From the Portuguese" was christened, as follows: "During the months of their brief courtship, closing, as all the world knows, in the clandestine flight and romantic wedding of Sept. 12, 1846, neither poet showed any verses to the other. Mr. Browning in particular had not the smallest notion that the circumstances of their betrothal had led Miss Barrett into any artistic expression of feeling:

"Their custom was, Mr. Browning said, to write alone and not to show each other what they had written. This was a rule which he sometimes broke through, but she never. He had the habit of working in a down stairs room, where their meals were spread, while Mrs. Browning studied in a room on the floor above. One day, early in 1847, their breakfast being over, Mrs. Browning went up stairs, while her husband stood at the window watching the street till the table should be cleared. He was presently aware of some one behind him, although the servant was gone. It was Mrs. Browning, who held him by the shoulder to prevent his turning to look at her and at the same time pushed a packet of papers into the pocket of his coat. She told him to read that, and to tear it up if he did not like it, and then she fled to her own room.

"Mr. Browning settled himself at the table and unfolded the parcel. It contained the series of sonnets which have now become so illustrious. As he read his emotion and delight may he conceived. Before he had finished it was impossible for him to restrain himself, and, regardless of his promise, he rushed up stairs and stormed that guarded citadel. He was early conscious that these were treasures not to be kept from the world. 'I dared not reserve to myself,' he said, 'the finest sonnets written in any language since Shakespeare's.'

"When it was determined to publish the sonnets in the volumes of 1850, the question of a title arose. The name which was ultimately chosen, 'Sonnets From the Portuguese,' was invented by Mr. Browning as an ingenious device to veil the true authorship, and yet to suggest kinship with that beautiful lyric called 'Caterina to Camoens,' in which so similar a passion had been expressed. Long before he ever heard of these poems Mr. Browning called his wife his 'own little Portuguese,' and so, when she proposed 'Sonnets Translated From the Bosnian,' he, catching at the happy thought of 'translated,' replied: 'No, not Bosnian — that means nothing — but from the Portuguese. They are Caterina's sonnets.' And so, in half a joke. half a conceit, the famous title was invented."

An Unfortunate Present

1895

"No; I never see anything of him now," sighed the girl in blue, stirring her chocolate mournfully. "He hasn't been to see me since Christmas, and I don't understand it, for I sent him a lovely present."

"What was it?" asked the girl in gray.

"I'll tell you all about it," said the first girl, with the air of one eager to impart confidences. "You know he writes poetry. He sends the girls he knows sonnets and things. Well, I wanted to give him something literary, you know, as a sort of tribute to his talent, but I didn't want to send him a volume of poetry. It would have seemed to suggest a comparison, you know. I thought a long time, and finally sent him" —

"What?" demanded the girl in green as her friend hesitated.

"A rhyming dictionary! Now can you see why he hasn't called? What are you laughing about?" — New York World.

Where His Bravery Forsook Him

1895

He had tramped the wilds of Africa and seen the wild giraffe
And had gazed on lions fierce with greatest brashness.
He had listened with tranquillity to the striped hyena's laugh
And faced tigers with a courage that was rashness.

He had scrapped with big prizefighters in the zenith of their fame
And had fought a dozen duels with the greatest of temerity.
He had entered burning buildings and saved women from the flame
And had swum Niagara's rapids with celerity.

He'd played quarter back at football and had come out safe and sound
And had waded through gunpowder with a candle that was lighted.
He had rescued prisoned miners in the caverns underground,
And in scenes of slaughter he was much delighted.

When no one knew just how the cloth that's bullet proof would work,
He had worn it while the maker experimented.
There was scarcely a known danger his courageous heart would shirk,
And the more the risk the more he was contented.

But one bargain day, while sauntering past a mammoth dry goods store,
When the weather was a-sweltering and a-simmering,
And his friends dared him to try to pass the women round the door,
He refused, for all his courage went a-glimmering.

—Charles J. Colton, in New York Sun.

A Student's Love Letter

1895

The apiarist, as well we know,
Will always like the B's.
The sailor never will outgrow
His ardent love for C's.

The millionaire, with pockets full,
His E's will ever prize.
Coquettish maidens find a joy
In always making I's.

Surveyors, bound close by a chain,
Must in the L believe,
While preachers look in for the N,
When one must sing or grieve.

