1

beautiful of his lyrics,-" Drifting." The feeling that suggested it is expressed in the opening lines :

But his fourth visit to Italy, in 1860, was cut short by events that stirred a deeper sentiment, one shared by millions but felt more intensely by none. Read's patriotism was of the old-fashioned type, sturdy in assertion, boundless in faith, and ready to boil over at any provocation on a foreign soil." Very true," he said to Tennyson, in reply to the somewhat boastful remark that if England were to go by the board the world would swing back to despotism,-" Very true; we know that; and the United States will keep England from going by the board." But now it seemed as if the United States were about to "go by the board." The first news of Secession reached Read at Rome, when the general dulness of the times had cast a gloom on his private outlook. But this was of small consequence in view of the ruin that threatened his country. "If the Union breaks," he wrote, "who cares then what breaks? If that is a failure, success is not worth having; I shall be content to sit in dust and ashes the rest of my days. . . . But," he ended, with characteristic confidence, "it will not break!"

He came back to America, where he wrote war-poems, besides completing and publishing "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies,"a patriotic work suggested by the present crisis though dealing with an earlier one,-selections from which had been delivered in manuscript to Mr. Murdoch, the distinguished actor and elocutionist, and recited with immense effect before large audiences. The poet himself gave public readings for the benefit of the soldiers, recited his war-songs at the head of battalions, and,

1 This is the account given by Mr. Tait, who tells us that he himself slept on the sofa while Read wrote, and heard him read the poem in the morning. Mrs. Read, however, has stated in a published letter that "Drifting' was written one stormy Sunday in Brooklyn." Perhaps the poem was then rewritten.

entering the army as a volunteer, served for a time on the staff of General Lew Wallace. His patriotic lyrics served their end by fanning the popular enthusiasm. "Sheridan's Ride" may

be said to have become famous. "The Oath" was a favorite with Mr. Lincoln, who called for it one evening when Mr. Murdoch was giving recitations in the Senate Chamber, and, on being told that the reader had not brought a copy of the poem, replied, "Oh, that is easily remedied: I have The Swear in my pocket."

After the war Read resided for a time in Cincinnati. In 1867 he returned to Europe, and spent the remainder of his life almost entirely at Rome. His last years were clouded by failing health and its incidental anxieties, but he labored more strenuously than ever, and his spirit lost little or nothing of its old brightness and buoyancy. His house was, as ever, open to all comers, and many still retain a grateful recollection of his hospitality and the impressions which his exhaustless vivacity, abundant wit, and constant charm of manner never failed to produce. Sometimes in the evening he read aloud to a circle of visitors the short poems which he still continued to write. One of these was "Brushwood," the sentiment and melody of which were alike fitted to gratify the ear and move the feelings of his listeners. But "Monte Testaccio" and "The Appian Way" are marked by a deeper train of thought and a bettersustained tone than almost any of his other productions, and if the strain is less stirring or the harmony less luscious than in some, the diction and imagery are perhaps more nearly faultless. These and other short pieces indicate the height to which he might well have attained had he devoted himself exclusively to poetry. Mr. Tait, who criticises his pictures very frankly, is yet of opinion that with the requisite training and study he would have become "a great painter." Nature had been too generous to him, since the one half of her gift could be adequately cul

1 Both published in Lippincott's Magazine and included in the present collection.

tivated only with the surrender of the other. Read was not capable of the stern self-suppression necessary for such a sacrifice. He was of fancy "all compact," and lent himself unresistingly to every inspiration and every impulse. His frequent changes of residence, while they enriched his experience and widened his scope, could not but be adverse to that concentration of energies and continuous development in a single direction by which alone. mastery in any line can be attained. His Lehrjahre were too That under these condi

short and his Wanderjahre too long. tions he should have done so well and accomplished so much proves the exuberance of his natural endowments. Some of his pictures are exquisite in their way, some of his lyrics almost perfect. Among the latter, "Passing the Icebergs" was praised enthusiastically by Thackeray, and Landor wrote to a brother poet, "In Read's 'Midnight' America steals a march upon us." His rural poems are especially distinguished by the minute fidelity that comes from close observation of nature and reality. The characteristics of his paintings, on the other hand, are "intuitive grace and ideal beauty." There was, therefore, force as well as point in the remark of Hawthorne that "his pictures are poems-his poems pictures."

His best works, whether of the pencil or the pen, were generally those that were begun and completed at a spurt. When absorbed by a conception he was incapable of repose. He rose early and retired late, and would leave his bed in the middle of the night to give embodiment or expression to a vision or a thought. His writing-materials were usually held on his knee, like a painter's sketch-book. In his last years the activity of his mind rose to a fever. "He was at his easel with the earliest sunlight, and burned midnight oil over poetical and philosophie schemes." In spite of failing health, he remained at Rome, working continuously, through the long and sickly winter of 1871-2. When at last overmastered by disease, he was seized once more with those yearnings for his native land which his period of voluntary exile had never stifled, and which no banished patriot ever felt more strongly. He hoped at times to recover, but was

content to die if he might first reach the beloved shore. His wish was fulfilled. Attacked on the voyage by pneumonia, he survived a day or two after landing at New York, dying calmly on the evening of Saturday, May 11, in the arms of those who loved him best. "Your kisses are very sweet to me," were among his last words.

Few natures have been more affectionate and true, few more lovable and more tenderly esteemed. A multitude of friends and admirers mourned his loss,-those most deeply who had known him best. Among the written tributes to his memory there is none that does not glow with the warmth and sincerity of a personal feeling. One, from the pen of Mr. Boker, may be especially referred to as the production of a kindred mind and worthy alike of the author and the subject.'

"Monody," in Lippincott's Magazine, November, 1872.