JOHN P. FRUIT
John Phelps Fruit, the distinguished Poe scholar, was born at Pembroke, Kentucky, November 22, 1855. He was graduated from Bethel College, Russellville, Kentucky, in 1878, after which he became a teacher. For two years Professor Fruit was president of Liberty College, Glasgow, Kentucky; and from 1883 to 1897 he was professor of English in his _alma mater_, Bethel College. In 1895 the University of Leipzig granted him the Ph. D. degree; and three years later he was elected to the chair of English in William Jewell College, Liberty, Missouri, which he still occupies. Dr. Fruit's first work was an edition of Milton's _Lycidas_ (Boston, 1894), and this was followed by his edition of Coleridge's _The Ancient Mariner_ (Boston, 1899). Both of these little volumes have been used in many schools and colleges.
Dr. Fruit devoted many years to the study of Edgar Allan Poe and his works, and his researches he brought together in _The Mind and Art of Poe's Poetry_ (New York, 1899). This book gave Dr. Fruit a foremost place among the Poe scholars of his time. His work was officially recognized by the University of Virginia, the poet's college, and it has been widely and cordially reviewed. At the present time Dr. Fruit is engaged in a comprehensive study of Nathaniel Hawthorne, his pamphlet, entitled _Hawthorne's Immitigable_ (Louisville, Kentucky, n.
d.), having attracted a deal of attention.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913); letters from Prof. Fruit to the writer.
THE CLIMAX OF POE'S POETRY[13]
[From _The Mind and Art of Poe's Poetry_ (New York, 1899)]
Accustomed as we are, from infancy up, to so much "rhyme without reason," in our nursery jingles and melodies, we associate some of Poe's poetry, remotely, at first blush, with the negroes singing "in the cotton and the corn." So much sound makes us suspicious of the sense, but a little closer ear appreciates delicate and telling onomatopoetic effects. Liquids and vowels join hands in sweetest fellowship to unite "the hidden soul of harmony."
As if, at last, to give the world assurance that he had been trifling with rhythm and rhyme, he wrote _The Bells_.
The secret of the charm resides in the humanizing of the tones of the bells. It is not personification, but the speaking in person to our souls. To appreciate this more full, observe how Ruskin humanizes the sky for us. "Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful, never the same for two moments together; almost human in its passions, almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its infinity, its appeal to what is immortal in us, is as distinct, as its ministry of chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal is essential."
Poe made so much of music in his doctrine of poetry, yet he never humanized the notes of a musical instrument....
He took the common bells,--the more praise for his artistic judgment,--and rang them through all the diapason of human sentiment.
If we have imagined a closer correspondence between expression and conception, in the previously considered poems, than really exists, there can be no doubt on that point, even to the mind of the wayfaring man, in reading _The Bells_.
If it be thought that the poet could harp on only one theme, let the variety of topic in _The Bells_ protest.
Again, Poe's doctrine of "rhythm and rhyme" finds its amplest verification in _The Bells_. Reason and not "ecstatic intuition," led him to conclude that English versification is exceedingly simple; that "one-tenth of it, possibly, may be called ethereal; nine-tenths, however, appertain to the mathematics; and the whole is included within the limits of the commonest common-sense."
It must be believed that Poe appropriated, with the finest artistic discernment, the vitalizing power of rhythm and rhyme, and nowhere with more skill than in _The Bells_. It is the climax of his art on its technical side.
Read the poem and think back over the course of the development of poet's art-instincts.
FOOTNOTE:
[13] Copyright, 1899, by A. S. Barnes and Company.
HARRISON ROBERTSON
Thomas Harrison Robertson, erstwhile poet and novelist, and now a well-known journalist, was born at Murfreesboro, Tennessee, January 16, 1856. He was educated at the University of Virginia, after which he settled at Louisville, Kentucky, as a newspaper man, verse-maker, and fictionist. Mr. Robertson has held almost every position on _The Courier-Journal_, being managing editor at the present time. He won his first fame with a Kentucky racing story, the best one ever written, entitled _How the Derby Was Won_, which was originally published in _Scribner's Magazine_ for August, 1889. Ten years later his first long novel, _If I Were a Man_ (New York, 1899), "the story of a New-Southerner," appeared, and it was followed by _Red Blood and Blue_ (New York, 1900); _The Inlander_ (New York, 1901); _The Opponents_ (New York, 1902); and his most recent novel, _The Pink Typhoon_ (New York, 1906), an automobile love story of slight merit.
In the early eighties "T. H. Robertson" wrote some of the very cleverest verse, so-called society verse for the most part, that has ever been done by a Kentucky hand; but he soon abandoned "Thomas" and the Muse. The writer has always held that our literature lost a charming poet to win a feeble fictionist when Harrison Robertson changed literary steads, although his _How the Derby Was Won_ must not be forgotten. Now, however, he has given up the literary life for the daily grind of a great newspaper; and he may never publish another poem or novel. More's the pity!
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Book Buyer_ (April, 1900; April, 1901); _Scribner's Magazine_ (October, 1907); _The Bookman_ (December, 1910).
TWO TRIOLETS[14]
[From _A Vers de Societe Anthology_, by Caroline Wells (New York, 1907)]
I
What He Said:
This kiss upon your fan I press-- Ah! Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it?
And may it from its soft recess-- This kiss upon your fan I press-- Be blown to you, a shy caress, By this white down, whene'er you use it.
This kiss upon your fan I press-- Ah, Sainte Nitouche, you _don't_ refuse it!
II
What She Thought:
To kiss a fan!
What a poky poet!
The stupid man, To kiss a fan, When he knows that--he--can-- Or ought to know it-- To kiss a _fan_!
What a poky poet!
STORY OF THE GATE
[From the same]
Across the pathway, myrtle-fringed, Under the maple, it was hinged-- The little wooden gate; 'Twas there within the quiet gloam, When I had strolled with Nelly home, I used to pause and wait.
Before I said to her good-night Yet loath to leave the winsome sprite Within the garden's pale; And there, the gate between us two, We'd linger as all lovers do, And lean upon the rail.
And face to face, eyes close to eyes, Hands meeting hands in feigned surprise, After a stealthy quest,-- So close I'd bend, ere she'd retreat, That I'd grow drunken from the sweet Tuebrose upon her breast.
We'd talk--in fitful style, I ween-- With many a meaning glance between The tender words and low; We'd whisper some dear, sweet conceit, Some idle gossip we'd repeat, And then I'd move to go.
"Good-night," I'd say; "good-night--good-by!"
"Good-night"--from her with half a sigh-- "Good-night!" "_Good_-night!" And then-- And then I do _not_ go, but stand, Again lean on the railing, and-- Begin it all again.
Ah! that was many a day ago-- That pleasant summer-time--although The gate is standing yet; A little cranky, it may be, A little weather-worn--like me-- Who never can forget
The happy--"End?" My cynic friend, Pray save your sneers--there was no "end."
Watch yonder chubby thing!
That is our youngest, hers and mine; See how he climbs, his legs to twine About the gate and swing.
FOOTNOTE:
[14] Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons.