Thurber, Ben Bolt and Alice

James Thurber was born this day, December 8, in 1894. I've always loved his little drawings and his writing. His drawings could be something of an acquired taste. He said of them, "My drawings have been described as pre-intentionalist, meaning they were finished before the ideas for them had occurred to me. I shall not argue the point."

I had the thrill of actually touching the keys of his typewriter when we visited his house in Columbus, Ohio, back in 2007. There's an old and ragged post from 2006 (needs re-doing) about Thurber and his astrology, that post is linked in this 2007 post describing the Columbus visit.

Anyway, in a book of Thurber's I have, Fables for Our Time and Famous Poems Illustrated, he illustrates with his quirky line drawings a few pieces of poetry written by others. One of them, Ben Bolt, by American poet and politician Thomas Dunn English (1819-1902). The poem was later set to music by Nelson Kneass (1823-1868) a composer from Philadelphia...a sweet rendition from YouTube is below. The song is often mistakenly titled "Alice Benbolt" - but the poem makes clear that the words are addressed to Ben Bolt, about "sweet Alice" - there's a comma after Alice.

Husband has scanned just three of Thurber's drawings from the book for me, I shall add them here and hope not to be hauled off by the copyright police.

In the poem two elderly guys are reminiscing about people and things long gone:

Ben Bolt

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 church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt,
In a corner obscure and alone,
They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray,
And 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 tumbled in,
And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze
Has followed the olden din.

Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,
At the edge of the pathless wood,
And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,
Which nigh by the doorstep stood?
The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt,
The tree you would seek for in vain;
And where once the lords of the forest waved
Are grass and golden grain.

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
With the master so cruel and grim,
And the shaded nook in 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 schoolmates then
There are only you and I.

There is a change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt,
They have changed from the old to the new;
But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth,
There never was change in you.

Twelve months twenty have past, Ben Bolt,
Since first we were friends-yet I hail
Your presence as a blessing, your friendship a truth,
Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale.

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