Are you acquainted with Sam Walter
Foss?
I was.
What do you mean by that?
I mean that I couldn’t afford to
keep up his acquaintance.
How does Mr. Foss stand as a poet?
First on one foot and then on
another.
Please explain.
His metrical feet are not mated.
How was it Mr. Foss was able to get
into the Boston Author’s Club?
By a pull.
What sort of pull?
By pulling the wool over the eyes
of the gullible feminine members.
Do you consider Mr. Foss a
competent judge of good poetry?
Not of good poetry, only his own.
Do you consider Mr. Foss a real
poet?
No.
State your reasons.
No real poet would give up a
literary income of $20,000 per year to become a mere public librarian at
$10,000.
State anything you know about Mr.
Foss that will tend to show his incompetency as a judge of good poetry.
I have little to say about this man
who has so far from the ideals set by the Boston Authors’ Club and the library
Associations of Sommerville and Prison Point Charlestown. It has been a secret
for a long time who influenced Mary McLane, that innocent, pure minded young
author of Butte Montana, to leave her home and take up residence in Boston.
I will pass lightly over the fact
that I was sending $50 worth of poems to the Yankee Blade, for which I never
received a penny, at the same time at the same time Mr. Foss was building a new
house in Sommerville.
But in regard to said house, which
at that time was “Side of the Road”, I have something to say.
I have traced the original
manuscript of “The house by the Side of the Road”, as it was first sent to the
editor “Ayers Cherry Pectoral Monthly”, who rewrote it as it appears in its
present form. This poem, as it was originally written, not only shows Mr.
Foss’s poor handiwork as a poet, but also his questionable qualities as a
desirable and honorable citizen. With your permission I will read “House by the
Side of the Road” as originally written:
The House By the
Side of the Swamp
There
are wealthy men pass to and fro
In the peace of their self-content;
There
are souls like stars go tearing by
In their motor cars hell bent.
There
are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran;
But
let me live by the side of the swamp
And do whom e’er I can.
Let
me live in a house by the side of the swamp,
Where the race of men go by –
The
men who are good and the men who are bad,
But none quite so bad as I.
I
would not sit in a plush settee
And smoke a dry rattan;
Let
me live in a house by the side of the swamp
And do the other man.
I
see from my house by the side of the swamp
By the side of the highway of life,
The
men who press with the ardor of hope
The coin they’ve made in the strife.
But
I turn not away from their souls or their tears,
Both parts of my up to date plan;
Let
me live in my house by the side of the swamp
And bunco my fellow man.
Let
me live in my house by the side of the swamp
c.
Where the motor cars race by;
Let
me drop some nails, then gather some coin
By selling them milk and pie.
Then
why should I sit on a plush settee,
And be an “also ran”?
Let
me live in a house by the side of the swamp
And do whomever I can.
May,
6 ‘10
Sam
Walter Foss (June 19, 1858 - February 26, 1911) was an American librarian
and poet whose works included The House by the Side of the Road and The
Coming American.
(He was
also a close friend of Joe Cone)
from: Platform
talk by John Hoad, Leader Emeritus of the Ethical Society of St. Louis
Delivered
on July 11, 1999:
Let me introduce you to a very special
person -- a very special poet. Let me introduce you to Sam Walter Foss. He was
born June 19, 1858, and he died February 26, 1911, at age 52. Most of his
collections of verse were published in the 1890's. So Foss was in a situation
similar to ours, in the transition from one century to another. We think of our
century as a time of massive wars and of technological creation. We face the
new century hoping we can do better next time around.
But the nineteenth century was also a time
of wars around the globe and especially of the American Civil War, which took
the lives of tens of thousands of American men. One of Foss's books was
entitled Songs of war and Peace, published in 1899. However, he too urged
the theme of optimism. The last newspaper column he wrote, while in hospital
awaiting an operation that would fail to save his life, was on
"Optimism." A boisterous faith in humanity characterized his poetry,
even though he had a sharp eye for human foibles and failings.
The first Foss poem I met was a poem read at
the memorial of Clayton Chism, who was a member here at the Ethical Society. It
was his favorite and is the poem by Foss most frequently included in
anthologies of poetry. You can find it in One Hundred and One Famous Poems,
edited by Roy Cook. It is called, "The House by the Side of the
Road." This is how it goes:
THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF
THE ROAD
He was a friend to man, and he lived
In a house by the side of the road -- Homer
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran --
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by --
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban --
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan --
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road --
It's here the race of men go by.
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish -- so am I;
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
He was a friend to man, and he lived
In a house by the side of the road -- Homer
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran --
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by --
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban --
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan --
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road --
It's here the race of men go by.
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish -- so am I;
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
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