Class £S_EAi 
 Bookjp£> 
 

 THE 
 
 LIVING AUTHORS OF AMERICA. 
 
THE 
 
 LIVING AUTHORS 
 
 OF 
 
 AMERICA. 
 
 fix fit ffrniiz. 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS POWELL, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE LIVING AUTHORS OF ENGLAND, 
 &c, &c. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 STRINGER AND TOWNSEND, 
 
 222 BROADWAY 
 
 1850. 
 

 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by 
 STRINGER & TOWNSEND, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York 
 
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 S? 
 
 R. E. MOUNT, Jr., 
 
 JOHN ANDREW, Esqrs., 
 
 VOLUME 18 DEDICATED 
 
 &§z gtutljor. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER . 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON . 
 
 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE . 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 
 
 RICHARD HENRY DANA 
 
 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD 
 
 S. MARGARET FULLER 
 
 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND 
 
 JARED SPARKS . 
 
 PAGE 
 9 
 
 49 
 78 
 108 
 135 
 169 
 189 
 222 
 248 
 276 
 287 
 319 
 355 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Accustomed for many years to associate with the most dis- 
 tinguished men in English literature, the conclusions we have 
 formed upon various subjects may rather be considered theirs 
 than our own. 
 
 Youth is so imitative that we often become the unconscious 
 plagiarists of others, even of men whom we secretly despise, 
 and whose decision we should refuse to accept, when the truth 
 is that we ourselves are uttering their sentiments, modified by 
 our own egotism. 
 
 The origin of every thought is so obscure, that it may be 
 doubted whether any man living can claim the individuality of 
 his opinions, however firmly he may exclusively consider them 
 his own. 
 
 American literature has of late years been a favorite subject 
 of discussion with the critical circles of London, and the works 
 of the best authors of the Great Republic are as familiar to the 
 well-informed classes of England as the writings of Words- 
 worth, Coleridge, and their contemporaries, to the enlightened 
 Americans. The alacrity with which an English audience wel- 
 comes an author or a lecturer from the New World is too well 
 
 1 
 
VI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 known to need any proof: it has been acknowledged openly, 
 since his return from the Fatherland, by one of the most illus- 
 trious of republicans, the poet and philosopher Ralph Waldo 
 Emerson. 
 
 We do not seek by this plea to shelter ourselves, or to 
 expect that it will secure to the views set forth in this book any 
 deference not justly due to the opinions themselves ; we merely 
 make this avowal to account for the fact of our having pre- 
 sented these critical judgments to the public. W T ith regard to 
 the manner, we have not aimed at anything beyond a conver- 
 sational style, which has no pretension to challenge comparison 
 with a professed author. 
 
 Independently of this consideration, we may, perhaps, be per- 
 mitted to state that our Poems and Plays have been well 
 received by the English public, and favorably reviewed in the 
 leading journals of London, among others by the New Quarterly, 
 Church of England Quarterly, Athenaeum, &c. We may like- 
 wise refer to the publication of "Chaucer Modernized,' 1 in 
 which undertaking our friends Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, Home, 
 &c, cheerfully allowed us to partake. 
 
 We think it due to the American public to make this state- 
 ment, lest we should .be accused of a certain presumption in 
 thus critically considering the Authors of America. It must, 
 however, be borne in mind, that possibly an Englishman fami- 
 liar with their writings, is capable of arriving at a far juster 
 estimate of then* relative merits, than one of their own country- 
 men who may be swayed by personal or political bias. 
 
 Removed from this disturbing influence, he becomes better 
 
INTRODUCTION. Vll 
 
 qualified to sura up impartially the excellences or defects of 
 an author than one who has been himself mixed up with 
 him. 
 
 The causes which operate on us are so subtle, that it is 
 utterly impossible to come in contact with men without being 
 influenced one way or the other by this personal familiarity : 
 and when to this is added the fact of political or religious agree- 
 ment or disagreement, the author is placed under a medium 
 which either distorts or flatters. 
 
 We are aware it may be urged by some narrow-minded per- 
 sons on the other hand, that the national prejudice which is 
 too often taken for granted, may likewise prove an obstacle in 
 the way of an impartial judgment ; but the advancing libe- 
 rality of the age will render this the opinion of a very small 
 class, and we have only noticed the possibility of such a charge, 
 to show that it has not escaped our attention, and to state that 
 our volume will effectually refute such a suspicion. 
 
 We presume that the right to give an opinion cannot be 
 disputed, seeing that it is assumed and exercised by every 
 newspaper critic in the world. 
 
 We trust to the indulgence of our readers for this egotistical 
 statement, which has been forced from us by sundry parties 
 connected with the American press, who have questioned our 
 ability to form a literary opinion at all : we do not name 
 this out of deference to that class of journalists, but chiefly as 
 an apology for venturing to speak thus ex cathedra. 
 
 With this explanation, we lay our remarks on the most emi- 
 nent authors of this Great Nation before our readers, reiterat- 
 
VU1 INTRODUCTION-. 
 
 irrg that, owing to our having so frequently heard their merits 
 discussed by the most distinguished critics of England, the 
 views expressed in this book may rather be considered the 
 result of their deliberations than our own individual opinion, 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER 
 
 Mr. Cooper, who is considered by many as the head of 
 American literature, was undoubtedly the first whose writings 
 gave it a prominent position in the eyes of Europe, his works 
 having been translated into several of the continental languages. 
 
 Till his time the literature of this vast Republic was rather 
 Colonial than National ; for without intending any invidious 
 comparison, Mr. Irving must be considered more of an English 
 classic than an American author. We are not aware of any 
 passage in his numerous writings which an Englishman might 
 not have thought and written; but in Mr. Cooper we have 
 throughout the most unmistakable evidences of the Republi- 
 can and the American. We are not sure but that he very 
 unnecessarily, if not offensively, forces this upon our atten- 
 tion. We do not make this as a complaint against either of 
 these distinguished writers, but merely point out the fact to the 
 attention of our readers. With this preliminary observation 
 we shall enter upon the consideration of Mr. Cooper's writings. 
 
 Mr. Cooper first secured his hearing with the public, by his 
 historical novel *' the Spy," the scene of which is laid in New 
 York; this, though deficient in that more stirring incident 
 
10 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 which distinguished some of his later works, contains some 
 admirable scenes, and well entitled him to that respectful 
 attention he enjoyed for many years. In this, he singular- 
 ly developes the peculiarities of his nature, which are so 
 strikingly displayed in most of his after productions. It is 
 curious to observe how very much the ingredients of his novels 
 resemble each other ; and how very early he fell into that 
 amplitude of execution which has been so great a drawback on 
 his success. 
 
 Of late years, Mr. Cooper's novels remind us of Mr. Can- 
 ning's illustration of Brougham's incessant advocacy of reform, 
 which the facetious statesman said was ever brought forward as 
 a nostrum for all evils. Was there an epidemic ? try Reform 
 in parliament, cried Mr. Brougham ! — was there an earth- 
 quake? it was all occasioned by the aristocracy, in refusing 
 reform to the people ! Mr. Canning said there was a parallel 
 case in the monomania of a young village painter, of whom he 
 had read when a boy. 
 
 He had succeeded in painting to the perfect satisfaction of 
 Boniface, the sign of a Red Lion, which adorned a village ale- 
 house of that name. The squire of the hamlet, anxious to 
 encourage rising merit, sent for the youthful RafTaelle, and said 
 that he wished him to embellish with pictures a few panels in 
 his great oak dining-room. " Here," he observed, " is a large 
 space over the fire hearth — what do you suggest as the best 
 subject ?" The painter put on a profound air, rubbed his chin 
 in all the agony of cogitation — looked up at the panel — then 
 down on the ground — and then in a very oracular tone of voice 
 said, " My deliberate opinion is, that nothing will so well be- 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 11 
 
 come that space as a very large Red Lion ! what does your 
 worship think ?" The squire seemed somewhat surprised at 
 first, but acquiesced, and at last began to think it a Red 
 Lion very well drawn, and colored, and in an extra rampant 
 attitude, might after all be a very striking object on entering 
 his Hall. It would have been better had that been the family 
 crest, but as that emblem of Heraldic distinction happened to 
 be an owl, and as no ingenuity on the part of the painter could 
 reasonably be expected to make a red Hon altogether like a bird, 
 why it could not be helped. 
 
 This little difficulty thus satisfactorily arranged to both 
 patron and painter, they proceeded to the other end of the 
 room, and there the squire put the same question as to what 
 would be the most becoming to the opposite panel: here, 
 however, there was some difference, as the space was much 
 smaller. The artist now buried himself in the profoundest 
 reverie ; while he stood thus lost in abstraction, the squire said 
 to himself, " Ah ! now we shall have a subject worthy of Sal- 
 vator Rosa, Murillo, and Rubens ! His mind is now ransacking 
 history and romance, for some stirring subject to astonish all 
 my friends : I like the idea, after all, of that Red Lion for the 
 fire hearth : there is something touchingly simple in it — a truly 
 noble idea. The lion is the king of the forest : — a bold idea, 
 and shows the man of original mind." He was himself aroused 
 from his brown study by the voice of the other saying, "I 
 have it at last ; — what say you of another Red Lion — smaller 
 than the other, but made very much redder, in order to com- 
 pensate for the loss of dimensions : it will make an admirable 
 companion picture." The squire now found that he proposed 
 
12 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 to fill up all the spaces with the same animal, and so convert 
 his Hall into a gallery of Red Lions. 
 
 Mr. Cooper has some little spice of our artist's weakness, and 
 is somewhat too fond of Red Indians, diversifying them by 
 occasionally painting some much redder than others. 
 
 There is likewise too great a similarity in his plots ; we have 
 the same scenes over and over again, until at length we seem 
 to have lost our path in a primeval forest of novels, out of 
 which it is almost impossible to read our way. 
 
 The greatest charm about Cooper's novels is the perfect 
 truthfulness of their forest scenery ; there is nothing artificial in 
 a single word — the very trees seem to grow around you : it is 
 not scene painting, it is nature. In many of Bulwer's novels we 
 cannot shake off the feeling that the whole is theatrical : we 
 acknowledge the picture, but we see it by the light of the foot- 
 lamps. It is very good, certainly, but it is not life. We cannot 
 do better than illustrate this by an anecdote we once heard of 
 a very acute critic. A party of friends one evening were discuss- 
 ing the acting of the elder Kean and his son ; all agreed in 
 praising the felicity with which the son imitated the father : 
 one went so far as to declare he saw little difference between 
 them. This called up our critic, who said he would endeavor 
 to describe the difference. " Let us select," said he, " the cele- 
 brated tent scene of Richard the Third : it is, of all others, that 
 in which the younger is the most successful in imitating the 
 elder one. When I saw old Edmund lying on the couch, writh- 
 ing as it were beneath all the horrors of a guilty conscience, 
 his restless and disturbed action told me more than words : 
 when, finally, under the paroxysm of the terrible dream, he 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 13 
 
 starts up, and staggers to the very brink of the orchestra, my 
 attention was riveted on the terrible picture before me — that 
 was nature : I saw the remorseful conscience-stung tyrant, and 
 him alone. But in the case of his son 'twas very different ; 
 true, he did it physically precisely as his father had done : 
 nothing pantomimic was omitted, but the soul was wanting, 
 and as he came reeling towards the audience, I said to myself, 
 By heaven he will cut his knees upon the footlights." Thus 
 differ Bulwer and Cooper. 
 
