"Who loves a tree he loves the life That springs in flower and clover; He loves the love that gilds the cloud, And greens the April sod; He loves the wide beneficence, His soul takes hold of G.o.d."
We have too little love for the tender out-of-door nature. "The world is too much with us."
It was a loss to American life and letters when Sam Walter Foss pa.s.sed away from us at the height of his strong true manhood.
Later he will be regarded as an eminent American.
He was true to our age to the core. Whether he wrote of the gentle McKinley, the fighting Dewey, the ludicrous schoolboy, the "grand eternal fellows" that are coming to this world after we have left it--he was ever a weaver at the loom of highest thought. The world is not to be civilized and redeemed by the apostles of steel and brute force. Not the Hannibals and Caesars and Kaisers but the Sh.e.l.leys, the Scotts, and the Fosses are our saviours. They will have a large part in the future of the world to heighten and brighten life and justify the ways of G.o.d to men.
These and such as these are our consolation in life"s th.o.r.n.y pathway. They keep alive in us the memory of our youth and many a jaded traveller as he listens to their music, sees again the apple blossoms falling around him in the twilight of some unforgotten spring.
PETER MacQUEEN.
Peter MacQueen was brought to my house years ago by a friend when he happened to be stationary for an hour, and he is certainly a unique and interesting character, a marvellous talker, reciter of Scotch ballads, a maker of epigrams, and a most unpractical, now-you-see-him and now-he"s-a-far-away-fellow. I remember his remark, "Breakfast is a fatal habit." It was not the breakfast to which he referred but to the gathering round a table at a stated hour, far too early, when not in a mood for society or for conversation. And again: "I have decided never to marry. A poor girl is a burden; a rich girl a boss." But you never can tell. He is now a Benedict.
I wrote to Mr. MacQueen lately for some of his press notices, and a few of the names which he called himself when I received his letters.
MY DEAR KATE SANBORN:--Yours here and I hasten to reply. Count Tolstoi remarked to me: "Your travels have been so vast and you have been with so many peoples and races, that an account of them would const.i.tute a philosophy in itself."
Theodore Roosevelt said, "No other American has travelled over our new possessions more universally, nor observed the conditions in them so quickly and sanely."
Kennan was _persona non grata_ to the Russians, especially after his visit to Siberia, but Mr. MacQueen was most cordially welcomed.
What an odd scene at Tolstoi"s table! The countess and her daughter in full evening dress with the display of jewels, and at the other end Tolstoi in the roughest sort of peasant dress and with bare feet. At dinner Count Tolstoi said to Mr. MacQueen: "If I had travelled as much as you have, I should today have had a broader philosophy."
Mr. MacQueen says of Russia:
During the past one hundred years the empire of the Czar has made slow progress; but great bodies move slowly, and Russia is colossal. Two such republics as the United States with our great storm door called Alaska, could go into the Russian empire and yet leave room enough for Great Britain, Germany, and Austria.
Journeys taken by Mr. MacQueen:
1896--to Athens and Greece.
1897--to Constantinople and Asia Minor.
1898--in the Santiago Campaign with the Rough Riders, and in Porto Rico with General Miles.
1899--with General Henry W. Lawton to the Philippines, returning through j.a.pan.
1900--with DeWet, Delarey, and Botha in the Boer Army; met Oom Paul, etc.
1901--to Russia and Siberia on pa.s.s from the Czar, visiting Tolstoi, etc.
1902--to Venezuela, Panama, Cuba, and Porto Rico.
1903--to Turkey, Macedonia, Servia, Hungary, Austria, etc.
In the meantime Mr. MacQueen has visited every country in Europe, completing 240,000 miles in ten years, a distance equal to that which separates this earth from the moon.
Last winter he was four months in the war zone, narrowly escaping arrest several times, and other serious dangers, as they thought him a spy with his camera and pictures. I gave a stag dinner for him just after his return from his war experiences, and the daily bulletins of war"s horrors seemed dull reading after his stories.
Here is an extract from a paper sent by Peter MacQueen from Iowa, where he long ago was in great demand as a lecturer, which contained several of the best anecdotes told by this irresistible _raconteur_, which may be new to you, if not, read them again and then tell them yourself.
