The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1886-09-21
JOHN C. SAKE.
How the Poet Spends His Last Days
In His Albany Home.
Brooklyn Magazine.


Brooklyn Magazine.
In large and luxuriously furnished apart
ment in four story brown stone house on
State street, in the city of Albany, ana az
most within stones throw Of the great cap
irol sits or walks, or reclines throughout tns
dav a man of 70 years of age. With hair that
is siIvery white. a full beard that is gray
white form that is bent and emaciated, a
stem that is slow and tottering and eheek
that is pallid and shrunken-hls Dlue eyes
vet full and lustrious alone Indicate the
strength and pride of other days Ihls man
is John Godfrey SAKE, the poet. It's only
few years since the verses Of SAKE were
eagerly accepted by the leading periodicals
and his services as a lecturer were every
where popular. In his day he was bright
member of many literary gathering, being
known personally to all of the most promi-
nent of contemporary poets and prose writ
ers. He was the nations wit and humorist,
whose delicious rhymes brought to himself
fame and competence, and to many house
hold the cheerful smile or hearty laugh Ev
en- across the sea he was known as "the
Thomas Hood of America, The
beginning of the end was the poets dreadful
experience and remarkable escape from re-
voting death in a western railway disaster
in the spring of 1875, while on his return to
Brooklyn at the conclusion of lecture tour
in the South. The sleeping car in which he
had berth was thrown down steep em-
bankment and he was rescued therefrom by
the merest chance AS he lay wedged in be-
tween the broken timbers, stunned and
bruised, fellow passenger who mad escaped
bethought him Of sum OF money when ne
had left behind him. On returning to the
car he stumbled upon the insensible poet.
The latter was thereby discovered and res
cued from what would have inevitably been
death and destruction by fire, as the sleeper
in which he was found, after brief interval
following his rescue, became a mass OF seeth-
ing flame. His flesh was bruised but no
bones were broken. Outwardly he appeared
to have escaped with slight bodily injuries.
Not so, a grieVous hurt was there-deep, m---
sidious and lasting, though at times 1t was
unseen and unfet. The poets nerve system
had received shock from which 1t never
rallied. Exhaustion set in; slowly but sure
ly the consequent weakness overspread
ana undermined his whole physical be-
ing. He began to experience a greater
degree of bOdily.--ssSa-s mental fatigue
than had been usual with him. Worst of all
was its depressing influence on MS exuber-
ant spirits, which became more and more
much of its wonted buoyancy Other atfiie-
tiOns were yet in store During the year
just prior to that of the railway accident he
had inferred his daughter Laura in Green
wood Cemetery. Five years later death
again invaded his Brooklyn home, the sec
ond victim being his daughter Sarah. Bare
ly another year had elapsed when the mother
of his children, a noble woman, was put ten
year of 1881 the dark reaper, for the fourth
time, laid his cruel sickle at his door, this
time cutting down Hattie, the poets only re-
naming daughter. He had yet two sons liy-
ing in Albany. Turning his mOurnful steps
thither, in June, 1881, he sought rest and ref
uge from his sorrows with his eldest son,
John Theodore. Once again the inexorable
hand of fate was laid heavily upon him;
death snatched away the son ere the father
had been a month beneath the hospitable
before. Here was a daughter and sons
wife, and the son himself-ah three cut
down within the brief period of two months.
Thus, for the second time, was broken up
the poets home. Then he turned to his
youngest son and only remaining child,
Charles G., with whom he has since lived,
and who, with filial tenderness and solicitude
ministers to the poets simple, daily wants.
The old poet is now much changed in form
and feature, being merely shadow of his
former self. During the first three years Of
his residence in Albany he spent some
hour each pleasant day in strolling about
the beautiful park near by, or TRANQUILITY sit
ting there in shady arbor, watching the
children at their play. But during the past
two years no public eye has seen him, for
in that long interval he has of bis own
choice been carefully secluded in his room.
He neither rides nor walks abroad. The
apartment in which he spends his melan-
choly days consists of suite of three rooms,
located in the rear of the house on the third
floor, and overlooking the noble Hudson to
the south. Here by window he whiles
of ma N
river craft, anC in contemplating the pietur-
esQue landscape. OF street attire he no
longer has a need; in dressing gown and
slippers he PAGES the floor with slow and
trembling steps, seldom or never going be-
Sond the confines of his own rooms. He pre-
fers to have perfect quiet about him, and
oftentimes dislikes to be disturbed even by
member of his own family. 1t is a long time
since he last consented to receive stranger.
or even friend or an acquaintance of for
mer days.
II can not bear" he said with pathos, ito
be forcibly reminded Of what | once Sas-of-
the days Of my hope and strength, when the
wcrld had charms that now are dead to me;
before sickness had deprived me Of my
health, and death had robbed me of my
loved ones.
In 1881, on his first coming to Albany, the
eminent physicians whom his family can
suited in his behalf predicted that he would
not survive for two years longer. He goes
to bed between the hours of 9 and 10 O'Clock
in the evening and rises at about $50 IN the
morning. He complains much of insomnia,
and during the day is often very restless,
suffering from neuralgia in the head. When
not sitting in an easy chair or moving leis-
urely about his room he reclines upon a
couch. He eats often, but very sparingly,
and partakes of the plainest Of food, indi-
gestion being one of his principal bodily
| ills. OF his valet, middle-aged colored
| man who, by reason of prior service with
| eminent people at Washington and other
places, is more than ordinarily intelligent
| and entertaining, the poet is very fond,
| chatting with him now and again with a
| more than usual degree of interest and an
\ imation. Until quite recently he devoted a
| good share of his time to a perusal of the
standarn poets and the leading magazines,
those of the latter, to whose pages he was
| once a valued contributor, being still sent
| him regularly and unsolicited by the pub
| fishers thereof in kindly remembrance Of
! past services. For some years he has not
read the daily papers, and evinees little Or
no interest in current events.
sit pains me-, he said, ''to meet with the
details of so much crime and so many casu-
| alties"
Indeed, he reads comparatively little of
any kind now-occasionally page or two
| maybe of one of his favorite prose authors,
that mainly consists of Hawthorne, Dickens
and Thackerav, tjudeious selections there
from matter of cheerful tone and subject
When undisturbed he is much given to mus
ing; but at times will converse willingly and
tlnently, displaying thereby power Of men,
ory that, in view of his feeble condition, is
quite unlocked for, recently surprising hi.
son not little by repeating verbatim one OF
Charles Lambs longest essays. His thoughts
revert to his irreparable loss OF his wife and
children, speaking of each tenderly and re-
gretfuly and manifesting keen interest in
the proper care of their graves-evel
dwelling on the domestic Affections which
have broken his heart and enveloped his
once brilliant intellect in brooding and in
durable melancholy
MAGAZINE NOTICES.