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SOME PAGES FROM Ml ‘BOOK THE STORY OF BEN BOLT. Dr. Thomas Dunn English, Its Author, Tells It. (From the New York Sun.) “Being properly clad for the weath er —and for a Jerseyman—l was called for by Bunner, who insisted upon my wearing evening dress, and I made the change much against my will, for thus appareled 1 felt as if 1 were in a straight jacket. But that is not my only cause of offense against Bun ner. He has dared here, and public ly, to allude to that unfortunate early indiscretion of mine, ‘Ben Bolt.’ ” Then the speaker was compelled t» pause, for the Abbots broke forth with loud applause. -This was a few evenings ago at the Cloister club, or “the Cloister,” as the members prefer to have it called, and the speaker was Dr. Thom as Dunn English, the poet, novelist, dramatist, physician, lawyer and poli tician. A most interesting figure, merely to look at, as he stood talking to his younger fellow craftsmen; but interesting beyond anything most of his listeners had ever heard when, as he soon did, he told of people and events in literature and the drama in New York half a century ago. Dr. English modestly confesses to seventy five years, but his friend, Poet Bun ner, claims five more for him, in spite of the records of the University of Pennsylvania, which put him in the class of ’39. He seldom accepts invi tations to dinners nowadays which call him so far as Clinton place from his Newark residence, but that must be only from his love of quiet home evenings, for the youngest Friar at the table was no more alert than the doc tor an hour after such youngsters as Judge Howland (Yale ’54) had gone home. Allowing him only what he claims as to years, seventy-five, Dr. English is an extremely young look ing man. Although the white pre dominates in his drooping moustache, his fine, strong head is covered with a mass of dark hair in which is only a suggestion of gray, and he speaks with the robustness of a young orator And he had only finished a hard con gress campaign! Really he looked as if he were yet on the sunny side of fifty. The Abbots and Friars of the Clois ter looked forward with unusual in terest to the visit of a man of whom it was published in the American Cy clopedia twenty years ago: “He is the author of more than twenty suc cessful dramas;” “he is the author of several novels,” he is the author of ‘Gallows-Goers,’ a rough but vigorous poem of which hundreds of thousands of copies were circulated,” he is this and he is that, and has done this and has done that, and yet who is known to the world only as the author of “Ben Bolt.” It was that most delightful period in the dinner hour when the dinner is be ing enjoyed—having been eaten —and the table bears only ash trays and cof fee, when a comfortable, inviting si lence inspires to monologue after the rattle of general talk, that Dr. English rose to talk to the “youngsters,” as he called them, of the cloister. Presid ing Abbot J. L. Ford had referred to Dr. English and H. C. Bunner then committed the offense with which the doctor charged him, alluding to Ben Bolt. “An indiscretion committed more than fifty years ago should not be WATSON’S WEEKLY JEFFERSONIAN. brought up against a man at such an hour as this,” said the doctor. “Let me tell about—well, say, about the pop-gun tariff bills, for you know I have a short session to serve yet in congress.” The Friars laughed him down and called for “Ben Bolt.” “Well,” said the doctor, “I thought when I wrote “ ‘And sweet Alice lies under the stone.’ 1 had done with her and her possible sweetheart, ‘Ben Bolt,’ but it appears not. I wrote those verses in 1843 at the request of N. P. Willis, who, with George P. Morris, had revived the New York Mirror as the New Mirror. Willis asked me for a sea song, and I started one. But I stuck. Possibly some of you youngsters may have had that same experience when you have set out to write something to order.” The particular “youngster” the speaker happened to be looking at as he said this was William Dean Howells, and the novelist laughed and nodded, as if in assurance that even a traveler from Altruria was sometimes stuck when so unaltruistic as to write any thing to order. “Then,” the doctor con tinued, “I began on something else, nearly finished it, patched on a piece of the unfinished sea song and sent the thing to Willis, telling him if it didn't suit not to return it, but burn it. I did not give it a title and signed only my initials, I thought so little of it. The editors were pleased with it and published it with some prominence in the New Mirror of September 25, 1843. But it was not much of a sea song.” “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Doc tor,” remarked Laurence Hutton, from the opposite side of the table. “There was at least one line of a sea song: “ ‘Ben Bolt of the salt sea gale,’ and that out of thirty-two lines would be considered pretty grod, if not quite sufficient, from the standards of to day.” “This from Sir Oliver,” responded the doctor, with a bow, “is compensa tion for much that I have suffered be cause of that song. “Well, the lines became popular. It was copied, without credit, in the En glish papers where it was assumed to be of British birth. After I saw it in print it seemed to me that the song would go well to music, and I spoke to several composers about it, but they all answered, ‘lt won’t sing.’ I thought it would and took the matter into my own hands by writing some music for the words myself.” This was the first intimation any one at the Cloister table had that this doc tor of many talents was a musician, and Friar Waller, who teaches budding geniuses how to compose in the con servatory, vigorously blew the smoke away from before him in order to have a clearer view of the speaker. “But my music did not become so popular as that adapted from a Ger man song by a young singer and actor named Wilson Kneass, a son of a cele brated actress of that time. He had an opportunity to appear in a stage pro duction if he could furnish a new and popular song. A fellow player named Hpnt, an Englishman, recited ‘Ben Bolt,’ to Kneass, and suggested it as a song. He had seen the words in an English paper and remembered them, Kneass adapted the music, as I have said, and the song made an immense hit, not only in this country, but in England, where it was sung, parodied ‘answered’ and illustrated. It created a furore in London and was, of course, still supposed to be strictly British. After several revivals I supposed until recently that I had heard the last of it, but now a gentleman named Du Ma nner, whom I never harmed in my life, revives it in ‘Trilby.’ ” By the way, although Dr. English did not tell this, nor much else that might be considered flattering to him about the history of “Ben Bolt,” Mr. Du Maurier was not the first novelist to make the song a theme in fiction. In London, in 1877, a novel was pub lished in which the singing of “Ben Bolt,” was the incident which brought about the happy climax of the story, the reconciliation of the lovers. “When I first went to congress, four yars ago,” the doctor went on when the Friars demanded more “Ben Bolt,” “1 was duly reported in the papers as the author of that song, and it brought me many curious interviews. One member introduced me to his wife whose three Christian names were ‘Al ice Ben Bolt,’ another assured me he had been lulled to sleep in his cradle by his mother singing ‘Ben Bolt,’ and a third informed me when he intro duced me to his wife that it was her singing of ‘Ben Bolt,’ that won his proposal of marriage. ‘I am sorry for it,’ I answered —‘That I wrote it,’ I added, for I seemed to be misunder stood.” During the hour, while talk was yet general, something had been said about the great profits of modern play wrights, and Augustus Thomas, of “Al abama” fame, had been alluded to. “Profits were smaller but production was larger in the forties and fifties than with you, young gentlemen,” said the doctor, turning to Mr. Thomas, who sat near him. “I recall being very well satisfied with the receipt of S6OO for a play I wrote for Burton, and which had a success in—let me see, was it at Burton’s theatre?” “Chambers street, 1848 to 1856,” sug gested W. Curtis Gibson. “Thank you; then it was at Palmer’s opera house.” "Leonard street, occupied by Mr. Burton prior to his going to Cham bers street,” Mr. Gibson said. “Thank you again,” said the doctor, beaming on his venerable Scotch con temporary. Then everybody sang the song and here are the words: Oh! don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile And trembled with fear at your frown? In the old churchyard in the valley. Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone, They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray And sweet Alice lies under the stone. Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, Which stood at the foot of the hill, Together we’ve lain in the noonday shade, And listened to Appleton’s mill. The mill wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, The rafters have all tumbled in, And a quiet that crawls round the walls as you gaze Has followed the olden din. And don’t you remember the school, Ben Bolt, With the master so cruel and grim, And the shaded nook and the running brook, Where the children went to swim? Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt; The spring of the brook is dry. And of all the boys who were school mates then There remains only you and I. There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt; They have changed from the old to the new But 1 feel in the depths of my spirit the truth — There never was change in you. Twelve months, twenty, have passed, Ben Bolt, Since first we were friends —yet 1 hail Thy friendship a blessing, thy presence a truth, Ben Bolt of the salt sea gale. HOHENLINDEN. An Impressive Poem Inspired by the Defeat of the Austrians by the French in December, 1800. Thomas Campbell (1777-1844) is one of those writers who composed many elaborate works, yet whose fame rests wholly upon three or four short poems which have become classic. Among these is “Hohenlinden,” written im mediately after the battle of that name, fought on December 3, 1800, between the French, under Moreau, and the Archduke John, in command of the Austrian army. It was one of the most hotly con tested battles of the Napoleonic wars, and was decided by the valor of Mar shal Ney, the' Austrians being routed with a loss of twenty thousand men. The battle made a profound impress ion in England, and inspired Campbell to dash off these stirring lines, which in the speed of their composition and their martial spirit remind one of Ten nyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade.” By Thomas Campbell. On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Os Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden’s hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Os Iser, rolling rapidly. ’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulph’rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave. And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet. And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier’s sepulcher. PAGE THREE