XVII EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN A MONG American bankers of our day no one has reflected upon literature so much of dignity and glory as Edmund Clarence Stedman, whose life closed on the 18th of January, 1908. Stedman is one of the few eternally great poets of America. He is, at the same time, the foremost of America's literary critics. Stedman's literary appreciations are as much a part of the prose literature of our time as were those of the elder Hazlitt in his time. His "Victorian Poets," published in 1875, is as much alive as it was a year after its appearance. On this much be-written theme he has left us by far the most keenly critical and at the same time most kindly appreciative work that has found its way into print. This was followed in 1886 by his equally able, and, for him-because of his lack of ample perspective-more difficult work, "The American Poets." The third of his great critical works, "The Nature and Elements of Poetry," appeared in 1892. Of the many library collections of English verse of the last century, Stedman's "Anthology" is perhaps the most thumb-worn. While the relative space given this, that and the other poet in any anthology must necessarily be more or less disappointing to the reader who has his favorites -and who has not?-yet the general judgment is that, with a banker's close and critical estimate of values, he did his work well-better than most students of literary values could have done. As a poet Stedman has a fineness of touch somewhat resembling that of Thomas Bailey Aldrich or Richard Watson Gilder; but yet in quality it is unlike that of any other American poet. Like Mr. Aldrich and Mr. Gilder, the banker-poet of America demonstrated the fact that a poet can be distinctively American without being outlandish! Stedman was born in Hartford in 1833. He entered Yale at twenty. While there he foreshadowed his career by winning a first prize in poetry. Like Shelley, his student career was foreshortened by the faculty; but, unlike Shelley, he didn't let the foreshortening seriously affect his outlook on the world. In 1869 the Yale authorities tardily repented their severity, and, though he had long before ceased to need or care for honors, he was restored to his class roll and given the master's degree. In 1863, after a successful career as war correspondent for the New York World, he suffered financial reverses which inclined him to give up journalism that he might put money in his purse. He, therefore, took that sure road to wealth-the banker's gilded way! Twelve years of prosperity satisfied him. Before he had had time to acquire the lust for power through wealth, possibly feeling the first encroachments of the plutocratic madness of our time, he forsook the strenuosity of Wall Street for the peaceful shades of retirement, and the first substantial product of his retirement was the "Victorian Poets." The poem which best reveals the banker behind the poet's lines is his "Pan in Wall Street"-a happy blending of the Greek style and the American spirit: PAN IN WALL STREET Just where the Treasury's marble front To throng for trade and last quotations; From Trinity's undaunted steeple,- Even there I heard a strange, wild strain The curbstone war, the auction's hammer; And swift, on Music's misty ways, It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. And as it stilled the multitude, And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw the minstrel, where he stood At ease against a Doric pillar: One hand a droning organ played, The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made The reeds give out that strain impassioned. 'Twas Pan himself had wandered here A-strolling through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear The prelude of some pastoral ditty! The demigod had crossed the seas, From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, And Syracusan times, to these Far shores and twenty centuries later. A ragged cap was on his head; But--hidden thus-there was no doubting That, all with crispy locks o'erspread, His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, And trousers, patched of divers hues, Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. He filled the quivering reeds with sound, The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, Even now the tradesmen from their tills, With clerks and porters, crowded near him. The bulls and bears together drew From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, As erst, if pastorals be true, Came beasts from every wooded valley; The random passers stayed to list,- A one-eyed Cyclops halted long In tattered cloak of army pattern; And Galatea joined the throng,— A blowsy, apple-vending slattern; While old Silenus staggered out From some new-fangled lunch-house handy, And bade the piper, with a shout, To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy! A newsboy and a peanut girl Like little fauns began to caper; His hair was all in tangled curl, Her tawny legs were bare and taper; And gave its pence and crowded nigher, O heart of Nature, beating still With throbs her vernal passion taught her,— Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, Or by the Arethusan water! New forms may fold the speech, new lands But Music waves eternal wands, Enchantress of the souls of mortals! So thought I,-but among us trod A man in blue, with legal baton, And scoffed the vagrant demigod, And pushed him from the step I sat on. Doubting I mused upon the cry, “Great Pan is dead!”—and all the people Went on their ways;—and clear and high The quarter sounded from the steeple. |