 • With regard to his Indians, we have heard some Ameri- 
 cans declare that they are not natural, but, as they termed 
 them, Mr. Cooper's Indians : we can only speak as they im- 
 pressed us. It must always be borne in mind that a novelist 
 labors under a disadvantage when he is drawing human 
 nature, which he does not when he is painting nature's scenery ; 
 as a matter of necessity, he must exaggerate, or, as they term it, 
 idealize the living characters in his works. But it is not so Avith 
 the scene he chooses to describe ; he may be as literal as he 
 pleases in the one case — then he is pronounced graphic, and 
 wonderfully true to nature; but if he portrays with equal 
 fidelity the beings he brings forth upon his canvas, he is con- 
 demned as tame and common-place. It thus requires a double 
 power to produce a successful romance ; and it is in this two- 
 fold capacity that we consider Mr. Cooper so admirable a writer. 
 Even in the very worst of his novels, there are glimpses of 
 nature so exquisitely painted as to justify the highest praise it 
 is possible to bestow. 
 
 It is just probable that the very success of this description of 
 
 writing has led Mr. Cooper to persevere in a course which has 
 
 1* 
 
14 
 
 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 exposed him to the charge of being considered a writer of 
 limited range. 
 
 That the author of the " Pilot " succeeds best in forest scenes, 
 and with Indians as actors, is undoubtedly true ; but this applies 
 in a certain sense to every distinguished author. That Mr. 
 Cooper has narrowed his range by a too engrossing attention 
 to a particular species of human life, is another question, which 
 it is vain here to discuss. The predisposition of a writer for a 
 particular kind of work is not always a proof that it is his forte 
 — it may be, as Leigh Hunt once facetiously observed, his 
 piano ; inclination is not a good test of genius. It is too fre- 
 quently the offspring of indolence and facility of execution. 
 It is the common trick of humanity to avoid the toilsome and 
 rugged road. All prefer the flowery path : what is difficult, 
 becomes irksome : till, in time, the efforts become more and 
 more rare, until at length they are altogether discontinued. 
 
 From this habit results the sameness of so many writers. 
 They first, out of the impulse and love of adventure so insepa- 
 rably connected with youth, force a way for themselves through 
 the tangled thicket of those vague desires which invariably 
 predicate the poetical mind. Proud of the achievement this path 
 is retrod, and when the charm of novelty has died away, the 
 momentum which formerly carried the young spirit on is 
 lessened, and the beaten path is of course preferred to the 
 labor of making another track in a new direction. 
 
 Mr. Cooper's novels of Mercedes of Castile and the Bravo 
 of Venice, are evidences that he has tried other parts, but it by 
 no means follows, because he has not succeeded equally well in 
 these new phases, that he could not have done so. His Indian 
 
JAMES FENIM0RE COOPER. 15 
 
 Romances are numerous ; his foreign ones are isolated efforts. 
 He should have cultivated this vein, and worked out more of the 
 material, and not abandoned the field at the first defeat. But it 
 appears that he was laboring under the impression that his 
 genius lay the other way ; and, consequently, Mr. Cooper tired 
 his public somewhat, by writing Backwood novels too pertina- 
 ciously. 
 
 He should also have been guided more by the experience of 
 Sir Walter Scott than by his own Impulse, or what is worse, 
 Self-will. For, while we admit that the genius of the British 
 Novelist walks more steadily and naturally on the Heaths and 
 Moors of Scotland, and lives evidently more at ease with the 
 characters of his native land, he nevertheless excels every other 
 writer of Romance in general subjects likewise ; with the sole 
 exception of the Supernatural, where Mrs. Radcliffe and Monk 
 Lewis are unapproached. Scott is indisputably the most suc- 
 cessful of the writers of fiction ; but even he too frequently 
 allows the facility with which he wrote dialogues in genuine 
 Scotch to seduce him into tedious conversations, which weaken 
 very materially the effect of his best scenes, by wearying the 
 reader before the emphatic moment has arrived. It is very 
 unartistic to jade the attention, as it destroys the keenness of 
 appreciation when it is most required to heighten the effect of 
 a denouement. 
 
 We have heard some critics lay this charge to the " three 
 volume system," which, they maintain, compels them to adopt 
 this superfluous writing to fill up the space ; but we do not 
 think this at all a valid reason. A careless or incompetent 
 dramatist might charge the tediousness or irrelevant nature of 
 
16 
 
 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER, 
 
 his writing upon the established custom of a Play having Five 
 Acts. Every Romance and every Drama has a natural length, 
 and the true artist never need write a superfluous word; 
 symmetry is the truest beauty, and, like a circle, is complete in 
 itself without any reference to size ; so has a work of art, 
 whether in poetry, philosophy, or science, a relative propriety 
 individual to itself. The child is as perfect in its way as the 
 Giant, and it would be absurd for either to deny to the other 
 the possession of beauty, simply on account of difference of 
 stature. The real dramatist will so apportion the incidents that 
 the critical eye will at once recognise their affinity to each 
 other, and the necessity for the existence of each, with as much 
 logical readiness as the eye passes over the human frame, 
 and at once detects a deficiency or superfluity of the limbs 
 composing it. 
 
 Some authors seem to consider that if they have a great or 
 striking catastrophe, any amount of feeble or discursive matter 
 will be tolerated ; but the absurdity of this is evident. What 
 would be said of a sculptor, who, conscious of the workmanship 
 of the face of his statue, considered the drapery, or the rest of 
 the figure, unworthy of his elaboration ! A \erj slight defect 
 spoils the general effect, and the masses are more moved by the 
 tout-ensemble than by the surprising finish of any individual 
 part. 
 
 The coherency of a book is, in short, its life as well as its 
 beauty. However finely worked out some parts of Mr. Cooper's 
 " Bravo " may be, the improbability of the plot is too glaring 
 to allow it a permanent existence. It opens well, the atten- 
 tion is aroused, and when we come to the death of the old 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 1Y 
 
 fisherman, we are fully convinced the romance is of first-rate 
 pretensions ; but it dwindles as it progresses into a mere impro- 
 bability, which irritates the more in proportion to the force and 
 beauty of the opening scenes. Still, in these attempts, even a 
 failure is more glorious than the successful achievement of count- 
 less sketches, which have nothing to recommend them beyond the 
 carefulness of their finish ; it is a very safe and a very easy 
 way to found a reputation upon the fidelity of minute descrip- 
 tion. What powers of mind are required to describe an elabo- 
 rate duck, or a fat man getting into a coach, or the thousand 
 and one other inanities in which some writers are considered so 
 perfectly classical ? What heart is roused by all this laborious 
 trilling? Literature degenerates into a foible, and becomes a 
 frivolous plaything, and not a great organ of instruction. No 
 amount of personal exaggeration or flattery can ever elevate the 
 most successful writer of this description into anything beyond 
 a fifth-rate writer. 
 
 Mr. Cooper's wilfulness, which is apparent only by implication 
 in his works of fiction, is very palpably developed in his travels. 
 Here he places himself before the public as his own caricaturist, 
 and insists upon his own condemnation by his readers. Still, even 
 in this adverse position, the independence of his nature comes 
 out nobly, and his republican steadiness contrasts very strongly 
 with the placid amenities of Mr. Irving. Born ourselves under 
 monarchical institutions, our national and natural prejudices 
 are disposed to a favorable reception of any praise a foreigner 
 — more especially a republican — may feel inclined to bestow 
 upon England ; but we must admit, that the smiling benignity 
 with which Mr. Irving surveys every evidence of aristocratical 
 
18 JAMES FENIM0RE COOPER. 
 
 power, gives us but a very poor opiniou of either his sincerity 
 or his republican feelings. He describes, with evident delight, 
 the royal state of the English nobility ; he has no eye to see 
 the foundation of wrong and oppression on which that magnifi- 
 cent superstructure is reared. The baronial castles of the aris- 
 tocracy of England have been reared by crimes and cruelties 
 as revolting to humanity as the pyramid of Cheops, and we 
 feel bound to add, that they are maintained in the same man- 
 ner. We will not be so invidious as to go through Mr. Irving's 
 writings, and collect in one spot all the fulsome flatteries on 
 that exclusive class which he has so plentifully bestowed ; we 
 merely appeal to the reader's impression, and may state, as a 
 confirmation of the truth of our remarks, that this very pecu- 
 liarity has been converted by many into a merit, and claimed as 
 an evidence of this distinguished author's freedom from national 
 prejudice, and willingness to do justice to all. As we shall enter 
 more minutely into this subject when we come to treat of Mr. 
 Irving under his proper head, we drop it for the present, remark- 
 ing that we have here incidentally mentioned it as a contrast to 
 the tone of Mr. Cooper's mind ; and while one party claims free- 
 dom from nationality as a merit, we merely plead in behalf of 
 Mr. Cooper his republican tendencies, as a possible extenuation 
 in the eyes of the Americans. 
 
 This individuality has pursued our author through his life, 
 and impelled him to some unpopular steps — among others, to 
 his prosecution of the Press. We allow that it is a grievous 
 trial of patience to be abused in the papers and held up to 
 public scorn or censure, but the real parties to blame are not so 
 much the journalists as their readers. 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 19 
 
 It is the public who is to blame ; and the man who attacks 
 the press might as well run his head against a wall, or spring 
 from Niagara. The true wisdom is not to heed it ; nothing 
 prolongs the barking of a cur at your heels so much as turning 
 round to kick it, or to drive it away. Walk on unmoved, the 
 dog will not bite, and the friends who are influenced by the 
 barking are best got rid of, and belong to that class which 
 Carlyle pronounces " the sham respectability of the world, but 
 the real and true blackguards." The " gigmanity " of society 
 is more ludicrous than potential ; great allowance should be 
 made for the equivocal position of most of the prudes and cen- 
 sors of mankind. As weak wines make good vinegar, so do 
 reformed wantons and quondam bankrupts become naturally 
 the guardians of public morals, and the retailers of slander. 
 
 Mr. Cooper reaped the usual fruits of assaulting so many- 
 headed a monster as the Press ; and it is said by those who know 
 him best, that few things have done so much to sour his tem- 
 per as this crusade. Cervantes must have had a similar adven- 
 ture in his mind when he made Don Quixote attack the wind- 
 mills. It has always appeared to us a capital illustration of a 
 battle with the Newspapers. 
 
 While, however, we deprecate the commission of so great a 
 folly as a legal prosecution, we think we have a perfect right to 
 turn round and criticise the critics ; singular enough, they seem 
 to consider this as a wonderful impertinence, and to resent it 
 with additional bitterness. 
 
 We do not, however, intend here to enter into an elaborate 
 essay upon the Despotism of the Press ; we merely intend to 
 offer a passing remark, as to the evil tendencies of the unli- 
 
20 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 censed abuse now so prevalent with the writers of the public 
 Journals. 
 
