THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. THOM HOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH, whom Stedman calls "the most pointed and exquisite of our lyrical craftsmen," was born at Portsmouth, N. H., by the sea, November 11, 1837-"the prettiest place in the world," he says, in "The Story of a Bad Boy." "The streets are long and wide, shaded by gigantic American elms, whose drooping branches, interlacing here and there, span the avenues with arches graceful enough to be the handiwork of fairies. Many of the houses have small flower-gardens in front, gay in the season with china-asters, and are substantially built, with massive chimney-stacks and protruding eaves. A beautiful river goes rippling by the town, and, after turning and twisting among a lot of tiny islands, empties itself into the sea. "The harbor is so fine that the largest ships can sail directly up to the wharves and drop anchor. Only, they don't. Years ago it was a famous seaport. Princely fortunes were made in the West India trade; and in 1812, when we were at war with Great Britain, any number of privateers were fitted out at Rivermouth (Portsmouth) to prey upon the merchant vessels of the enemy. "Few ships come to Rivermouth now. Commerce drifted into other ports. The phantom fleet sailed off one day, and never came back again. The crazy old warehouses are empty; and barnacles and eelgrass cling to the piles of the crumbling wharves, where the sunshine lies lovingly, bringing out the faint spicy odor that haunts the place, of the old dead West India trade!" the ghost Here in this quiet town, of rich memories and quaint belongings, the poet grew to young manhood in the family of his grandfather, save a few of his earliest years spent at New Orleans with his parents. He was enthusiastic, generous, independent, the leader in sports and boyish pranks, with energy and persistence enough to carry through whatever he undertook. At first so homesick that in his little chamber he was obliged to turn his pillow over "to find a dry spot to go to sleep on," he finally conquered his feelings and made friends with the new world about him. Miss Abigail, the maiden sister of his grandfather, always near at hand to administer "hot drops," for a broken heart not less than a broken head, and Kitty Collins, the serving-woman, soon won his affection. The grandfather's oldfashioned house furnished no end of entertainment, especially the attic, where met together, he says, "as if by some preconcerted arrangement, all the broken-down chairs of the household, all the spavined tables, all the seedy hats, all the intoxicatedlooking boots, all the split walking-sticks that have retired from business, weary with the march of life."" His own chamber, too, was a rare study to a poetic mind. "Pretty chintz curtains hung at the window and a patch quilt of more colors than were in Joseph's coat covered the little truckle-bed. The pattern of the wall-paper left nothing to be desired in that line. On a gray background were small. bunches of leaves, unlike any that ever grew in this world; and on every other bunch perched a yellow bird, pitted with crimson spots, as if it had just recovered from a severe attack of the small-pox. That no such bird ever existed did not detract from my admiration of each one. There were two hundred and sixty-eight of these birds in all, not counting those split in two where the paper was badly joined. . . . Over "A work-stand in the corner, a chest of carved mahogany drawers, a looking-glass in a filagreed frame, and a high-backed chair studded with brass nails like a coffin, constituted the furniture. the head of the bed were two oak shelves, holding perhaps a dozen books,-among which were "Theodore, or the Peruvians'; Robinson Crusoe'; an odd volume of Tristram Shandy'; 'Baxter's Saints' Rest,' and a fine English edition of the 6 |