Collectors take care of the O's,
And farmers of the P's.
The actors follow up the Q's,
And ladies love the T's.

Professors, men of letters grand,
To all the Y's are true,
And I, why don't you know, sweetheart,
That I'm dead stuck on you?

— Atlanta Journal.

What A Pity!

1895

We had passed to watch the quiver
Of faint moonbeams on the river,
By the gate.
We had heard, seemed, some one calling,
And a heavy dew is falling;
Yet We wait.

It is no doubt very silly
To stay out in all this chilly
Evening mist.
Still I linger, hesitating,
For her lips are plainly waiting
To be kissed.

So I stopped to take possession
Of the coveted concession
On the spot.
But she draws back with discreetness,
Saying, with tormenting sweetness,
"I guess not."

Her whole manner is provoking.
"Oh, well, I was only joking,"
I reply.
She looks penitently pretty
As she answers: "What a pity!
So was I."

— Harvard Lampoon.

Lord Tennyson's Mail

1895

Here is a curious freak of Lord Tennyson's imagination, based on fact: "Look at this pile, which, on my return from abroad, I find heaped on my table. I ought to have thanked you before for your generous lines, but look at the pile — some three feet high — and let that apologize for my silence — and believe me, tho' penny post maddened, yours ever, A. Tennyson." These words followed the drawing by Alfred Tennyson of a kind of pyramid in sections specifying the nature of the letters on his table: "Anonymous insolent letters," "letters from America, Australia, from monomaniacs, etc.," "letters asking explanation of particular passages," "begging letters of all kinds," "subscriptions asked for church building, schools, Baptist chapels, Wesleyans, etc.," "newspapers — gracious or malignant," "printed circulars of poems asked for subscription," "presentation copies of poems," "printed proof sheets of poems," "MS. poems," "letters for autographs," form the two sides of this curious and unique sketch.

People who pester a man of letters do not think of the vast aggregate made up of many single applications of various sorts. Each post used to bring to the house 50 or 60 letters. Mrs. Tennyson and Hallam Tennyson were far too much occupied with the task of wading through these piles of unsolicited correspondence. — Strand Magazine.

To E. F.

1895

I know a western hickory,
Of outside weather brown and rough
But all within that firm set tree
Is clearest fiber, white and tough,
And stuff is there for shaft or bow,
For sturdy helve or stubborn bar;
Fair carving will it take and show
How fine and firm its secrets are.

I know a singer in the west,
And songs he sings in many a key,
And childhood is the strain that best
Becomes his cunning minstrelsy.
Minor and merry chords are there,
And smiles and tears his measures yield,
But strong or tender, everywhere
He is himself. His name is ——.

— Chap Book.

Note: This concerns poet Eugene Field.

Poetry Is Not An Art

1895

To sum all up, poetry is not a skill, a pleasantry, a device, an art. It is the secret life and light without which not anything was made that is made, writes Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney in The Ladies' Home Journal. It is the sacredness of being. In it there are those three: Sense, soul, spirit — nature, life, revelation. Such is the trinity of inspiration. A perfect poem is natural, human and divine.


Ceremonies

A very ceremonious Spaniard, when asked why he was not present at the funeral of a certain personage, replied:
"Because he owed me a call." — Humor of Spain.


Trivia

Helmets recovered from Pompeii are of iron and generally very plain. They were not made for show, but for use.

Passaic, N. J., has an Indian name meaning the valley.

The blue-bird is hailed as a harbinger of spring. It is also a reminder that a blood purifier is needed to prepare the system for the debiliating weather to come. Listen and you will hear the birds singing: "Take Ayer's Sarsaparilla in March, April, May."

Cutter At The Capital

1895

Long Island's Poet Laureate Sees a Whitehouse Reception.

(From the Washington Post.)

Bloodgood H. Cutter, the Long Island farmer-poet — he says so himself — has given a description of a White House reception which should not be allowed to pass into oblivion. Almost everybody in Washington has, at one time or another, attended this particular function. Bloodgood H. Cutter, therefore, can throw no new light upon its character. But not everybody has seen it through a poet's eyes, caught its subtle meaning, and tracked its more momentous suggestions to their hiding places. Of course, the farmer-poet begins upon us gently:

To the President, reception went
In crowds outside the people stood,
For several hours some did wait,
The rich and poor, the bad and good.

