Arizona republican., 1900-12-23
CHRISTMAS "REMINISCENCES.
Rev. pr. T. De Witt Talmadge Recalls
 Memories.


 Memories.
 | At Christmas tide we all become med
 itative and are disposed to look back more than to look forward. Especially is this so if we sit by country fire
 place, or city grate, where the kind of coal you burn allows the flame to gallop and shake the shadows up and | down the wall.
 In my house on Oxford street, Brook | lyn in 1876, We had a memorable gath ering, the memory of which l still cher | ish as among the most treasured of my Christmas "reminiscences. Many ladies | and gentlemen were present, but the most conspicuous-not because of any pretense on his part, but by sheer force of elevated character-was William | Cullen Bryant. He did not much like to be helped out of the carriage when he came, nor to be helped into it again when he departed. He was the imper- sonation of simplicity. He no doubt knew that he was admired of all, but he gave no demonstration of that fact. The evening had nearly passed when | the mayor of theleity made an address | of appreciation both of Martin Farqu- har Tupper, the English poet, then pres ent and of our venerable American poet Bryant and Tupper, before the other | guests came, had been seated on the sofa, quoting poetry and reviving rem iniscences After the mayor, addresses by Messrs Bryant, Tupper and Peter Cooper, and the Rev. Drs. $. l. Prime, Bowling and others. But had always | been desirous of hearing MT. Bryant read one of his poems. l had attended | the Bryant meeting year or two pc | fore in Chickering hall in New 4orh city-a meeting at which the music was good and the speaking good, but there was a lack in it of William Cullen Bry- ant himself. His speech of response | was only about three minutes While ne | spent all the rest of the evening in do- ing nothing except keeping silent and looking venerable. I thought why does not somebody think of asking the glo- rious old man to come forward ana read his Forest Hymn" or lines to | "Waterfowf' or the Death of the 1 Flowers?" But no such thing nap pened. On the evening at my house I resolved that no such omission should be repeated. I sprung my stratagem | on him in the most unexpected mo- ment MT Tupper, at our request, had read a selection from his own poems and read them well. Turning to our American poet, I said: MT. Bryant, have always wanted to hear you read 'Thanatopsis,' and I have no doubt 1t would be a great joy to all our guests | to hear you read it. l have it here in Griswold's compilation. Will you grant us the favor of reading it?"
 Bryant b!ushed like a bashful miss when asked to play on the piano. There was evidently a struggle between his modesty and his desire to be obliging. After a moments pause, he said: "l would rather read anything than my own writings; but if it will be of any pleasure to you, 1 will do as you say. Taking the book he advanced to the middle of the room, looked up at the chandelier and then looked at the book. Take my spectacles," said MT. Tup- per. No, mo-" said MT. Bryant, 'I do not need spectacles." The type of the book was rather small, but he made no hesitation. There he stood at S2 years of age, about to read without spectacles a poem which he had pub lished in the North American Review in 1S16 when he was IS years of age He turned round and said: You will understand that I do not recite this from memory, for l am not familiar with 1t. I only read it." With calm, slow accent he read on.
 It was scene never to be forgotten.
 It was Eighteen hundred and Sixteen reading to Eighteen Hundred and Sew enty-six. He did not hold the book away off as octogenarians are wont to do when they read without glasses, but just as a man of thirty would hold a book. His long white beard showed upon the page. As he came to the last lines his voice became feeble, not with physical weakness, but with suppressed emotion. I had read it and reread it, as everybody else has, until l thought there was no more to get out of the closing lines of 'Thanatopsis," but he gave it d new translation that mem orable night. Could it be that l had ever heard it before? The white, over hanging eyebrows, the deep-sunken eyes, the great dome of a forehead above a thin body, the realization that it must be the closing hours of a long and beautiful life, and the sound of the strong winter winds that swept round the house while he was reading, were a commentary upon the immortal passage, until I write them here under half-delusion that no one has ever seen or heard them before:
 So live that when thy summons come
 to join
 The innumerable caravan that moves To that mysterious realm where each
 shall take
 His chamber in the silent halls of death Thou go not like the quarry slave at
 night.
 Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained