The record-union., 1891-10-24
A POETIC GEM.
The Writings of the Gifted Bohemian
Wakeman.


Wakeman.
The st. Joseph (Mo.) Herald pays the
following tribute to the genius of Edgar
L. Wakeman, the gifted special CORE
spondent of the RECORD UNION:
In the literary rush and turmoil of these
fast living and fast writing later days,
when everybody seems to be fastening TO
the end of the century as stone ap-
preaching its final plunge to the bottom
of the precipice, it is with infinite pleas
ure and sense of rest that one turns to
writer like Edgar l.. Wakeman. His
pen is like a crystal brook flowing
through a desert; his writings the shadow
of great rock in weary land. He is
queer fellow; a Bohemian ola new school,
or OF no school at all unless it be of the
Wakeman school. There is nothing
about him of the Henri Murger type; of
that Bohemianism which flashed its lus-
ter in the underground wine cellars of
Paris, and was so poor that he who was
discovered with gold piece in his pos
session was forever afterWard called ''the
banker; nothing Of the semi-tramp and
not at all lovable Bohemian Of this side of
the Atlantic who has but recently disap-
peared, if not from life. at least from the
literary centeTs and the brilliant circles
which once forgave, but which no longer
forgives him on account of his genius, Tor
the grave vices which he possessed.
Wakeman is altogether lovable. He is
an Arab whose home is wherever he
pitches his tent. One week we read about
his climbing the steeple of Trinity
Church at midnight Christmas eve, and
up there above the snowy moonlit roofs,
above the sleeping city, like Carlyle's
wondrouS hero in ''Sartor Resartus,"
who lived in the topmost story of the
highest house in the city Of WeiSSnich
two there alone with the stars, writing a
poem in prose about the sleeping city be-
low, as the Trinity chimes rang out their
first Christmas greetings to the sleepers
below, and out over the black waters of
the harbOr to the white ships from all
over the world. a wondrous story, won
drOusly told; and next he is waiting to
us the perfume of orange blossoms, and
azaleas, the musk of magnolia blooms,
and making us hear the twang of the
Spanish guitar, and the laugh of the
black-eyed senoritas as they danced the
bOlero away down in sunny Cuba.
He is always surprise, and delight
ful one. His letters from the Riviera and
the Mediterranean cities read like poetry
and sound like music; but the rarest
pleasure he affords is when he sends from
over the sea a poem shining like a dia-
mond with gorgeous Coloring, and as
sweetly said as the sigh Of a maiden on
her wedding night.
There are few fragmentary poems
written in the past ten years which equal
his latest from Venice; his well-nigh
peerless "Angelus." There is something
of Dante Rosetti in the word-painting Of
the opening stanZa:
"Angelus Domini nuntiavit Marlar
St Mark sets the peal for an hundred chimes
dear;
'AngeIus Domini nuntiavit Marias'
Thus the lower prayer OF my swarth Condo
lier.
The purple curtains Of the West
Have almost hid the sunsets fire,
Which, flaming Nenice-ward, a crest
Lights softly dome and cross and spire.
Deep lie the shadows in lagoOns
Far as Chiogg3a's sails and reeds;
The air with landward perfume swoons;
Ny oaTsman bows ana counts his beads.
Our craft rides silent on the stream;
And, floating thus, idly dream.
It is picture full of Turneresque reds,
but perfect as q gorgeous rose. Then one
can hear a minor chord like Chopin as
the wanderer, under the old bells of the
time-worn towers, lets his memory drift
back to the diamond morn OF long ago, to
the farm, to the mother, and draws the
exquisite picture, no longer a Turner or
a Gerome with flashing colors, but a
picture full of grays, painted in lonely,
homesick, twilight hour, to be seen dimly
through tears:
anu uIeail! AN, ldlI luSen Ol tne sea,
Not all thy witchings can enthral
And fold the wings OF memory!
A thousand leagues one tone can call,
a thousand leagues one picture bring
In fadeleSS form and scene to me;
And though thy Angeus thrillful ring
Out DER the AdTiatic Sea,
7 hear through all its rythmics rung
Those dear old songs my mother sung!
0 OangeIus-hour to heart and soul,
angelus-hour of peace and calm,
When o'er the farm the evening stole,
EnfOlding all in summer balm!
Without. the scents OF held-the musk
OF hedge. of corn, of Winrowed hay
The subtle affairs of the dusk,
And glow-wOrn1s like some milky way;
Within, as from an angels tongue,
Those dear old songs my mother sungi
From every stormy wind that blows;
"Softly now the light of day;
"Thou hidden source ofcalln repose";
u love TO steal awhile away;
any days are gliding swiftly by'';
Depths of mercy can there be";
'Jesus look with pitying eye';
Crock of ages cleft for me-;
''Savior, on me thy grace bestow'';
"Plaise God from whom all blessings flow"
"Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariar'
Sweet were the echoes that fell on my ear;
"Angelus DOmini nuntiavit Maria!"
/ vorshiped betimes with my swarth Condo
lier.
Wakeman has written more ambitious
things. but none which will be more
dearly priced by his fellow wanderers in
whose hearts the word ''home" starts a
feeling half of pain and half of pleasure
His "Angeus" is a fit companion to
Millets masterpiece.