 We have heard Mr. Wordsworth maintain, that the only 
 plan to preserve the author's mind and morals in a pure, 
 healthy state, was to adopt the rule he had unflinchingly ob- 
 served through life, — never to read any review of himself, 
 either of praise or censure, whatever might be the temptation. 
 He went on to prove, that in time we became callous to public 
 opinion, and consequently one great guard on the virtue of 
 mankind was lost ; if we make a point of reading criticisms, 
 we feel at first stung into indignation, vindictive feelings are 
 naturally aroused, our own peace of mind is wounded, and 
 we either become the sport of every fool or knave who writes 
 for the journals of the day, or grow callous to public 
 ojDmion. We refer to that part of our volume which treats of 
 this subject, for a fuller exposition of the present vicious system 
 of Journalism. The comic part of this enormous abuse is ad- 
 mirably exposed by Dickens in " Pickwick," in his history of 
 the war between the rival editors of Eatanswill. 
 
 The chief defect in Mr. Cooper's novels is the want of hu- 
 mor ; we mean this in its broad Shakspearian sense, admitting 
 that there is a racy, quiet shrewdness in many of the remarks 
 of Natty Bumppo, which supplies the place. 
 
 The character of that simrjle-minded hunter is certainly the 
 greatest effort of its author ; and the Leather-Stocking Ro- 
 mances will undoubtedly remain permanently a part of the 
 national literature. 
 
 Like Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Cooper has written too much, 
 and has published too fast. The world is very quickwitted, and 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 21 
 
 not slow to proclaim when an author grows tedious ; although 
 the unwitting scribe, like the archbishop in Gil Bias, takes it 
 very unkindly should the dreadful fact be even hinted. 
 
 While admitting that the Leather-Stocking Romances are 
 Mr. Cooper's greatest efforts, we must object as critics to 
 the elaboration of his making one man the hero of five distinct 
 works of fiction, although we feel sure we have negatived 
 the criticism as readers. There is something to be sure in 
 habit, which may perhaps make us like what at first was only 
 endured ; but our feeling for Nathaniel Bumppo becomes in time 
 an affection. This must necessarily imply a power which be- 
 longs only to genius ; for the reiteration of an idea or a presence 
 by a common-place writer, inevitably leads to disgust. A very 
 small reflection will convince us of this fact. 
 
 Another proof of the hazard an author runs in reviving the 
 character of any former work, is found in the mfrequency of its 
 occurrence. Every writer has a certain instinct which unmis- 
 takably counsels, however vaguely, the true path ; and we 
 want no surer evidence of lack of genius — or in other words, 
 the power to create that which appeals to the greater number 
 of human minds — than the repeated failure of certain volu- 
 minous writers ; the only exception to be made in this rule is 
 with a few authors whose idiosyncrasy is superior to their 
 genius, as in the case of Donne, Browning, and in a lesser de- 
 gree of Carlyle and Emerson. 
 
 What mannerism is in style, idiosyncrasy is in thought ; and 
 betrays to the world a deficiency in that harmony of intellectual 
 endowments which constitute true genius, just as regularity of 
 feature is essential to a perfect face. This comparison admits of 
 
22 JAMES FENIM0RE COOPER. 
 
 a full development, and may make our idea clearer to the 
 general reader than a technical analysis. We all know how fre- 
 quently the most perfect classicality of feature exists without 
 beauty : whereas in many irregular faces, there is as often 
 found so charming an expression, that it is difficult to conceive 
 any countenance more lovely. In like manner, an apparent 
 union of many qualities may exist without producing the great 
 poet or novelist ; on the other hand, we sometimes observe a 
 writer who wilfully avoids the true path, or else clouds over his 
 course by a peculiarity artificially created. Now we think this 
 applies in a considerable degree to Mr. Cooper, who has weak- 
 ened his powers by narrowing his original impulses. 
 
 The works of a great mind should radiate from his inmost 
 soul as from a eentre whose circumference is lost in metaphy- 
 sical truth, so lofty as to appear subtilized. In this case, the 
 lowest intellect, as well as the highest, is carried to the full 
 extent of its capacity of enjoyment or thought, and still the 
 author is not exhausted. It is this which stamps Shakspeare 
 as indisputably the first of Poets — the peasant and the philoso- 
 pher are alike instructed and elevated. Every man, woman, and 
 child, starts from one common point, viz. the heart. This is 
 the centre of Shakspeare's nature ; the extent of his kingdom 
 is the Imagination. The inference is a logical deduction, that 
 every reader of inferior mind, in proportion as he masters his 
 author, becomes elevated into a superior nature. It is this 
 peculiarity of the mind that always makes the student of One 
 Booh a dangerous antagonist : like the man who has devoted 
 his attention to one weapon, he becomes invincible in that de- 
 partment. Imitation is so woven in all our natures, even in 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 23 
 
 that of the most original genius, that no man can devote much 
 attention to a particular author without being modified by that 
 preference. Browning's admiration of Alfieri and Donne has 
 condensed his thoughts and cramped his style ; Carlyle suffers 
 also from his excessive partiality for Richter. Our readers must 
 not think these remarks, however dull, altogether misplaced; 
 they will enable him the more clearly to judge why the writ- 
 ings of Cooper, admirable as they are, are not more exten- 
 sively popular with his countrymen. They are written more for 
 an English audience than for an American. The Anglo-Saxons 
 on the other side the Atlantic have a thousand years upon their 
 brow, and they have become artificialized just to that extent, 
 which renders the wild scenes of nature so vividly brought be- 
 fore them by Cooper, refreshing to the highest degree of pleas- 
 ure ; it is appealing to the instinct of contrast. 
 
 Gray beautifully illustrates this in one of his poetical frag- 
 ments, when he says : 
 
 " So the wretch that long was tost 
 On the thorny bed of Pain, 
 At length regains his vigor lost, 
 He lives — he breathes again : 
 The humblest flow'ret of the vale : 
 The lowest note that swells the gale ; 
 The common earth — the air — the skies, 
 To him are opening Paradise." 
 
 The true secret of delight lies in the antagonism of Human 
 Nature. The artificial creates a love for the natural, its oppo- 
 site ; just as men love women — strength loves fragility — fragility 
 
24 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 yearns for strength — the low adores the lofty ; the idea of subli- 
 mity is a contrast ! it requires humility to feel awe. Grandeur 
 is the result of a physical or intellectual contradiction ; equals 
 can never admire equals — a sympathy is destruction to subli- 
 mity ; these are not paradoxes, but facts ; and facts based upon 
 human observations. The smaller the man, the greater the 
 mountain — and it arises from the egotism of our common 
 nature ; every man, however small or however great, makes 
 himself the standard of excellence, and we affirm, in all reve- 
 rence, that if we look deeply and unshrinkingly into our own 
 souls, we shall be more and more convinced of the fact, that 
 every man's idea of God is founded upon himself, magnified to 
 the utmost extent of that particular man's arithmetical or intel- 
 lectual vision. In proportion to the spectrum will be the figure 
 thrown upon the canvas ; in a manner, God is the spectre of 
 the Bracken, depending upon various accidents of the elements. 
 It was a favorite remark of Coleridge, that if any man would 
 faithfully and clearly write down his definition of the Supreme 
 Being, he would unhesitatingty give him his own character. He 
 illustrated this position with many instances of men, whose 
 religious opinions we well knew, and in every instance he pre- 
 sented us with a key to the man's whole character. 
 
 This undeviating coherency is forcibly exemplified in many 
 authors, and especially in that of " the Spy." 
 ' Mark, too, how wonderfully the pride and restlessness of the 
 man are shown in the creations of his fancy. The family likeness 
 is too strong to admit of a doubt. As we have remarked before, 
 this does not invariably ignore the existence of genius, it 
 
JAMES FENIM0RE COOPER. 25 
 
 merely throws it out of its universality : we use this word as 
 in contrast to the term Idiosyncratic. 
 
 We have sometimes heard Cooper called a prose Wordsworth 
 of the Woods : and in a certain sense it is true — for we recognise 
 in three fourths of his stories that pervading impress of forest 
 scenery which is his peculiar charm. 
 
 This, doubtless, is the reason why so many complain of the 
 monotony of these writers. The success of Sir Walter Scott 
 lies in his variety ; here Cooper fails. This tendency to one tune 
 is a mistake, so far as the public is concerned. To be popular, 
 an author must be various ; truly a difficult problem to solve, 
 since there is no guide who can find the trail. This is one of 
 those points in which experience is fatal as to detail, benefiting 
 only by the broad bold fact, that it cannot invent an origi- 
 nality ; like Poets, they must be born, not made. 
 
 In " the Pilot " we observe the nationality of the author in 
 an undue predominance : indeed this remark applies to all he 
 has published, where the two countries come into conflict. 
 
 The character of Long Tom Coffin, admirable as it is, seems 
 more English than American ; it is founded more on Dibdin's 
 Songs than the transatlantic Sailor. This was turned to good 
 account by some English Playwright when the novel first 
 appeared ; for he reversed the action, and making Tom Coffin an 
 English Seaman, and Boroughcliffe an American Volunteer, 
 coolly transferred the scene of action to the shores of the New 
 World. With this slight alteration, the British public highly 
 enjoyed the Drama. 
 
 We well remember one night when Cooke as Long Tom, and 
 Reeve as Boroughcliffe, were convulsing the audience, that some 
 
26 JAMES FENIM0RE COOPER. 
 
 Americans gave vent to their indignation, and loudly protested 
 against Reeve's outrageous caricature ; after a few involuntary 
 ebullitions their patriotism cooled, and they endured the rest 
 with praiseworthy and smiling composure. 
 
 There are so many stirring scenes in this novel that it carries 
 the reader through without much effort ; hut, after the excite- 
 ment of the first perusal is over, we cannot help noticing the 
 serious defects that stare us in the face. There is a needless 
 obscurity in the character of Paul Jones, from whom the novel 
 derives its name ; it seems to us that any man conversant with 
 the coasting trade would have done, and that a fine character 
 has been brought to do porter's work. His skill in conducting 
 the vessel out of its difficulties, and his knowledge of the shoals 
 and the rocks, are certainly truly marvellous, reminding us some- 
 what of the Irish Pilot, who, boarding a ship in the mouth of 
 a harbor, was asked by the Captain if he was sure he knew 
 all the rocks ? 
 
 " Oh ! to be sure I do," said Paddy. " I know every rock 
 about ; that's a fact." 
 
 " You are the very man for me," exclaimed the delighted 
 captain, and forthwith engaged him to pilot the ship to 
 her moorings. Soon after, to his indignation and dismay, the 
 vessel went bump upon a rock, and remained fast. He cried 
 out in his wrath — 
 
 " Why, you lying villain, you said you knew every rock in 
 the harbor !" 
 
 " To be sure I do," coolly replied the pilot, " and this is one of 
 them /" 
 
 Paul Jones, the bold-brave Admiral, ought, we consider, not 
 •to have been introduced by the author, if he could find nothing 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 27 
 
 better for him to do than to conduct the ship out of sound- 
 ings. Probably this artistic error arose from that same over- 
 weening national prejudice, which is so great a defect in Mr. 
 Cooper's novels. Had he done justice to the capabilities and 
 career of Paul Jones, he would of necessity have overshadowed 
 the American actors, and consequently the hero would have been 
 a Scotchman. A great author should never suffer the smaller 
 to control the greater ; and, in a work of art, truth should reign, 
 and not prejudice. Pursuing this plan, History itself might be 
 altered to suit national feeling. A certain patriotic leaning is 
 perhaps unavoidable, and we can readily sympathize with its 
 exhibition ; but it should never distort, much less destroy the 
 truth. 
 
 We shall not enter into the improbabilities of the plot, but 
 endeavor to illustrate Mr. Cooper's genius by bringing before 
 the reader the scene where the old sailor perishes suicidally 
 in the vessel. It is so powerfully drawn — so vividly brought 
 before us — that we do not stop to inquire how far it is cor- 
 rect in point of character. The great difference between a pas- 
 sion and a monomania lies in the pursuit of the object, and the 
 overvaluing of it. In one sense every passion may be termed a 
 monomania, but, though the line of demarcation varies in dif- 
 ferent individuals, it is, nevertheless, very plainly defined. 
 
 A monomania is a passion carried to an unnatural extent. 
 Love is natural, but when this passion for an object carries us 
 beyond reason it becomes a monomania. Judged by this rule, 
 Long Tom Coffin is a monomaniac, for no rational being would 
 destroy himself because a favorite ship was sinking. Still with 
 even this serious drawback, the genius of a fine writer is visible 
 throughout the following extract. 
 
28 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 " Dillon and the cockswain were now the sole occupants of their 
 dreadful station. The former stood, in a kind of stupid despair, a 
 witness of the scene we have related ; but as his curdled blood 
 began again to flow more warmly through his heart, he crept close 
 to the side of Tom, with that sort of selfish feeling that makes 
 even hopeless misery more tolerable, when endured in participation 
 with another. 
 
 " ' When the tide falls,' he said in a voice that betrayed the agony 
 of fear, though his words expressed the renewal of hope, ' we 
 shall be able to walk to land.' 
 
 " ' There was One, and only One, to whose feet the waters were 
 the same as a dry deck,' returned the cockswain ; ' and none but 
 such as have his power will ever be able to walk from these rocks 
 to the sands.' The old seaman paused, and turning his eyes, which 
 exhibited a mingled expression of disgust and compassion, on his 
 companion, he added, with reverence, — ' Had you thought more of 
 him in fair weather, your case would be less to be pitied in this 
 tempest.' 
 
 " ' Do you still think there is much danger V asked Dillon. 
 
 " ' To them that have reason to fear death. Listen ! do you hear 
 that hollow noise beneath ye V 
 
 " ' 'Tis the wind, driving by the vessel !' 
 
 " ' 'Tis the poor thing herself,' said the affected cockswain, ' giving 
 her last groans. The water is breaking up her decks, and in a few 
 minutes more the handsomest model that ever cut a wave will be 
 like the chips that fell from her timbers in framing !' 
 
 « * Why, then, did you remain here V cried Dillon, wildly. 
 
 " * To die in my coffin, if it should be the will of God,' returned 
 Tom. ' These waves, to me, are what the land is to you ; I was 
 born on them, and I have always meant that they should be my 
 grave.' 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 29 
 
 " ' But I — I,' shrieked Dillon, « I am not ready to die ! — I cannot 
 die ! — I will not die !' 
 
 " ' Poor wretch !' muttered his companion ; * you must go, like the 
 rest of us ; when the death-watch is called, none can skulk from 
 the muster.' 
 
 " ' I can swim,' Dillon continued, rushing, with frantic eagerness, 
 to the side of the wreck. ' Is there no billet of wood, no rope, 
 that I can take with me V 
 
 " ' None ; everything has been cut away or carried off by the sea. 
 If ye are about to strive for your life, take with ye a stout heart 
 and a clean conscience, and trust the rest to God !' 
 
 " ' God !' echoed Dillon in the madness of his phrensy ; ' I know 
 no God ! there is no God that knows me !' 
 
 " ' Peace !' said the deep tones of the cockswain, in a voice that 
 seemed to speak in the elements ; ' blasphemer, peace !' 
 
 The heavy groaning, produced by the water in the timbers of 
 the Ariel, at that moment added its impulse to the raging feelings 
 of Dillon, and he cast himself headlong into the sea. 
 
 * * * * ****** 
 
 " ' Sheer to port, and clear the under-tow ! sheer to the south- 
 ward !' 
 
 Dillon heard the sounds, but his faculties were too much 
 obscured by terror to distinguish their object ; he, however, blindly 
 yielded to the call, and gradually changed his direction, until his 
 face was once more turned towards the vessel. The current swept 
 him diagonally by the rocks, and he was forced into an eddy, where 
 he had nothing to contend against but the waves, whose violence 
 was much broken by the wreck. In this state he continued still to 
 struggle, but with a force that was too much weakened to over- 
 come the resistance he met. Tom looked around him for a rope, 
 but all had gone over with the spars, or been swept away by the 
 waves. At this moment of disappointment his eyes met those of 
 
 2 
 
30 JAMES FESIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the desperate Dillon. Calm, and inured to horrors, as was the 
 veteran seaman, he involuntarily passed his hand before his brow, 
 to exclude the look of despair he encountered; and when, a 
 moment afterwards, he removed the rigid member, he beheld the 
 sinking form of the victim, as it gradually settled in the ocean, still 
 struggling, with regular, but impotent strokes of the arms and feet, 
 to gain the wreck, and to preserve an existence that had been so 
 much abused in its hour of allotted probation. 
 
 " ' He will soon know his God, and learn that his God knows 
 him !' murmured the cockswain to himself. As he yet spoke, the 
 wreck of the Ariel yielded to an overwhelming sea, and, after a 
 universal shudder, her timbers and planks gave way, and were 
 swept towards the cliffs, bearing the body of the simple-hearted 
 cockswain among the ruins." 
 
 We have before alluded to " the Bravo," where this indomi- 
 table wilfulness has perilled the success of the work in ques- 
 tion. There is a fine shadow thrown over the following scene, 
 which reminds us of some of the effects produced by the Old 
 Masters. Indeed, authors and painters are fellow artists; one 
 works with words, the other with colors ; one reaches nature 
 through the eye, the other through the ear. The advantage, 
 however, lies with the poet, as his descriptions rouse the eye 
 to an activity as well as the other senses ; for to a reader of the 
 commonest imagination, we doubt if every vivid description 
 does not bring palpably before his vision the scene related. 
 
 As a piece of this fine word painting we quote the following. 
 
 " The near approach of the strange gondola now attracted the 
 whole attention of the old man. It came swiftly towards him, 
 
JAMES FESTIMORE COOPER. 31 
 
 impelled by six strong oars, and his eye turned feverishly in the 
 direction of the fugitive. Jacopo, with a readiness that necessity 
 and long practice rendered nearly instinctive, had taken a direction 
 Which blended his wake in a line with one of those bright streaks 
 that the moon drew on the water, and which, by dazzling the eye, 
 effectually concealed the objects within its width. When the 
 fisherman saw that the Bravo had disappeared, he smiled and 
 seemed at ease. 
 
 " ' Aye, let them come here,' he said ; ' it will give Jacopo more 
 time. I doubt not the poor fellow hath struck a blow since quit- 
 ting the palace that the council will not forgive ! The sight of 
 gold hath been too strong, and he hath offended those who have 
 so long borne with him. God forgive me, that T have had com- 
 munion with such a man ! but when the heart is heavy, the pity of 
 even a dog will warm our feelings. Few care for me now, or the 
 friendship of such as he could never have been welcome.' 
 
 " Antonio ceased, for the gondola of the state came with a rush- 
 ing noise to the side of his own boat, where it was suddenly 
 stopped by a backward sweep of the oars. The water was still in 
 ebullition, when a form passing into the gondola of the fisherman, 
 the larger boat shot away again to the distance of a few hundred 
 feet, and remained at rest. 
 
 " Antonio witnessed this movement in silent curiosity ; but when 
 he saw the gondoliers of the state lying on their oars, he glanced 
 his eye again furtively in the direction of Jacopo, saw that all was 
 safe, and faced his companion with confidence. The brightness of 
 the moon enabled him to distinguish the dress and aspect of a 
 bare-foot Carmelite. The latter seemed more confounded than his 
 companion, by the rapidity of the movement, and the novelty of his 
 situation. Notwithstanding his confusion, however, an evident 
 look of wonder crossed his mortified features when he first beheld 
 the humbled condition, the thin and whitened locks, and the gene- 
 
32 JAMES EENIMOitE COOPER. 
 
 ral air and bearing of the old man with whom he now found 
 himself. 
 
 " ' Who art thou V escaped him, in the impulse of surprise. 
 
 " « Antonio of the Lagunes f A fisherman that owes much to Si 
 Anthony, for favors little deserved.' 
 
 " ' And why hath one like thee fallen "beneath the senate's dis- 
 pleasure V 
 
 " ' I am honest and ready to do justice to others. If that offend 
 the great, they are men more to be pitied than envied.' 
 
 " ' The convicted are always more disposed to believe themselves 
 unfortunate than guilty. The error is fatal, and it should be 
 eradicated from the mind, lest it lead to death.' 
 
 " ' Go tell this to the patricians. They have need of plain coun- 
 sel, and a warning from the church.' 
 
 " ' My son, there is a pride and anger, and perverse heart in thy 
 replies.' 
 
 ********** 
 
 " ' Father,' he said, when a long and earnest look was ended, 
 'there can be little harm in speaking truth to one of thy holy 
 office. They have told thee there was a criminal here in the 
 Lagunes, who hath provoked the anger of St. Mark V 
 
 ********** 
 
 " ' Thou speakest of another ! — thou art not then the criminal 
 they seek V 
 
 "'lama sinner, like all born of woman, reverend Carmelite, but 
 my hand hath never held any other weapon than the good sword 
 with which I struck the infidel. There was one lately here, that I 
 grieve to add, cannot say this !' 
 
 " ' And he is gone V 
 * * * * ****** 
 
 " The Carmelite, who had arisen, instantly reseated himself, like 
 one actuated by a strong impulse. 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 33 
 
 " ' I thought he had already been far beyond pursuit,' he muttered, 
 unconsciously apologizing for his apparent haste. 
 
 " ' He is over bold, and I fear he will row back to the - canals, in 
 which case you might meet nearer to the city — or there may be 
 more gondolas of the state out — in short, father, thou wilt be more 
 certain to escape hearing the confession of a Bravo, by listening to 
 that of a fisherman, who has long wanted an occasion to acknow- 
 ledge his sins.' 
 
 " Men who ardently wish the same result, require few words to 
 understand each other. The Carmelite took, intuitively, the mean- 
 ing of his companion, and throwing back his cowl, a movement 
 that exposed the countenance of Father Anselmo, he prepared to 
 listen to the confession of the old man. 
 
