Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1908-07-14
Johns Letter.

Some fifty odd or even years ago,
when lad of ten, twelve, fifteen sum-
mers or less, book of Martin (. Tup-
per's poetical patch work, was kicking
about the house, and on several set &C.
casious l contracted with myself to
worry through with it, but invariably
broke the contract. Slowly and surely
the conviction that Upper is tame,
fastened itself to my youthful fancy.
Children and youth are quite apt TO
reach correct conclusions in such mat
tiers. have no means of knowing
whether my taste was accurate then, or
otherwise. l only know that the uni
versal world has nearly or quite forgot
ten Upper as q poet. There seems to
be no conflict between my youthful con-
viction and that of the grown up boys
and girls.
IL you will allow me to voice the feel
ings of boy of the past generation OF
BOYS, and in the irreverent language of
a boy, il would flow about thus: Now,
look here, Upper, You are dry as a
wood pecker's hole. You can't prod
your poetical mustang into trot of
one hours duration 10 save your soul
from terror. Your muse is wide OF
brain and warm Of heart, but weak of
wing and she rather flops than flies.
Your philosophy is sound, your moral
ity clean, your piety intrinsic. Beyond
a doubt you had q call to preach, but
never a call to teach singing school.
When you would copy the linnet, the
hens cackle, the dogs bark, the chill
dren CRY and the world stuffs cotton in
its ears and straightway forgets the
singer and the song. Stick to the pulpit
parson, and don't you seek to boss the
choir" The ear of child can detect a
discord and can appreciate melody like
children Of larger growth, and is
seldom at fault.
Almost az far back as my memory
runs, so far away that the time is hazy
with distance, see little tow-headed
suarler-meaning me, sitting one even
ing before an open fire, listening to his
father reading from the family paper,
the Morning Star. Every article, save
one, In the issue of that date, buried
decades deep. The one article that re-
mains is "The Bridge of Sighs," by
Thomas Hood. / recall the feelings il
awakened even now. / read it myself
again and again, crying over it. And
when lost mourned for it, longed for it,
at times, for years, but never saw it
again for decade, when | met it in a
crowd of poems and recognized it in
stantly and was glad. The old feeling
came again, but / didn't cry over it.
The worlds atmosphere has tendency
to dry the fountain of tears. 1t is to be
observed that we cry less than we were
wont to cry, but we sweat more. 1t is
well.
Among the pictures that were printed
that evening, framed and hung in a
favorable light on the walls OF Memory
Art Gallery are "One more unfortu-
nate" standing "houseless by night"
shivering in the "bleak winds of March,
lust before she took that everlasting
plunge into the "black rolling river. :"
And this: "All that Is left of her now is
pure womanly."
Another picture was brought out
later-this-the "dissolute man" and
chief cause of all her woe shrinking into
the sha low, away from the dagger flash
of the poets scorn.
IL never occurred 10 me then, aud il
has never occurred to me since, that
Hood il tame, or Whittier, or Longfel-
low, Holmes or Lowell, and whyp Be-
cause they sing In tune and neither fiat
nor drag. They were poets born and
not made; whereas Upper was made
and not born. A few poetical sparkles
do not establish poetical fame. When
writer or speaker gives uttersnce to
sound ideas in dull and spiritless way,
he lacks readers and hearers and is &C
counted tame. That 10 what's the mat
ter with your uncle Martin.
JoHH,