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But no man ever mounted upon his sorrow more surely to higher things. Blessed and beloved, the singer is gone, but his song remains, and its pure and imperishable melody is the song of the lark in the morning of our literature: "Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home." In 1817 Bryant's "Thanatopsis" was published in the North American Review.
They were uncertain just what place to attack first, and finally had almost decided not to attack any place. But runners came to them, with the news that after the withdrawal from Bryant's the Kentucky column had ambushed a Long Knife army including Daniel Boone men, at the lucky Blue Licks, and defeated it badly. This was true indeed. The victors were homeward bound laden with scalps and booty.
Bryant's face has been a Sphinx's riddle to our best painters; none have succeeded in rendering its severe simplicity, and clear, self-disciplined expression, until Durand tried it with a success which renders the picture interesting evermore as a tribute of friendship as well as a solution of a difficult problem.
Two years later Bryant's first volume of poems was published, and Cooper's novels had begun to appear; at this time Irving had the field to himself. Firm as his determination was to depend upon writing for support, he was by no means satisfied with what he was able to do.
Bryant's "all-over" kitchen aprons, vigorously stirring the big kettleful of bubbling, odorous syrup, tried her best to put the others at their ease and to make things go, as affairs at the college always did. But it was no use. Everything progressed too smoothly. Nothing burned or boiled over or refused to cook, incidents which always add the spice of adventure to a chafing dish spread.
Suddenly there was a furious and continued discharge of rifles accompanied by such hideous yells and screams and whoops that they terrified not only the women and children of Bryant's Station, but alarmed even the men, accustomed though they were to the methods of Indian warfare.
The Injuns are there by the hundreds. We're seeking help." "We'll do the best we can for you." Sixteen horsemen and thirty men on foot were ordered back with Rangers Bell and Tomlinson. They made a fast march of twenty-three miles, and at two o'clock in the afternoon sighted Bryant's. The firing had ceased. Captain Caldwell had laid another trap.
Bryant's housekeeping, and the "surprise," which was to eke out the entertainment afforded by the sugaring-off proper, had yet to be prepared. The unaccustomed responsibilities of hostess weighed heavily upon Dora Carlson as she traversed the long mile that stretched between the campus and 50 Market Street. It was an odd little party which gathered that night in Mrs. Bryant's dingy kitchen.
This was in 1826, from which time dates Mr. Bryant's connection with American journalism a connection which he never relinquished, and which, while it may have lessened his poetic productiveness, undoubtedly added largely to his influence with his countrymen. The Evening Post had just completed the first quarter of a century of its existence, and stood foremost among the journals of New York.
A strong man shows his strength, at least in my humble judgment," Boone added modestly, "by being able to refrain from useless words, and by not whining over his troubles." "I think you are correct," said Colonel Logan musingly. "Now, then," he continued after a moment, "is it your judgment that the best thing for us to do is to return to Bryant's Station?" "It is."
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