 " ' Thou art a Christian, and one of thy years hath not to learn 
 the state of mind that becometh a penitent,' said the monk, when 
 each was ready. 
 
 "'lama sinner, father ; give me counsel and absolution, that I 
 may have hope.' 
 
 " ' Thy will be done — thy prayer is heard— approach and kneel.' 
 " Antonio, who had fastened his line to his seat, and disposed of 
 his net with habitual care, now crossed himself devoutly, and took 
 his station before the Carmelite. His acknowledgments of error 
 then began. Much mental misery clothed the language and ideas 
 of the fisherman with a dignity that his auditor had not been 
 accustomed to find in men of his class. A spirit so long chastened 
 by suffering had become elevated and noble. He related his hopes 
 for the boy, the manner in which they had been blasted by the 
 unjust and selfish policy of the state, his different efforts to 
 procure the release of his grandson, and his bold expedients at the 
 regatta, and the fancied nuptials with the Adriatic. When he had 
 thus prepared the Carmelite to understand the origin of his sinful 
 passions, which it was now his duty to expose, he spoke of those 
 
34 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 passions themselves, and of their influence on a mind that was 
 ordinarily at peace with mankind. The tale was told simply and 
 without reserve, but in a manner to inspire respect, and to awaken 
 powerful sympathy in him who heard it. 
 
 " ' And these feelings thou didst indulge against the honored and 
 powerful of Venice !' demanded the monk, affecting a severity he 
 could not feel. 
 
 " ' Before my God do I confess the sin ! In bitterness of heart 
 I cursed them ; for to me they seemed men without feeling 
 for the poor, and heartless as the marble of their own palaces.' 
 
 " ' Thou knowest that to be forgiven thou must forgive. Dost 
 thou, at peace with all of earth, forget this wrong, and canst thou, 
 in charity with thy fellows, pray to Him who died for the race, in 
 behalf of those who have injured thee V 
 
 " Antonio bowed his head on his naked breast, and he seemed to 
 commune with his soul. 
 
 " ' Father,' he said, in a rebuked tone, ' I hope I do.' 
 
 " ' Thou must not trifle with thyself to thine own perdition. 
 There is an eye in yon vault above us which pervades space, and 
 which looks into the inmost secrets of the heart. Canst thou par- 
 don the error of the patricians, in a contrite spirit for thine own 
 sins V 
 
 " ' Holy Maria, pray for them, as I now ask mercy in their behalf! 
 Father, they are forgiven.' 
 
 " ' Amen !' 
 
 " The Carmelite arose and stood over the kneeling Antonio, 
 with the whole of his benevolent countenance illuminated by the 
 moon. Stretching his arms towards the stars, he pronounced the 
 absolution in a voice that was touched with pious fervor. The 
 upward expectant eye, with the withered lineaments of the fisher- 
 man, and the holy calm of the monk, formed a picture of resig- 
 nation and hope that angels would have loved to witness. 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 35 
 
 " ' Amen ! amen !' exclaimed Antonio, as he arose, crossing him- 
 self. ' St. Anthony and the Virgin aid me to keep these reso- 
 lutions !' 
 
 " ' I will not forget thee, my son, in the offices of holy church. 
 Receive my benediction, that I may depart.' 
 
 " Antonio again bowed his knee, while the Carmelite firmly pro- 
 nounced the words of peace. When this last office was performed, 
 and a decent interval of mutual but silent prayer had passed, a 
 signal was given to summon the gondola of the state. It came 
 rowing down with great force, and was instantly at their side. 
 Two men passed into the boat of Antonio, and with officious zeal 
 assisted the monk to resume his place in that of the .republic. 
 
 " ' Is the penitent shrived V half whispered one, seemingly the 
 superior of the two. 
 
 " ' Here is an error. He thou seek'st has escaped. This aged 
 man is a fisherman named Antonio, and one who cannot have 
 gravely offended St. Mark. The Bravo hath passed towards the 
 island of San Giorgio, and must be sought elsewhere.' 
 
 " The officer released the person of the monk, who passed quickly 
 beneath the canopy, and he turned to cast a hasty glance at the 
 features of the fisherman. The rubbing of a rope was audible, 
 and the anchor of Antonio was lifted by a sudden jerk. A heavy 
 plashing of the water followed, and the two boats shot away 
 together, obedient to a violent effort of the crew. The gondola of 
 the state exhibited its usual number of gondoliers bending to their 
 toil, with its dark and hearse-like canopy, but that of the fisherman 
 was empty. 
 
 " The sweep of the oars and the plunge of the body of Antonio 
 had been blended in a common wash of the surge. When the 
 fisherman came to the surface, after his fall, he was alone in the 
 centre of the vast but tranquil sheet of water. There might have 
 been a glimmering of hope, as he rose from the darkness of the 
 
36 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 sea to the "bright beauty of that moon-lit right. But the sleeping 
 domes were too far for Iranian strength, and the gondolas were 
 sweeping madly towards the town. He turned, and swimming 
 feebly, for hunger and previous exertion had undermined his 
 strength, he bent his eye on the dark spot which he had constantly 
 recognised as the boat of the Bravo. 
 
 " Jacopo had not ceased to watch the interview with the utmost 
 intentness of his faculties. Favored by position, he could see 
 without being distinctly visible. He saw the Carmelite pronouncing 
 the absolution, and he witnessed the approach of the larger boat. 
 He heard a plunge heavier than that of falling oars, and he saw 
 the gondola of Antonio towing away empty. The crew of the 
 republic had scarcely swept the Lagunes with their oar-blades, 
 before his own stirred the water. 
 
 " ' Jacopo ! — Jacopo !' came fearfully and faintly to his ears. 
 
 "■ The voice was known, and the occasion thoroughly understood. 
 The cry of distress was succeeded by the rush of the water, as it 
 piled before the beak of the Bravo's gondola. The sound of the 
 parted element was like the sighing of a breeze. Ripples and 
 bubbles were left behind, as the driven scud floats past the stars, 
 and all those muscles which had once before that day been so finely 
 developed in the race of the gondoliers, were now expanded, seem- 
 ingly in twofold volumes. Energy and skill were in every stroke, 
 and the dark spot came down the streak of light, like the swallow 
 touching the water with its wing. 
 
 " ' Hither, Jacopo — thou steerest wide ? 
 
 " The beak of the gondola turned, and the glaring eye of the 
 Bravo caught a glimpse of the fisherman's head. 
 
 " ' Quickly, good Jacopo, — I fail !' 
 
 " The murmuring of the water again drowned the stifled words. 
 The efforts of the oar were phrensied, and at each stroke the light 
 gondola appeared to rise from its element. 
 
JAMES PENIMORE COOPER. 37 
 
 " ' Jacopo — hither — dear Jacopo !' 
 
 " ' The mother of God aid thee, fisherman !— I come,' 
 
 " ' Jacopo — the boy ! — the boy !' 
 
 " The water gurgled ; an arm was visible in the air, and it disap- 
 peared. The gondola drove upon the spot where the limb had 
 just been visible, and a backward stroke, that caused the ashen 
 blade to bend like a reed, laid the trembling boat motionless. The 
 furious action threw the Lagune into ebullition, but, when the foam 
 subsided, it lay calm as the blue and peaceful vault it reflected. 
 
 " ' Antonio !' burst from the lips of the Bravo. 
 
 "A frightful silence succeeded the call. There Was neither 
 answer nor human form. Jacopo compressed the handle of his 
 oar with fingers of iron, and his own breathing caused him to 
 start. On every side he bent a phrensied eye, and on every side he 
 beheld the profound repose of that treacherous element which is so 
 terrible in its wrath. Like the human heart, it seemed to sympa- 
 thize with the tranquil beauty of the midnight view ; but, like the 
 human heart, it kept its own fearful secrets." 
 
 This passage is so fine that we must overlook its length : it 
 is necessary to enable us to judge how perfectly Mr. Cooper 
 succeeds in detached parts. The style of this passage is also 
 unexceptionable, and the slight obscurity in the narrative 
 throws a gloom over the scene which serves as the chiar'- 
 oscuro of the picture. 
 
 It is evident from this novel, unsuccessful as it was, that the 
 writer had faculties for writing romances of a more general 
 character than the world at large gave him credit for, and that 
 it only required perseverance to be as successful in this walk of 
 fiction as in the other. If preference for American subjects 
 
 2* 
 
38 JAMES EENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 determined Mr. Cooper to abandon this path and return 
 to the other, he should not complain of his want of general 
 popularity, but remain content with his fame, which is suffi- 
 ciently European to satisfy even an ambitious man. 
 
 Forest scenery has ever been a favorite with all classes 
 of readers : our boyish associations cling to us till we become 
 the lean and slippered pantaloon. This will account for the 
 delight we receive from those pages of the novelist which 
 dwell on woods, old castles, and the pleasantest side of ro- 
 mantic life. If we all had the courage to speak aloud our 
 thoughts, or our ideal occupations, we should find the world 
 was a mass of madmen ; that is, according to the present test. 
 The maniac is one who speaks and acts, as all of us think and 
 feel. What criminals should we stand forth if our intentions 
 or wishes were realized ? This may appear a hard thing to say 
 of human nature, but it is the truth ; and those who reflect the 
 most, and probe their own natures deepest, know this too 
 well sometimes for their peace of mind. Should this view 
 be objected to, let it be borne in mind that it is insisted 
 upon repeatedly in the Holy Scriptures. So with regard 
 to our waking dreams : what a romance of madness, love, 
 hatred, and vanity, is the unspoken life of every man : — un- 
 acted certainly in deed, but thoroughly acted in thought ; 
 visible not to men, but palpably known to ourselves and 
 God! Ah! even here strongly suspected by the shrewdest 
 of our fellow-creatures ; but there is no direct evidence to 
 convict us before the world. 
 
 Is tljere one of those whose eyes may rest on these pages 
 who cannot bear testimony to the truth of this sketch ? It is 
 
JAMES FENIM0RE COOPER. 39 
 
 to this early dream of forest wanderings that in after life we 
 derive pleasure from works of fiction, and more especially from 
 those parts which remind us more strongly of our chivalric 
 longings. Who has not in many a tented field battled for 
 his country? Where is the man who has not released 
 his lady-love from haunted castle ? Ah ! even the fat old 
 man who opens oysters at Florence's has had his vision 
 of love and beauty ; and, dear reader, where is the absurdity 
 of his having had these delusions, any more than yourself? 
 Leigh Hunt has often said, that every man had a strong 
 suspicion he was eminently ridiculous on certain occasions, and 
 yet this very man was to himself his own hero: thus con- 
 firming the saying, that no one was a hero in the eyes of his 
 valet, but always in his own. 
 
 The horror of an event is often formed in the mind by the 
 absurdity of the same under somewhat different aspect. We 
 will trespass again on Leigh Hunt for an illustration. He told 
 us that notwithstanding all he had read and all he had written 
 on the horrors of war, he had never his mind filled with 
 the perfect idea of its gigantic lawlessness, till on the occasion 
 of a review, or sham fight, during the Napoleontic war. 
 