O what a trial it was then
To stand so long out in the cold,
And then the pressure was so great
Quite dang'rous to the young and old.

Quite ordinary persons would have seen things much this way — counted the hours in the same commonplace spirit and calculated the chances on pink-eye or influenza just as Bloodgood Cutter did. In the next verse, however, we leave the beaten track and wander among the daisies and the violets of thought —

We tried there to each other cheer
In a mild and pleasing way,
Some did verses and their lines recite
In many ways each had their say.

Next, in a rush and whirl of rhetoric unknown to Jenkins and his tribe, we effect an entrance —

About nine the policeman came
To get ready to open the door,
After a while they did it ope
And began the rush and roar.

It was very dangerous then,
When the crowd outside 'gainst us did push
I had hard work to free myself
Or 'gainst doorpost they would me crush.

The poet escaped, though, and once past the breakers and the rocks he floated pleasantly in tranquil waters —

Then as we near'd reception room
In single file through door did go
There President and lady stood
Both shook my hand as I went slow.

Then Bloodgood drew a good, long breath and looked about him. Then, with easy and flowing, but vivid touches, full of warmth and color, he immortalized the tableau —

Behind the grandee ladies stood
So richly clad in modern style,
To see so many necks all bare
Made some feel sad and others smile.

'Tis sad to think our ladies dear
In this way risk their precious lives;
Many in this way do catch cold
Depriving husbands of their wives.

About 10,000 said was there
On President that night did call,
It was indeed such a large crowd,
Could hardly get by them at all.

Through that large room I did pass through
Then with the crowd I gazed around,
Upon the nice paintings that were there
And other rare things that were found.

Why do not poets come oftener to these somewhat tedious celebrations, to beguile the hours of waiting with instructive discourse and to improve the opportunity for those who cannot attend in person? Why is not Bloodgood H. Cutter more numerous, more frequent, and more communicative?

My Castle In The Air

1895

If I could go ballooning
And had the time to spare,
I'd journey to discover
My castle in the air.
It stands, that stately building,
Beyond the yellow moon,
Where tradesmen's bills can never come,
Not even by balloon.

The water rate collector —
He eyes its door in vain,
Because its cistern runs with
No water, but champagne.
Its roof has been constructed
So very high and steep
No lovelorn cats can clamber there
To frighten gentle sleep.

My neighbor's hens can never
Defy the garden wall,
Because there are no neighbors
Or hencoops near at all.
So, in the garden nodding,
In rich profusion grow
Tobacco trees and cauliflowers
And roses all a-row.

Oh! could I reach my castle,
I'd never need to think,
I'd never need to scribble
And clothe my dreams in ink.
So when I'm not so busy
I'll hire a big balloon
And sail away with — I know whom —
Beyond the yellow moon.

—David la Costa in Home and Country.

Thackeray's Verses on Dr. McCosh

1895

Most persons seem to have forgotten Thackeray's allusion in verse to Dr. McCosh. When the discussion over the doctor's appointment to the lordship of Queen's college, Belfast, was at its height, Thackeray wrote in his characteristic Irish brogue a poem purporting to be by the hand of Master Molloy Mollony, aged 15. The opening stanza runs thus:

As I think of the insult that's done to this nation
Hot tears of revinge from me fatures I wash,
And uphold in this pome to the world's daytistation
The sleeves that appointed Professor McCosh.

— New York Sun.

Howells on Dante

1895

Again I say it is a great pity that criticism is not honest about the masterpieces of literature and does not confess that they are not every moment masterly; that they are often dull and tough and dry, as is certainly the case with Dante's, writes William Dean Howells in The Ladies' Home Journal.

Some day perhaps we shall have this way of stating literature, and the lover of it will not feel obliged to cheat himself into the belief that if he is not always enjoying himself it is his own fault. At any rate, I will permit myself the luxury of frankly saying that while I had a deep sense of the majesty and grandeur of Dante's design many points of its execution bored me, and that the intermixture of small local facts and neighborhood history in the fabric of his lofty creation is no part of its noblest effect.

What is marvelous in it is its expression of Dante's personality, and I can never think that his personalities enhance its greatness as a work of art. I enjoyed them, however, and I enjoyed them the more as the innumerable perspectives of Italian history began to open all about me. Then indeed I understood the origins if I did not understand the aims of Dante.