Mr. MacQueen, who is to lecture at the Chautauqua here, has many strange stories and quaint yarns that he picked up while travelling around the globe. While in the highlands of Scotland he met a canny old "Scot" who asked him, "Have you ever heard of Andrew Carnegie in America?" "Yes, indeed," replied the traveller. "Weel," said the Scot, pointing to a little stream near-by, "in that wee burn Andrew and I caught our first trout together. Andrew was a barefooted, bareheaded, ragged wee callen, no muckle guid at onything. But he gaed off to America, and they say he"s doin" real weel."
While in the Philippines Mr. MacQueen was marching with some of the colored troops who have recently been dismissed by the President. A big coloured soldier walking beside Mr. MacQueen had his white officer"s rations and ammunition and can-kit, carrying them in the hot tropical sun. The big fellow turned to the traveller and said: "Say, there, comrade, this yere White Man"s Burden ain"t all it"s cracked up to be."
In the Boer war Mr. MacQueen, war correspondent and lecturer, tells of an Irish Brigade man from Chicago on Sani river. The correspondent was along with the Irish-Americans and saw them take a hill from a force of Yorkshire men very superior in numbers. Mr. MacQueen also saw a green flag of Ireland in the British lines. Turning to his Irish friend, he remarked: "Isn"t it a shame to see Irishmen fighting for the Queen, and Irishmen fighting for the Boers at the same time?" "Sorra the bit,"
replied his companion, "it wouldn"t be a proper fight if there wasn"t Irishmen on both sides."
Here"s hoping that during Mr. MacQueen"s long vacation from sermons, lectures, and tedious conventionalities in the outdoors of the darkest and deepest Africa, the wild beasts, including the man-eating tiger, may prove the correctness of Mrs. Seton Thompson"s good words for them and only approach him to have their photos taken or amiably allow themselves to be shot. The cannibals will decide he is too thin and wiry for a really tempting meal.
Doctor Edwin C. Bolles has been for fifteen years on the Faculty of Tufts College, Ma.s.sachusetts, and still continues active service at the age of seventy-eight.
His history courses are among the popular ones in the curriculum, and his five minutes" daily talks in Chapel have won the admiration of the entire College.
He was for forty-five years in active pastoral service in the Universalist ministry; was Professor of Microscopy for three years at St. Lawrence University. Doctor Bolles was one of the pioneers in the lecture field and both prominent and popular in this line, and the first in the use of ill.u.s.trations by the stereopticon in travel lectures.
The perfection of the use of microscopic projection which has done so much for the popularization of science was one of his exploits.
For several years his eyesight has been failing, an affliction which he has borne with Christian courage and cheerfulness and keeps right on at his beloved work.
He has been devoted to photography in which avocation he has been most successful. His wife told me they were glad to accept his call to New York as he had almost filled every room in their house with his various collections. One can appreciate this when he sees a card displayed on the door of Doctor Bolles"s sanctum bearing this motto:
"A man is known by the Trumpery he keeps."
He has received many honorary degrees, but his present triumph over what would crush the ambition of most men is greater than all else.
Exquisite nonsense is a rare thing, but when found how delicious it is! I found a letter from a reverend friend who might be an American Sidney Smith if he chose, and I am going to let you enjoy it; it was written years ago.
Speaking of the "Purple and Gold," he says:
I should make also better acknowledgments than my thanks. But what can I do? My volume on _The Millimetric Study of the Tail of the Greek Delta, in the MSS. of the Sixth Century_, is entirely out of print; and until its re-issue by the Seaside Library I cannot forward a copy. Then my essay, "Infantile Diseases of the Earthworm" is in Berlin for translation, as it is to be issued at the same time in Germany and the United States. "The Moral Regeneration of the Rat," and "Intellectual Idiosyncracies of Twin Clams," are resting till I can get up my Sanscrit and Arabic, for I wish these researches to be exhaustive.
He added two poems which I am not selfish enough to keep to myself.
GOLDEN ROD
O! Golden Rod! Thou garish, gorgeous gush Of pa.s.sion that consumes hot summer"s heart!
O! yellowest yolk of love! in yearly hush I stand, awe sobered, at thy burning bush Of Glory, glossed with l.u.s.trous and ill.u.s.trious art, And moan, why poor, so poor in purse and brain I am, While thou into thy trusting treasury dost seem to cram Australia, California, Sinai and Siam.
And the other such a capital burlesque of the modern English School with its unintelligible parentheses: