pp. 89-98 F.W.  Halsey
American Authors at Home, pp. 3-16 J.L. and J.B.  Gilder
Literary Pilgrimages in New England,
  pp. 89-97 E.M.  Bacon
Thomas Bailey Aldrich (poem) Henry van Dyke

For biographies and criticisms of Thomas B. Aldrich, see also:  Outlook, 86:922, August 24, 1907; 84:735, November 24, 1906; 85:737, March 30, 1907.  Bookman, 24:317, December, 1906 (Portrait); also 25:218 (Portrait).  Current Literature, 42:49, January, 1907 (Portrait).  Chautauquan, 65:168, January, 1912.

PAN IN WALL STREET

A.D. 1867

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN

    Just where the Treasury’s marble front
      Looks over Wall Street’s mingled nations;
    Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont
      To throng for trade and last quotations;
    Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold
      Outrival, in the ears of people,
    The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled
      From Trinity’s undaunted steeple,—­

    Even there I heard a strange, wild strain
      Sound high above the modern clamor,
    Above the cries of greed and gain,
      The curbstone war, the auction’s hammer;
    And swift, on Music’s misty ways,
      It led, from all this strife for millions. 
    To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days
      Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.

    And as it stilled the multitude,
      And yet more joyous rose, and shriller,
    I saw the minstrel where he stood
      At ease against a Doric pillar: 
    One hand a droning organ played,
      The other held a Pan’s-pipe (fashioned
    Like those of old) to lips that made
      The reeds give out that strain impassioned.

    ’Twas Pan himself had wandered here
      A-strolling through this sordid city,
    And piping to the civic ear
      The prelude of some pastoral ditty! 
    The demigod had crossed the seas,—­
      From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr,
    And Syracusan times,—­to these
      Far shores and twenty centuries later.

    A ragged cap was on his head;
      But—­hidden thus—­there was no doubting
    That, all with crispy locks o’erspread,
      His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting;
    His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes,
      Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them,
    And trousers, patched of divers hues,
      Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them.

    He filled the quivering reeds with sound,
      And o’er his mouth their changes shifted,
    And with his goat’s-eyes looked around
      Where’er the passing current drifted;
    And soon, as on Trinacrian hills
      The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him,
    Even now the tradesmen from their tills,
      With clerks and porters, crowded near him.