Niece of Poet Resigns Office

1916

Boston, Sept. 9. — Mrs. Marian Longfellow, a niece of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the poet, announced her resignation, last night, as vice-president of the International Longfellow Society of Portland, Me., explaining that she disapproved of the methods employed by that society.

"I am president of the Longfellow Birthplace Association of Boston. Both societies are trying to preserve the Longfellow birthplace in Portland, but while I am in full sympathy with the aims of the other society I simply cannot approve of its methods. For that reason I have come to the conclusion that I cannot continue my membership in it," said Mrs. Longfellow.

—The Fryeburg Post, Fryeburg, Maine, Sept. 12, 1916, p. 6.

The Coast of Maine

1916

Bold, lovely Coast of Maine
I tune my lyre to sing of thee
In sultry summer days; vacation's plea
Calls often in sweet wooing tones to me—
Where shall we go prithee?
Imagination takes swift wing
And in a motor boat we are afloat
With refreshing breeze on billowy sea.
Chug, chug, we onward go in glee
From Kittery Point to Old Quoddy.
What varied views are seen
At the numerous points that lie between;
York Beach and Kennebunk, Old Orchard Beach,
Then Portland, in our power boat we reach,
The myriad isles of Casco Bay, are in our way
With loveliness that stirs our lay;
Squirrel Island next, and now we near
Point Pemaquid, Muscongus Bay is here,
The Medomak also, which becomes a rill
At headwaters near "Paul Shinars" Mill.

Friendship, synonym of coast equality,
Port Clyde is on our lee,
Through Mussel Channel to Owl's Head we speed
Rockland is near, with everything you need.
Penobscot's waters we should fain explore
Long wooded banks to bustling Bangor,
Replenishing gasoline with fresh supplies
We turn our vessel's prow toward the main
Past Vinal and North Haven we nearly fly,
And land at Eggemoggin, fair Deer Isle.

Gem of the bay, bisected spot
With pretty hamlets lined,
Sunset, Mountainville, Little Deer, Sunshine,
A paradise for tourists here we find.
Where nature's resources rest the wearied mind.
Up anchor and away thro' devious Jericho,
Past Swans' Island and Bar Harbor and Ho! Ho!
Frenchman's Bay we leave on our way,
Petit Manan quite soon we scan
Then o'er Englishmans' bay, fast as we can;
We make Machiasport, and soon before us lay
West Quoddy Head, and Passamaquoddy Bay.

The very collection of such scenes
Is cooling mid the fever heat of things;
There seems to be a tugging to get away
Where Oceans' lyric song is heard, and naiads play,
To island, bay, cove, meandering stream,
Where majestic yachts go flitting by
To charm the gazers' eye;
While spreading trees with foliage green
Crown shores, smile vernal, o'er the scene.

Amidst such splendid vasts 'tis grand,
Yea grander than Acadia's strand,
Land of Evangeline,
Or Scotia's glories Scott doth sing.
Elysium for rest and fish and game
Is the bold, lovely coast of Pine Tree Maine.

— H. W. COLLINS.
STANDISH, Me.

—The Fryeburg Post, Fryeburg, Maine, Sept. 26, 1916, p. 1.

Why John Quit Drinking (1916 Advertisement)

1916

By John's Wife

I'm the happiest little woman,
In all this little town;
And my merry laugh and singing,
Takes the place of sigh and frown.
For JOHN HAS QUIT HIS DRINKING
And is like himself once more,
And the world is just a paradise
With such happiness in store!

One day I read some verses—
"Mary's Miracle," the name,
And I said, that's John exactly,
And I'll send and get the same.
So I sent for GOLDEN TREATMENT.
(As sly as sly could be)
And I put it in John's supper
And I put it in his tea.

And it didn't taste a little bit;
Had no odor, so, you see—
It was smoothest kind of sailing
For little Doctor Me.
And I watched and prayed and waited,
(And cried some, too, I guess),
And I didn't have the greatest faith,
I'm ashamed now to confess.

And John never thought a minute,
He was being cured of drink,
And soon he's as well as any one,
It makes me cry to think!
Just makes me cry for gladness,
I'm so proud to be his wife—
Since he is cured of drinking,
And leads a nice, new life.

