The Irish standard., 1886-10-09
JOHN GODFREY SAKE.
Clouded Closing of. the Great
American Humorist's Life.
Sad Fate of the Author of Sweet Mel odiea
Which Cheered Thousands of House
holds-Impat1ently Waiting for
the Final Summons.
[Brooklyn Magazine.l

| [Brooklyn Magazine.l
In a large and luxuriously furnished
apartment in four-story, brown-stone
house on State street, in the city of AL
bany, aud almost within a stones throw
of the great capitol, sits, or walks, or re-
clines throughout the day, a man of seventy
years of age. With hair that is silvery
white, full beard that is gray-white, a
! form that is bent and emaciated, step
that is slow and totterng and cheek that
| is pallid and shrunken-hs blue eyes, yet
full and lustrous, alone indicate the
strength and pride OF other days. This
man is John Godfrey Sake, the poet.
He was the Nations wit and humorist,
whose delicious rhyn mes brought to him
self fame and a competence. and to many
a household the cheerful smile or hearty
laugh. Even across the sea he was known
as ''the Thomas Hood Of America
| Yet. alas how intensely pathetic is the
rounding out of this mans days! For
some years ne has been dsad to all the
world, Few people know that he is yet
| alive: few of his numerous former ad-
| miers think of him now other than one
! who has been, but who no longer moves
among his kind. The victim of deep
seated, ever-present melancholy, his clos
| ing years are touchingiy sad and unevent-
| ful.
| Up to the yea: 1875 John G. SAKE was a
splendid and conspicuous specimen of
virile manhood. He stood six feet two
inches tall, proudly erect and muscular,
with lurge, round and tinely-poised head,
set upon broad aud stalwart shoulders.
The beginning OF the end was the poets
dreadful experience and remarkable es-
| cape from revolving death in ~ Western
railway disaster in the spring of 1875,
while on his re turn to Brooklyn ut the
| conclusion of lecture tour i'll the
South. The sleeping-car in which he had
a berth was thrown down steep embank-
ment, and he was rescued therefrom by
the 1nerest chance. AS hs lay wedged in
between the broken timbers, stunned and
bruised, q fellow-passcnger who had es-
capped betnought him Of sum of money
VIII ch he had left behind him. On return
ing to the car he stumbled upon the insen
sil:la poet. The latter was thereby discov-
cred and rescued from what would newt
ably have been death and destruction by
fire: as tie sleeper in which he was found,
after {: brief interval following his rescue,
became IL mass os seething fame. His flesh
was bruised but no bones were broken
Outwals,ly he appeared to have escaped
with sligil: bodily injuries.
Not 50. The poets nerve system had re-,
ceived e. shock from which it never rallied.
He began to experience a greater degree
OF bodily and mental fatigue than had
been usual with him. Worst of all was its
depressing influence on his exuberant
spirits, which became more aud more sub
dued, until at last his mind had lost much
of its wonted buoyancy.
The old poet is now much changed in
form and feature, being merely shadow
of his former self. During the last three
years Of his residence in Albany he spent
some hours each pleasant day in sJrolling
about the beautiful park near by, OF tran
gully sitting there in a shady arbor
watching the children at their play. But
during the last two years no public eye
has seen him, for in that long interval he
has OF his own choice been carefully Sc.
cludsd in his room.
1t is a long time since he last consented
to receive u stranger, or even a friend OF
an acquaintance Of former days.
II can not bear,'' he said, with pathos,
ito be forcibly reminded of what once
was--of the days Of nay hope and strength,
when the world had charms that are now
dead to me; before sickness had deprived
mo of my health and death had robbed me
of my loved ones"
In 1881, on his first coming to Albany,
the eminent physician whom his family
consulted in his behalf predicted that be
would not survive two years longer.
Until quite recently he devoted g. good
share Of his time to perusal of the stand
ard poets and the leading magazines.
those of the latter to whose pages he was
once valued contributor, being still sent
him regularly and unsolicited by the pub
past services. For some years he has not
read the daily papers, and evinces little
or no interest in current events.
1t pains me-" he said, 'sto meet with
the details of so much crime and so many
casualties"
Indeed, he reads comparatively little of
any kind ENTHUSIASTICALLY page or
two, may be, of one of his fagorite prose
authors, that mainly consist of Haw-
thorne, Dickens and Thackeray, judicious
ly selecting therefrom matter Of cheerful
tone and subject. When undisturbed he
is much given to musing, but at times will
converse willingly and fuently, display
ing thereby a power of memory that, in
view of his feeble PLY sical condition, is
quite unlocked for, recently surprising his
son not a little by repeating verbatim one
of Charles Lambs longest essays.
His thoughts often revert to his IRE
parable loss of wife and children, speak
ing of each tenderiy and regretfully, and
keen interest in the proper
care Of their graves-ever dwelling on the
domestic Affections which have broken his
heart and enveloped his once brilliant in
tellect in brooding and incurable melan-
choly.
In his room hangs small portrait of
Thomas Hood, which was given him by
the English humorist's son, and to which
he attaches more than ordinary value /
He sometimes remarks mournfully while i
gazing at this pictures:
II wonder if poor Tom Hood ever suf-
fered in his latter years as keenly as suf-
fer nowW
Again the observation escapes him:
II do not Sc how any human being can
continue to live in condition so utterly /
hopeless as mine''
Is not all this very, very pathetic2