 The King had reviewed the Volunteers on Wimbledon 
 Common one intensely sultry day, and as part of the regiment 
 to which the lively author of " Rimini" belonged was marching 
 home, they entered some little village near the scene of this 
 mimic slaughter. They had neither eaten nor drunk since 
 morning, and the corporeal part of their natures was becoming 
 vociferous for sustenance. On a sudden they beheld a baker 
 carrying a large basket of newly-baked loaves ; veni, vidi, vici, 
 
40 JAMES fENIMORE COUPES. 
 
 was the order of tlie day ; swift as thought the hapless baker 
 was overthrown, his basket vanished from him, and ere the 
 bewildered knight of the oven could look around him the 
 contents had already been introduced to the gastric juice, 
 and were undergoing its digestive process. Leigh Hunt 
 paused to survey the scene, and said, " Good Heaven ! if 
 in a peaceful country like this so little regard is paid 
 to the laws of property, what on earth must be the result 
 when a brutal and maddened soldiery is let loose upon a 
 defenceless town ?" 
 
 While we are on this subject, the mention of Leigh Hunt's 
 name reminds us of a singular anecdote he told us one day. 
 It is well known that as editor of the Examiner he incited 
 and encouraged Sir Francis Burdett to defy the House of 
 Commons to imprison him. It is not so well known that 
 the self-said editor of the Examiner (in his capacity of volun- 
 teer soldier) helped a few days afterwards to take him to 
 the Tower of London for following his advice. 
 
 We remember one of the party took him to task for 
 this apparent contradiction, if not treachery ; but he defended 
 himself on the ground that he was right in his capacity 
 of public journalist to spirit him up to assist the liberty of 
 the subject, and that it was no less his duty on the other 
 hand as a soldier to obey the orders of his superior officer. 
 
 After this digression we shall enter one of Mr. Cooper's 
 forests and refresh our readers' attention. 
 
 We must premise that this is by no means one of his 
 best " bits of painting ;" still it has all the characteristics of 
 his style, and we present it, being the first that comes to hand. 
 
JAMES FEN1M0RB COOPER. 41 
 
 a The liver was confined between high and cragged rocks, one of 
 which impended above the spot where the canoe rested. As these, 
 again, were surmounted by tall trees, which appeared to totter on 
 the brows of the precipice, it gave the stream the appearance of 
 running through a deep and narrow dell. All beneath the fantastic 
 limbs and ragged tree-tops, which were, here and there, dimly 
 painted against the starry zenith, lay alike in shadowed obscurity. 
 Behind them, the curvature of the banks soon bounded the view, 
 by the same dark and wooded outline ; but in front, and apparently 
 at no great distance, the water seemed piled against the heavens 
 whence it tumbled into caverns, out of which issued those sullen 
 sounds that had loaded the evening atmosphere. It seemed, in 
 truth, to be a spot devoted to seclusion, and the sisters imbibed a 
 soothing impression of increased security, as they gazed upon its 
 romantic, though not unappalling beauties. A general movement 
 among their conductors, however, soon recalled them from a con- 
 templation of the wild charms that night had assisted to lend the 
 place, to a painful sense of their real peril. 
 
 " The horses had been secured to some scattering shrubs that 
 grew in the fissures of the rocks, where, standing in the water, they 
 were left to pass the night. The scout directed Heyward and his 
 disconsolate fellow travellers to seat themselves in the forward end 
 of the canoe, and took possession of the other himself, as erect 
 and steady as if he floated in a vessel of much firmer materials, 
 The Indians warily retraced their steps towards the place they had 
 left, when the scout, placing his pole against a rock, by a powerful 
 shove, sent his frail bark directly into the centre of the turbulent 
 stream. For many minutes the struggle between the light bubble 
 in which they floated, and the swift current, was severe and doubt- 
 ful. Forbidden to stir even a hand, and almost afraid to breathe, 
 lest they should expose the frail fabric to the fury of the stream, 
 
42 JAMES EENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the anxious passengers watched the glancing waters in feverish sus- 
 pense. Twenty times they thought the whirling eddies were 
 sweeping them to destruction, when the master-hand of their pilot 
 would bring the bows of the canoe to stem the rapid, and their 
 eyes glanced over a confused mass of the murmuring element—so 
 swift was the passage between it and their little vessel. A long, a 
 vigorous, and, as it appeared to the females, a desperate effort, 
 closed the scene. Just as Alice veiled her eyes in horror, under 
 the impression that they were about to be swept within the vortex 
 at the foot of the cataract, the canoe floated, stationary, at the side 
 of a flat rock, that lay on a level with the water." 
 
 In the Leather-Stocking Tales we have the complete life 
 of Natty Burnppo more elaborately described than perhaps 
 any other hero of romance ; in short, a sort of Sir Charles 
 Grandison of the woods. We cannot help giving to this 
 novel the fullest measure of praise; notwithstanding that 
 the life extends through fifteen volumes, we read the dying 
 scene of the hero with regret. 
 
 We seem to be really losing a companion with whom 
 we have had many journeyings — with whom we have had 
 hair-breadth adventures — whose fidelity, coolness, sagacity, and 
 undaunted courage, have helped us at the very last need — and 
 with whom we have sat 'neath the forest's edge, or in the 
 heart of the wood, chatting and discussing many a pleasant meal 
 after some breathless escape ! The consistency of his character 
 is so admirably preserved that we almost feel his existence to 
 be a personal fact, the demonstration of which would be 
 absurd. 
 
 Much has been said by critics of the similarity between 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 43 
 
 a novel and a comedy, and a romance and a tragedy. We 
 think, however, the difference very wide; being no less than 
 between action and narration. The dramatist includes the 
 novelist and the romancist. The latter may eke out his short- 
 comings by description, as a man in an equivocal position may 
 explain the ambiguity away, and stultify to a certain extent 
 the evidence of the spectator's senses. But in a dramatist all 
 must be plain and palpable; there is no interpreter save 
 the spectator, and he is incapable of being corrupted by 
 any partisanship beyond Iris own feelings. It is this which 
 renders a dramatist so rare a production in all ages, more 
 especially our own, while novelists are as plentiful as oysters. 
 
 The whole mystery lies in a nutshell. There are tendencies 
 in the human heart which require a certain pabulum to satisfy, 
 and it shows a considerable knowledge of our common nature 
 to select that particular one. A very popular author must 
 necessarily be a man of great sagacity. A keen instinct 
 is indispensable for a great dramatist, although mere play- 
 wrights may be made out of a clever selecter of theatrical 
 situations. It not unfrequently occurs that a good acting play 
 is far from a natural representation, and sometimes it may be 
 diametrically opposed to nature. Whenever a dramatic action 
 is startling the poet has failed in his legitimate result. A true 
 dramatist works to a point ; and although every scene should 
 have a certain unexpectedness in it, so as to keep the interest 
 alive and create an appetite for the denouement, yet the climax 
 should be artistically reached by the natural process of human 
 passion, and not vaulted into at a bound, like a mountebank's 
 trick. 
 
44 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER, 
 
 We have made this passing allusion to action, as repre- 
 sented or narrated, in order to remark that Mr. Cooper is not 
 a dramatic writer, even in the narrative ; and, as a proof, 
 we may adduce that while most of Scott's stories have 
 been dramatized, we are not aware of any of the American's 
 being* presented in that shape to the public except the Pilot. 
 
 We feel a strong conviction that a great success might 
 be attained by a writer who combined dramatic action with 
 romantic description: so that the mind would be filled with 
 the idea, and the heart with the feeling. 
 
 We are anxious to avoid much quotation, but a certain 
 portion is indispensable to justify ourselves to the public. 
 Many of our opinions will, no doubt, be considered as either 
 those of the partisan or the foe. We wish to avoid all 
 onesidedness, and to carry the greatest truth-speakingness into 
 efFect. N# man of genius need fear criticism, however boldly 
 uttered ; it is the charlatan alone who fears the truth. Ithu- 
 riel's spear is fatal only to the loathsome toad. To return, 
 however, to our quotation. That Mr. Cooper can write simple 
 and touching English is too well known to need proof. We 
 give the following, therefore, merely as a picture of quiet 
 pathos, producing its effects by the subdued tone of the 
 narrative. This death scene is admirably in keeping with 
 the whole life of Natty Bumppo. 
 
 " ' And such a stone you would have at your grave V 
 " ' I ! no, no, I have no son but Hard-Heart, and it is little that an 
 Indian knows of White fashions and usages. Besides, I am his 
 debtor already, seeing it is so little I have done since I have lived 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 45 
 
 in his tribe. The rifle might bring the value of such a thing — but 
 then I know it will give the boy pleasure to hang the piece in his 
 hall, for many is the deer and the bird that he has seen it destroy. 
 No, no, the gun must be sent to him whose name is graven on the 
 lock !' 
 
 " ' But there is one who would gladly prove his affection in the 
 way you wish ; he, who owes you not only his deliverance from so 
 many dangers, but who inherits a heavy debt of gratitude from his 
 ancestors. The stone shall be put at the head of your grave.' 
 
 " The old man extended his emaciated hand, and gave the other a 
 squeeze of thanks. 
 
 " « I thought you might be willing to do it, but I was backward 
 in asking the favor,' he said, ' seeing that you are not of my kin. 
 Put no boastful words on the same, but just the name, the age, and 
 the time of the death, with something from the holy book ; no 
 more, no more. My name will then not be altogether lost on 'arth ; 
 I need no more.' 
 
 " Middleton intimated his assent, and then followed a pause, that 
 was only broken by distant and broken sentences from the dying 
 man. He appeared now to have closed his account with the world, 
 and to await merely for the final summons to quit it. Middleton 
 and Hard-Heart placed themselves on the opposite sides of his seat, 
 and watched with melancholy solicitude the variations of his coun- 
 tenance. For two hours there was no very sensible alteration. 
 The expression of his faded and time-worn features was that of a 
 calm and dignified repose. From time to time he spoke, uttering 
 some brief sentence in the way of advice, or asking some simple 
 questions concerning those in whose fortunes he still took a friendly 
 interest. During the whole of that solemn and anxious period 
 each individual of the tribe kept his place in the most self-restrained 
 patience. When the old man spoke, all bent their heads to listen ; 
 
46 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 and when his words were uttered, they seemed to ponder on their 
 wisdom and usefulness. 
 
 " As the flame drew nigher to the socket, his voice was hushed, 
 and there were moments when his attendants doubted whether he 
 still belonged to the living. Middleton, who watched each waver- 
 ing expression of his weather-beaten visage with the interest of a 
 keen observer of human nature, softened by the tenderness of per- 
 sonal regard, fancied he could read the workings of the old man's 
 soul in the strong lineaments of his countenance. Perhaps what the 
 enlightened soldier took for the delusion of mistaken opinion did 
 actually occur, for who has returned from that unknown world to 
 explain by what forms and in what manner he was introduced into 
 its awful precincts ! Without pretending to explain what must 
 ever be a mystery to the quick, we shall simply relate facts as they 
 occurred. 
 
 " The trapper had remained nearly motionless for an hour. His 
 eyes, alone, had occasionally opened and shut. When opened, his 
 gaze seemed fastened on the clouds which hung around the west- 
 ern horizon, reflecting the bright colors, and giving form and love- 
 liness to the glorious tints of an American sunset. The hour — 
 the calm beauty of the season — the occasion, all conspired to fill 
 the spectators with solemn awe. Suddenly, while musing on the 
 remarkable position in which he was placed,. Middleton felt the 
 hand which he held grasp his own with incredible power, and the 
 old man, supported on either side by his friends, rose upright to his 
 feet. For a single moment he looked about him, as if to invite all 
 in his presence to listen (the lingering remnant of human frailty), 
 and then, with a fine military elevation of his head, and with a 
 voice that might be heard in every part of that numerous assembly, 
 he pronounced the emphatic word — ' Here !' 
 
 " A movement so entirely unexpected, and the air of grandeur 
 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 47 
 
 and humility which were so remarkably united in the mien of the 
 trapper, together with the clear and uncommon force of his utter- 
 rance, produced a short period of confusion in the faculties of all 
 present. When Middleton and Hard-Heart, who had each involun- 
 tarily extended a hand to support the form of the old man, turned 
 to him again, they found that the subject of their interest was 
 removed for ever beyond the necessity of their care. They mourn- 
 fully placed the body in its seat, and Le Balafre arose to announce 
 the termination of the scene to the tribe. The voice of the old 
 Indian seemed a sort of echo from that invisible world to which 
 the meek spirit of the trapper had just departed. 
 
 " ' A valiant, a just, and a wise warrior has gone on the path 
 which will lead him to the blessed grounds of his people !' he said. 
 ' When the voice of the Wahcondah called him, he was ready to 
 answer. Go, my children ; remember the just chief of the Pale- 
 faces, and clear your own tracks from briers !' 
 
 " The grave was made beneath the shade of some noble oaks. It 
 has been carefully watched to the present hour by the Pawnees of 
 the Loup, and is often shown to the traveller and the trader as a spot 
 where a just White man sleeps. In due tune the stone was placed 
 at its head, with the simple inscription which the trapper had him- 
 self requested. The only liberty taken by Middleton was to add, 
 ' May no wanton hand ever disturb his remains!'" 
 
 The result of a long and attentive- consideration of Mr. 
 Cooper's works is, that he is without doubt a man of a shrewd 
 and vigorous intellect, self-willed and opinionated, quick and 
 vindictive in his feelings, but with a kind and generous heart ; 
 somewhat too fond, perhaps, of brooding over wrongs which, 
 after all, may be only imaginary, and requiring more deference 
 from the world than it is apt to pay to a Living Author. 
 
48 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 But, with regard to *the character of his productions, he is 
 deficient in imagination and fancy, and humor. 
 
 Invention he certainly possesses, but it is not of the highest 
 kind ; his powers of observation are strong, but not universal, 
 and this gives an air of monotony to many of his works. 
 
 He also takes an undue advantage of certain opportunities 
 to give lectures, and hence the didactic tone of many 
 dialogues interspersed in the novels. This is a serious defect, 
 in an artistic view ; a novelist should instruct by implication, and 
 argue by insinuation. When he becomes didactic he ceases to 
 be romantic, and the effect is neutralized. 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 49 
 
 KALPH WALDO EMEKSON. 
 
 Emerson is certainly one of the most original writers the 
 New "World has produced. He writes least like an Ameri- 
 can of any author we have read. We do not mean this 
 disparagingly to his character as a good and true republican, 
 but to show our opinion of his greater breadth and depth 
 of appreciation than is generally met with in American 
 authors. 
 
 Mr. Emerson's fame is a curious compound of poet, meta- 
 physician, lecturer, economist, and critic; and in each we 
 think him first-rate. 
 
 We shall give his poetry the preference in considering 
 him critically, and at once commence by complaining of 
 his peculiar metre and occasional obscurity. Mr. Browning 
 has often maintained that the poet has a perfect and unchal- 
 lengeable right to place the thought in any shape he pleases ; 
 and that it is at the option of the public to read or not, 
 just as it pleases ; but that it has no right to criticise, seeing 
 that it involves the apparent absurdity of the disciple teaching 
 the master. 
 
 With all respect for the dictum of the author of " Sordello," 
 
60 RALPH WALDO EMERSON, 
 
 we shall venture to give our opinion on the poet and phi- 
 losopher, and with as great a belief in our own infalli- 
 bility as though we were the Pope, or even the editor of 
 a Sunday newspaper. 
 
 Passing over the peculiarity of Mr. Emerson's phraseology, 
 we cannot avoid remarking what an old friend of Mr. Carlyle 
 once said on reading some American writer's poetry, " that he 
 Would have sworn they were Mr. Carlyle's verses." "We have 
 often heard this remarked, but we never could see the justice 
 of classing Mr. Emerson as a follower of Mr. Carlyle. We 
 .admit readily that as both write in English, and as both 
 are great admirers of the German writers, more especially 
 of Richter, a certain tinge of that wonderful man's style 
 of thought and diction is naturally preserved ; but it is more 
 of matter than manner, and partakes more of admiration 
 and appreciation than of imitation. 
 
 There is a singular force and meaning in most of Emerson's 
 emanations, whether in prose or verse ; and if they demand a 
 little more attention on the reader's part than the gene- 
 rality of poetry, it arises from the superiority of the author, 
 and not from his obscurity. It is absurd to expect an author 
 to express himself in the old style, and in the stale formulae 
 of the past. Fresh and deep thinkers invent a form of con- 
 veying the thought as well as the thought itself. Like Mi- 
 nerva, it springs clothed from the head of Jove : garb and 
 form are simultaneous. 
 
 In the " Ode to Beauty " Emerson presses much meaning 
 into small compass. How unlike the common-place love 
 verses of the many are the following ! It is truly refreshing 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 51 
 
 to get hold of a strong thinker, however rugged may be 
 his revelations. 
 
 " Who gave thee, O Beauty, 
 The keys of this breast ? 
 Too credulous lover, 
 Of blest and unblest." 
 
 Simplicity is here carried to its severity, and yet the poet 
 breaks through, in the metaphorical language of passion, " the 
 keys of this breast." 
 
 How directly the metaphysician goes into the heart of 
 the subject ! 
 
 " Say, when in lapsed ages 
 
 Thee knew I of old ? 
 Or what was the service 
 
 For which I was sold 1 
 When first my eyes saw thee, 
 
 I found me thy thrall, 
 By magical drawing 
 
 Sweet Tyrant of all ! 
 I drank at thy fountain 
 
 False waters of thirst, 
 Thou intimate stranger, 
 
 Thou latest and first !" 
 
 The origin of the love of beauty, or how beauty acts upon 
 the human heart, is truly a mystery, so deeply set in the 
 mystery of our being, as to baffle poet as well as mere meta- 
 physician ; but as the fine old poet of Eydal says, many 
 
52 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 revelations come on tis in snatches and glimpses when we 
 least expect them, and so with these short questionings we 
 may even gain somewhat of the answer. 
 
 " Thy dangerous glances 
 Made women of men ; 
 New-born we are melting 
 Into nature again." 
 
 The rich carelessness of Emerson's muse is well developed in 
 these lines : 
 
 " Lavish, lavish Promiser, 
 Nigh persuading gods to err : 
 Guest of million painted forms 
 Which in turn thy glory warms : 
 The frailest leaf, the mossy bark, 
 The acorn's cup, the rain-drop's arc, 
 The swinging spider's silver line, 
 The ruby of the drop of wine, 
 The shining pebble of the pond, 
 Thou inscribest with a bond 
 In thy momentary play 
 Would bankrupt nature to repay." 
 
 Jfes" 
 
 A mere versifier would have made those images into a 
 hundred lines ; the true poet condenses ; the elegant writer 
 diffuses, till it becomes an atmosphere rather than a world. 
 
 The conclusion of this beautiful string of suggestive ques- 
 tionings and half-answered doubts is very fine. 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 53 
 
 " All that's good and great with thee 
 Works in close conspiracy ; 
 Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely 
 To report thy features only, 
 And the cold and purple morning, 
 Itself with thoughts of thee adorning : 
 The leafy dell, the city mart, 
 Equal trophies of thy art : 
 E'en the flowing azure air 
 Thou hast touched for my despair. 
 And if I languish into dreams, 
 Again I meet thy ardent beams, 
 Queen of tilings. I dare not die 
 In Being's deep, past ear and eye, 
 Lest thee I find the same deceiver, 
 And be the sport of fate for ever. 
 Dread Power, but dear ! if God thou be, 
 Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me." 
 
 There is nothing puling in these verses. A thorough mas- 
 tery of the meaning contained in them is as good a lesson of 
 mental logic as we need desire, and sharpens the intellect, 
 as well as delights the poetical taste. 
 
 Mr. Emerson has, in some bold, clear lines, summed up his 
 definition of true poetry. 
 
 "TO MERLIN. 
 
 " Thy trivial harp will never please, 
 Or fill my craving ear : 
 Its chords should ring as blows the breeze, 
 
54 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 Free, peremptory, and clear. 
 No jingling serenader's art, 
 
 Nor treble of piano strings, 
 Can make the wild blood start 
 
 In its mystic springs ! 
 The kingly bard 
 
 Must strike the chords rudely and hard, 
 As with hammer, or with mace, 
 
 That they may render back. 
 Chide me not, laborious band, 
 
 For the idle flowers I brought ; 
 Every aster in my hand 
 
 Goes home loaded with a thought. 
 There was never mystery, 
 
 But 'tis figured in the flowers ; 
 Was never secret history, 
 
 But birds told it in the bowers. 
 The harvest from the field, 
 
 Homeward brought the oxen strong ; 
 A second crop thine acres yield, 
 
 Which I gather in a song." 
 
 We are quite aware bow seldom casual readers pause 
 long enough over poetry to find out all its meaning ; but the 
 meaning and the power are there, and the reader, not the 
 poet, is deficient. 
 
 Mr. Emerson's power has not its foundation in the human 
 heart: the roots of his being are in. the intellect. Conse- 
 quently he is deficient in one of the two great elements of 
 genius. That this narrows his scope is too evident to need 
 anything beyond the mere statement. 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 55 
 
 We will give a remarkable instance of this want of power to 
 rouse the feelings. It is some verses he has written on the 
 death of a little child. Surely, few things are so susceptible 
 of pathos as this ; but mark how hard, dry, and metaphysical 
 the poet is. 
 
 "ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 
 
 " Returned this day, the south wind searches, 
 And finds young pines and budding birches, 
 
 But finds not the budding man ; 
 Nature who lost him, cannot remake him, 
 Fate let him fall, fate can't retake him ; 
 
 Nature, fate, men, him seek in vain." 
 
 An American critic well observes on this, "that the voice 
 of lamentation is lost in a vague speculation on fate, inter- 
 esting only to the intellect." It is difficult to find a subject 
 more capable of touching regrets than the death of a child, 
 and still more difficult to find a poet who has so com- 
 pletely failed in awaking one tender memory. 
 
 We shall take advantage of this circumstance to contrast 
 several poets under the same inspiration, and mark how dif- 
 ferent are all their moods. Nevertheless, all except Emerson 
 have the chief weight on the human heart. 
 
 Wordsworth, in his lament for a daughter " Dead and 
 gone," puts the regrets of memory into an old man's mouth. 
 Although years have passed since the blow fell, how fresh 
 the wound still remains ! 
 
56 RALPH WALDO EMERSOK. 
 
 " Our work, said I, was well begun. 
 Then from thy "breast what thought, 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
 So sad a sigh has brought. 
 
 " A second time did Matthew stop, 
 And fixing still his eye 
 Upon the eastern mountain top, 
 To me he made reply : 
 
 " Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind, 
 A day like this which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
 " With rod and line I 'sued the sport, 
 Which that sweet season gave, 
 And coming to the church, stopped short, 
 Beside my daughter's grave. 
 
 " Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
 The pride of all the vale, 
 And then she sang — she would have been 
 A very nightingale. 
 
 " Six feet in earth my Emma lay, 
 And yet I loved her more, 
 For so it seemed, than till that day 
 I e'er had loved before." 
 
 And in another poem, how truly he touches the tenderest 
 portion of the heart, when he says : 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 57 
 
 " If there is one who need bemoan 
 His kindred laid in earth, 
 The household hearts that were his own, 
 It is the man of mirth." 
 
 We turn from this strain of pure musical pathos, 
 
 " Bringing the tears to the dim eyes," 
 
 to another fine burst of natural sorrow ; more sorrowful, inas- 
 much as Byron mixed up less natural objects than Words- 
 worth in his laments. 
 
 " There have been tears, and breaking hearts for thee, 
 And mine were nothing had I such to give ; 
 But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
 Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
 And saw around me the wide field revive, 
 With fruits and fertile promise, and the spring 
 Came forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
 With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
 I turned from all she brought, to all she could not bring." 
 
 An English poet has touched upon the same subject ; 
 as another illustration of the subject we quote it. We cannot 
 here avoid remarking, that a very interesting volume might 
 be made of selections from the works of the most eminent 
 poets containing the expression of parallel feelings. 
 
 " ON A WITHERED FLOWER. 
 
 " Oh, wondrous power of thought, 
 This faded flower has brought, 
 
58 RALPH "WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 Full on my mind one pleasant day in spring. 
 
 Once more the wind's sweet breath 
 
 Wakes from its silent death, 
 And that long-perished bird once more I hear it sing. 
 
 " I feel a bright form stand, 
 
 One of the seraph band, 
 Close at my side as in the times gone by. 
 
 Once more his little feet 
 
 With my long steps compete, 
 I walk along, nor turn aside mine eye. 
 
 " And now a mist of light 
 
 Grows stronger in my sight, 
 Shaping itself into a form most dear. 
 
 Features I deemed had gone 
 
 Once more I gaze upon, 
 My child — my buried child — I know that you are here." 
 
 In subjects partaking of a more artificial nature our poet 
 is more at home, and there we can award him high praise. 
 There is a spirit in the following worthy Herrick, we had 
 almost said Anacreon. 
 
 "the humble bee. 
 
 " Burly, dozing, humble bee, 
 Where thou art is clime for me. 
 Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
 Far-off heats thro' seas to seek ; 
 I will follow thee alone, 
 Thou animated torrid zone ! 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON 59 
 
 Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, 
 Let me chase thy waving lines : 
 Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
 Singing over shrubs and vines. 
 
 " Insect lover of the sun, 
 Joy of thy dominion ; 
 Sailor of the atmosphere ; 
 Swimmer thro' the waves of air ; 
 Voyager of light and noon, 
 Epicurean of June : 
 Wait, I prithee, till I come 
 Within earshot of thy hum, 
 All without is martyrdom. 
 When the south wind in May days, 
 With a net of shining haze, 
 Silvers the horizon wall, 
 And with softness touching all, 
 Tints the human countenance 
 With the color of romance, 
 And infusing subtle heats, 
 Turns the sod to violets, 
 Thou in sunny solitudes, 
 Rover of the underwoods, 
 The green silence dost displace 
 With thy mellow, breezy bass. 
 Hot midsummer's petted crone, 
 Sweet to me thy drowsy tone, 
 Tells of countless sunny hours, 
 Long days, and solid banks of flowers, 
 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
 In Indian wildernesses found : 
 
60 RALPH WALDO EMERS05. 
 
 Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
 Firmest cheer, and hid-like pleasure. 
 
 " Aught unsavory, or unclean, 
 Hath my insect never seen : 
 But violets, and bilberry bells, 
 Maple sap, and daffodils, 
 Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
 Succory to match the sky, 
 Columbine, with horn of honey, 
 Scented fern and agrimony, 
 Clover, catch-fly, adder's tongue, 
 And brier-roses dwelt among : 
 All beside was unknown waste, 
 All was picture as he passed. 
 
 " Wiser far than human seer, 
 Yellow-breeched philosopher, 
 Seeing only what is fair, 
 Sipping only what is sweet, 
 Thou dost mock at fate and care, 
 Leave the chaff, and take the wheat ; 
 When the fierce northwestern blast 
 Cools sea and land so far and fast, 
 Thou already slumberest deep ; 
 Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; 
 Want and woe, which torture us, 
 Thy sleep makes ridiculous." 
 
 This quotation, somewhat too long for our plan, we really 
 had not the heart to shorten. It is a fine collection of images, 
 admirably strung together, appealing too much certainly to 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 61 
 
 the fancy ; but, nevertheless, this will always be considered a 
 gem of delightful composition. 
 
 We must now turn from Mr. Emerson's poetry to his 
 prose, if we may use such a word, for the peculiarity of 
 his mind is almost always to be poetical. Many of his 
 critics contend that his finest thoughts are in his essays, 
 and that the tone of his mind is essentially rhapsodical. 
 If we concede this, we must bargain for our definition of 
 a rhapsody. Many persons class Pindar's odes in that cate- 
 gory, but Coleridge and others have declared that they only 
 appear so to feeble and illogical minds. It is granted that 
 the links of connexion from thought to thonght are at 
 longer intervals, just as giants take greater strides than dwarfs, 
 but the sequence is as regular as the pace of a tortoise. It 
 is very usual to hear common-place men accuse loftier intel- 
 lects of being flighty and disconnected ; but it would be 
 as absurd for the snail to charge the race-horse with irregu- 
 larity in its steps, because its bounds are too wide for its 
 microscropic vision. The connecting relations are also so 
 subtle, in many arguments, that the gross-sighted mass of 
 readers cannot see them ; and, under the blinding influence 
 of their defective vision, they deny the existence of the chain. 
 
 We remember Coleridge once illustrated this very happily 
 by the first Olympiad, and established the point to the satis- 
 faction of several distinguished critics. 
 
 When another accuses a man of being unintelligible, it 
 generally only means that he does not understand him. So 
 far from being a reproach .to the poet, it is a confession 
 
 of ignorance on the part of the critic. Were it not so, 
 
 3* 
 
62 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 the mysteries of the Trinity might be turned against itself; 
 the secret of existence would be considered as conclusive 
 evidence against vitality, and all the spiritual creation ignored 
 at a blow. 
 
 Judging Emerson by this standard, we feel bound to say 
 that we consider him a consistent and logical writer. That 
 his style is somewhat involved we readily admit, but there 
 is a force and condensation about it that fixes it on the 
 mind. To be sure, we cannot run and read it as we run, 
 but it was not intended for a novel or a book of gossip. It 
 is a serious attempt to pass his knowledge into the masses; 
 to give to the million who do not and will not think, the 
 result of labors of the one who does. We must not look 
 for flippancy of style, any more than frivolity of thought. 
 Philosophy is a solemnity, not a jest ; and Emerson has very 
 little of Rabelais or Democritus in his composition. 
 
 Mr. Emerson's first speech to the public was a small 
 volume called " Nature," which he, in setting out, defines 
 as, " All which philosophy distinguishes as the ' not me ;' 
 that is, both nature and art, all other men, and my own 
 body." He defines a lover of nature as one " whose inward 
 and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other, 
 who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era 
 of manhoody 
 
 The following description of his own feelings in the presence 
 of Nature is very characteristic. 
 
 "In good health, the air is a cordial of incredible virtue. 
 Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under 
 a clouded shy, without having in my thoughts any occurrence: 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 63 
 
 of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration ; 
 almost I fear to think how glad I am." 
 
 As a companion to this moral of self-revelation, we give : — 
 "Nature always wears the colors of the spirit. To a 
 man laboring under calamity, the heat of his own fire hath 
 sadness in it ; then there is a kind of contempt of the land- 
 scape felt by him who has just lost by death a dear friend : 
 the sky is less grand as it shuts down over less worth in 
 the population." 
 
 The last line is a specimen of Emerson's prose "concetti" 
 (to use the Italian word, instead of the English word conceit), 
 which has a conventional sound we do not like to apply to 
 so true a man as our author. We doubt if any human 
 being under the affliction predicated ever had his feelings 
 modified by that thought. The root of grief is in the heart, 
 and not in the mind. We use the mind as distinct from 
 intellect, which we consider as the union of brain and heart, 
 thought and feeling. It was in this manner that Coleridge 
 always insisted upon the incorporation of goodness into great- 
 ness : he never would allow any man to be great without 
 he was good ; he might have mind, but not intellect. These 
 terms have been so often confounded that they are often 
 mistaken as synonymous ; but we have a great faith in the 
 economy of nature. Not even a word is wasted, and the 
 fact of two words shows they are different things. No two 
 men out of the whole human race have ever been precisely 
 alike, however much they might have resembled each other ; 
 there are shades of difference which rendered them as distinct 
 as Hercules and Hecuba. And in like manner, no two words 
 
64 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 mean precisely the same thing : a perfect synonym is an 
 impossibility, and therefore, as a facetious philosopher once 
 said, " very rarely comes to pass " — 
 
 " For what's impossible can never be, 
 And therefore very rarely comes to pass." 
 
 But it is needless to argue the point : every human being 
 has had the affliction of losing some one dear to him ; we 
 therefore appeal to that unerring test for a confirmation of 
 our opinion. 
 
 We must not, however, stop to criticise Mr. Emerson's 
 peculiarities of thought and expression in detail, otherwise 
 we should weary our readers ; we shall, therefore, only allude 
 to them once for all and say, that it forms to many the 
 chief charm, and to others the great stumbling-block of their 
 admiration and study. 
 
 Let us take another thought from his first volume : — 
 
 "The misery of man appears like children's petulance, when 
 we explore the steady and prodigal provision that has been made 
 for his support and delight on this green ball which floats him 
 through the heavens. What angels invented these splendid orna- 
 ments, these rich conveniences, this ocean of air above, this ocean 
 of water beneath, this firmament of earth between ? This zodiac 
 of lights — this tent of dropping clouds — this striped coat of cli- 
 mates — this fourfold year of beasts, fire, water, stones, and corn, 
 serve him : the field is at once his floor — his work-yard — his play- 
 ground — his garden — and his bed." 
 
 We know of few books more full of suggestions than 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 65 
 
 Mr. