Memories and Anecdotes Part 14

How kind and generous you are to my books, and therefore, to me! How thoroughly you understand them and know why I wrote them!

When a book of mine is sent out into the cold world of indifferent reviewers, I read their plat.i.tudinous words, trying to be grateful; but waiting, waiting, knowing that ere long I shall get a little clipping from the _Somerville Journal_, written by Kate Sanborn; and then I shall know what the book is. If it's good, she'll say so, and if it isn't, I think she would say so; but that alternative never has come to me. But I would far rather have her true words of dispraise than all machine-made twaddle of nearly all the book columns of our great American press.

It is such generous minds as yours that have kept me writing. I should have stopped long ago if I had not had them.

ALICE MORSE EARLE.

It is impossible to give you a perfect pen picture of Breezy Meadows or of its mistress, Kate Sanborn, just as it is impossible to paint the tints of a glorious sunset stretching across the winter sky. Breezy Meadows is an ideal country home, and the mistress of it all is a grand woman--an honor to her s.e.x, and a loyal friend. Her whole life seems to be devoted to making others happy, and a motto on one of the walls of the house expresses better than I can, her daily endeavour:

"Let me, also, cheer a spot, Hidden field or garden grot, Place where pa.s.sing souls may rest, On the way, and be their best."

BARBARA GALPIN.

As a lecturer, Miss Kate Sanborn is thoroughly unique. Whatever her topic, one is always sure there will be wit and the subtlest humour in her discourse, bits of philosophy of life, and the most practical common sense, flashes of laughable personal history, and gems of scholars.h.i.+p. It is always certain that the lecture will be rendered in inimitably bright and cheery style that will enliven her audience, which, while laughing and applauding, will listen intently throughout. No wonder she is a favourite with lecture goers, for few can give them so delightful an evening as she.--MARY A. LIVERMORE.

There is only one Kate Sanborn. Her position as a lecturer is unique. In the selection and treatment of her themes she has no rival. She touches nothing that she does not enliven and adorn.

Pathos and humour, wit and wisdom, anecdote and incident, the foibles, fancies, freaks, and fas.h.i.+ons of the past and present, pen pictures of great men and famous women, ill.u.s.trious poets and distinguished authors, enrich her writings, as if the ages had laid their wealth of love and learning at her feet, and bidden her help herself. With a discriminating and exacting taste, she has brought together, in book and lecture, the things that others have overlooked, or never found. She has been a kind of discoverer of thoughts and things in the by-paths of literature. She also understands "the art of putting things." But vastly more than the thought, style, and utterance is the striking personality of the writer herself. It is not enough to read the writings of Miss Sanborn, though you cannot help doing this. She must be heard, if one would know the secret of her power--subtle, magnetic, impossible of transfer to books. The "personal equation" is everything--the strong, gifted woman putting her whole soul into the interpretation and transmission of her thought so that it may inspire the hearts of those who listen; the power of self-radiation. It is not surprising that Miss Sanborn is everywhere greeted with enthusiasm when she speaks.--ARTHUR LITTLE.

Miss Kate Sanborn is one of the best qualified women in this country to lecture on literary themes. The daughter of a Dartmouth professor, she was cradled in literature, and has made it in a certain way the work of her life. There is nothing, however, of the pedantic about her. She is the embodiment of a woman's wit and humour; but her forte is a certain crisp and lively condensation of persons and qualities which carry a large amount of information under a captivating cloak of vivacious and confidential talk with her audience, rather than didactic statement.

J.C. CROLY, "Jenny June."

One of the friends I miss most at the farm is Sam Walter Foss. He was the poet, philosopher, lecturer and "friend of man." His folk songs touched every heart and even the sombre vein lightened with pictures of hope and cheer. He was humorous and even funny, but in every line there is a dignity not often reached by writers of witty verse or prose. Mr. Foss was born in Candia, N.H., in June, 1858. Through his ancestor, Stephen Batch.e.l.ler, he had kins.h.i.+p with Daniel Webster, John Greenleaf Whittier, and William Pitt Fessenden.

Mr. Foss secured an interest in the Lynn _Union_, and it was while engaged in publis.h.i.+ng that newspaper that he made the discovery that he could be a "funny man." The man having charge of the funny column left suddenly, and Mr. Foss decided to see what he could do in the way of writing something humorous to fill the column. He had never done anything of this kind before, and was surprised and pleased to have some of his readers congratulate him on his new "funny man." He continued to write for this column and for a long time his ident.i.ty was unknown, he being referred to simply as the "Lynn _Union_ funny man." His ability finally attracted the attention of Wolcott Balestier, the editor of _t.i.t-Bits_, who secured Mr. Foss's services for that paper. Before long he became connected with _Puck_, _Judge_, and several other New York periodicals, including the New York _Sun_.

Mr. Foss's first book was published in 1894, and was ent.i.tled _Back Country Poems_ and has pa.s.sed through several editions. _Whiffs from Wild Meadows_ issued in 1896 has been fully as successful. Later books are _Dreams in Homespun_, _Songs of War and Peace_, _Songs of the Average Man_.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SAM WALTER FOSS]

He had charge of the Public Library at Somerville, Ma.s.sachusetts, and his influence in library matters extended all over New England.

His poems are marked by simplicity. Most of his songs are written in New England dialect which he has used with unsurpa.s.sed effect. But this poetry was always of the simplest kind, of the appealing nature which reaches the heart. Of his work and his aim, he said in his first volume:

"It is not the greatest singer Who tries the loftiest themes, He is the true joy bringer Who tells his simplest dreams, He is the greatest poet Who will renounce all art And take his heart and show it To any other heart; Who writes no learned riddle, But sings his simplest rune, Takes his heart-strings for a fiddle, And plays his easiest tune."

Mr. Foss _always_ had to recite the following poem when he called at Breezy Meadows

THE CONFESSIONS OF A LUNKHEAD

I'm a lunkhead, an' I know it; 'taint no use to squirm an' talk, I'm a gump an' I'm a lunkhead, I'm a lummux, I'm a gawk, An' I make this interduction so that all you folks can see An' understan' the natur' of the critter thet I be.

I allus wobble w'en I walk, my j'ints are out er gear, My arms go flappin' through the air, jest like an el'phunt's ear; An' when the womern speaks to me I stutter an' grow weak, A big frog rises in my throat, an' he won't let me speak.

Wall, that's the kind er thing I be; but in our neighborhood Lived young Joe Craig an' young Jim Stump an' Hiram Underwood.

We growed like corn in the same hill, jest like four sep'rit stalks; For they wuz lunkheads, jest like me, an' lummuxes and gawks.

Now, I knew I wuz a lunkhead; but them fellers didn't know, Thought they wuz the biggest punkins an' the purtiest in the row.

An' I, I uster laff an' say, "Them lunkhead chaps will see W'en they go out into the worl' w'at gawky things they be."

Joe Craig was a lunkhead, but it didn't get through his pate; I guess you all heerd tell of him--he's governor of the state; Jim Stump, he blundered off to war--a most uncommon gump-- Didn't know enough to know it--'an he came home General Stump.

Then Hiram Underwood went off, the bigges' gawk of all, We hardly thought him bright enough to share in Adam's fall; But he tried the railroad biz'ness, an' he allus grabbed his share,-- Now this gawk, who didn't know it, is a fifty millionaire.

An' often out here hoein' I set down atween the stalks, Thinkin' how we four together all were lummuxes an' gawks, All were gumps and lunkheads, only they didn't know, yer see; An' I ask, "If I hadn' known it, like them other fellers there, Today I might be settin' in the presidential chair."

We all are lunkheads--don't get mad--an' lummuxes and gawks, But us poor chaps who know we be--we walk in humble walks.

So, I say to all good lunkheads, "Keep yer own selves in the dark; Don't own to reckernize the fact, an' you will make your mark."

Next is the poem which is most quoted and best known:

THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

"He was a friend to man, and lived in a house by the side of the road."--HOMER.

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the peace of their self-content; There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart, In a fellowless firmament; There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths Where highways never ran;-- But let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road, Where the race of men go by-- The men who are good and the men who are bad, As good and as bad as I.

I would not sit in the scorner's seat, Or hurl the cynic's ban;-- Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road, By the side of the highway of life, The men who press with the ardour of hope, The men who are faint with the strife.

But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears-- Both parts of an infinite plan;-- Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead And mountains of wearisome height; That the road pa.s.ses on through the long afternoon And stretches away to the night.

But still I rejoice when the travellers rejoice, And weep with the strangers that moan, Nor live in my house by the side of the road Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by-- They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish--so am I.

Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat Or hurl the cynic's ban?-- Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

Mr. Foss's attribution to Homer used as a motto preceding his poem, "The House by the Side of the Road," is, no doubt, his translation of a pa.s.sage from the _Iliad_, book vi., which, as done into English prose in the translation of Lang, Leaf and Myers, is as follows:

Then Diomedes of the loud war-cry slew Axylos, Teuthranos' son that dwelt in stablished Arisbe, a man of substance dear to his fellows; _for his dwelling was by the road-side and he entertained all men_.

SAM WALTER FOSS

Sam Walter Foss was a poet of gentle heart. His keen wit never had any sting. He has described our Yankee folk with as clever humour as Bret Harte delineated Rocky Mountain life. Like Harte, Mr. Foss had no unkindness in his make-up. He told me that he never had received an anonymous letter in his life.

Our American nation is wonderful in science and mechanical invention. It was the aim of Sam Walter Foss to immortalize the age of steel. "Harness all your rivers above the cataracts'

brink, and then unharness man." He told me he thought the subject of mechanics was as poetical as the song of the lark.

"The Cosmos wrought for a billion years to make glad for a day," reminds us of the most resonant periods of Tennyson.

"The House by the Side of the Road," is from a text of Homer.

"The Lunkhead" shows Foss in his happiest mood: gently satirizing the foibles and harmless, foolish fancies of his fellow-men. There is a haunting misty tenderness in such a poem as "The Tree Lover."