Middlebury register. (Middlebury, Vt.) 1886-1937, 1890-08-01

fishing the signatures of their contribu-
tors, and the poem appeared anonymously.
1t caught the popular favor and has be
come one of the best known poems OF
American authorship, being included in
various collections, such as school readers
and books of recitations. 1t is hard to tell
just why it became popular, for it is not,
from literary standpoint, entitled to great
praise, but something in its simple direct
ness made it a success
After time several persons claimed to
have written it, and for time there was
great doubt as to who the real author was,
but it was at length acknowledged gener-
ally that Mr. Watson was entitled to the
credit. William Cullen Bryant included
the poem in his famous collection and
ascribed it's authorship to Watson, and the
question may be fairly considered settled.
In addition to Mr.. Bryapt's authority
Horace Greeley lent the force of his name to
the assertion that Watson was the real au-
thor and the Harpers declared positively
that he had written the poem. The elder
Harpers, it may be mentioned, were warm
friends of Mr.. Watson as long as they
lived.
| see that in a recent issue of The New
York World Col. William Allen Silloway
claims that his name was given as the
author of the poem in Bryant's book, but
this is not true. Col. Silloway, who is
printer by occupation, and lives in West
Washington place, says that he wrote the
poem in 1850 and sent it to Mrs. Lydia H.
Sigourney, and that it was first publis he'd
in 1854 in Maria Louise Hankins' paper
portrait painter named McMasters, of
New York, Elizabeth Akers Dora Thorne,
Henry W. FaXon and others are among
the claimants to authorship of the verses
Mr. Watson was born in New York city
in lS?2 His father, Mr.. Alexander Wat
son, was an Englishman by birth, and was
at one time prosperous merchant. Before
his son reached manhood, however, re-
verses came, and the boy was obliged to
look out for himself. He had a natural
aptitude for the engraver's art, and learned
it, only to leave it afterward for the less
reliable but more fascinating art of au-
thorship
He began work as a journalist on The
New York Herald on the day that James
Gordon Bennett the younger was born,
which was just about fifty years ago. Con.
tnuing for some time to work in The
Herald Office, he gradually became known
as a graceful versifer and story writer.
and up to the time of his last illness he
was frequent contributor to great num-
Der of publications. At one time, for some
twelve or fourteen years, he was under
contract to write four continued stories a
year for Saturday Night, each story to be
over sixty columns in length. For this he
received an income of $1,000 a year and
lived comfortably. The work, however
was not congenial to him, and after the
time mentioned he felt unable to continue
under the strain. He therefore resigned
his place, and from that time onward sup
ported himself all too poorly by the sale of
occasional contributions TO any and all of
the periodicals which he could reach
In this way his name became known to
the readers of nearly all the American lit
erary papers and magazines of the last
half century, and his work appeared in
not few newspapers. He was at one time
an editorial writer on The New York
Times, but in his later years was crowded
out of the race by younger men, and wrote
an infinite deal of trash for the cheaper
publications.
During his long career he was, like many
other writers, beset with constant desire
to get into some other pursuit, caring little
for any form of composition excepting
poetry. He had considerable mechanical
aptitude, and was anxious to become a
manufacturer, but having little business
ability was never able to get start in that
direction.
At one time he sailed as supercargo in a
vessel that visited Africa. While there he
made the acquaintance of the king of Da-
honey, and in most readable article in
The North American Review he described
many wonderful and interesting things
that he saw in the land of that interesting
savage. His story of his adventures, how
ever, was so wonderful that it was rejected
as "A travellers romance by more than one
editor, including his friends the Harpers.
They laughed at him, and utterly refused
to believe anything he had written about
the journey.
1t is not, perhaps, surprising, in view Of
the fact that he was all his life writing
'pot boilers" that he has left so little be-
hind him, for his name is attached as
author to only one book. That is a col
lection of his poems, and Melted him little
money but much fame. He procured from