"Since John he quit a-drinking!"
I can't any it times enough!
And hates and loathes a liquor
As he would a poison stuff.
And when I say my prayers at night
As thankful as can be—
I pray for John the most of all—
Then GOLDEN TREATMENT.

Home Treatment For Drunkards

Odorless and Tasteless — Any Lady Can
Give It Secretly at Home in Tea, Coffee or Food.

Costs Nothing to Try.

If you have a husband, son, brother, father or friend who is a victim of liquor, all you have to do is to send your name and address on the coupon below. You may be thankful as long as you live that you did it.

Dr. J. W. Haines Company.

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Sept. 16, 1916, p. 7.

The Gypsy Woman

1901

The gypsy woman
Lives on the moor;
She sleeps in a tent,
With a curtained door.

Low is her dwelling
And hard her bed,
But the stars at night
Are a crown for her head.

Rough is her greeting:
From all that's human,
But the morning smiles
At the gypsy woman.

The wind is her harper
And brings from far
His sons of wooing
And shouts of war.

On the printed page
She need never look;
The changing sky
Is her holy book.

She knows not the call
Of church bells ringing;
The falling rain
Makes sweeter singing.

And the voice of the lark
At morn and even
Is a key to open
The gate of heaven.

—Westminster Gazette.

He's Willing Now

1920

But Champion Is a Late Late, Says Georgia Poet.

The following was received by the sporting editor of The Saturday Blade from Atlanta, Ga.:

Our Champion.

He's willing to fight in France, they say,
For half a million or so;
But he passed up a chance at a buck a day
When they called on us all to go.

I think I speak for a million chaps
Who went to France with a vim,
Ready for anything — death perhaps —
So —
Hope Georges whales hell out of him.

—Jack Converse.

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Jan. 3, 1920, p. 10.

Note: This poem concerns Jack Dempsey, whose reputation was tainted when it was alleged he was a draft dodger during World War I. There's some details at this link. "Georges" was Georges Carpentier, a French war hero. Dempsey had a match against him in 1921, called the "Battle of the Century."


Canadian Boxer Challenges

1920

Brousseau Wants to Meet Carpentier In Montreal.

The Canadian Hockey Club has cabled a challenge to Georges Carpentier's manager in London for the French boxer to meet Eugene Brousseau, Dominion's middleweight champion, in a boxing exhibition in Montreal, July 1, Dominion day, at one of the race tracks.

Brousseau has recovered from a slight attack of paralysis, which followed his bout with Chip, in Portland.

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Jan. 3, 1920, p. 10.

Tennyson and Sightseers

1901

Tennyson's well known aversion to sightseers and their ways gave rise to many an odd experience. Once, it is said, he complained to Queen Victoria, saying that he could no longer stay in the Isle of Wight owing to the tourists who came to stare at him.

The queen, with a kindly irony, said that she herself did not suffer much from that grievance. But Tennyson, taking her literally, replied in the same strain.

"No, madam," said he, "and if I could clap a sentinel wherever I liked I should not be troubled either."

Whittier's Dog

1901

During one of the last birthday celebrations of the poet Whittier he was visited by a celebrated oratorio singer. The lady was asked to sing, and, seating herself at the piano, she began the beautiful ballad, "Robin Adair." She had hardly begun before Mr. Whittier's pet dog came into the room and, seating himself by her side, watched her as if fascinated and listened with a delight unusual in an animal. When she finished, he came and put his paw very gravely into her hand and licked her check.

"Robin takes that us a tribute to himself," said Mr. Whittier. "He also is 'Robin Adair.' "

The dog, hearing his own name, evidently considered that he was the hero of the song. From that moment, during the lady's visit, he was her devoted attendant. He kept by her side when she was indoors and accompanied her when she went to walk. When she went away he carried her satchel in his mouth to the gate and watched her departure with every evidence of distress. — St. Nicholas.

Memorizing Poetry

1903

To economize time in memorizing a poem it should be read as a whole; that is, entirely through each time. Tests made in psychological laboratories show that to memorize one verse at a time takes one-fourth longer.


Down of a Thistle

In China the down of the thistle is gathered and mixed with raw silk so ingeniously that even experts are deceived when the fabric is woven. It is also used to stuff cushions as a substitute for eiderdown, and a very good substitute it makes.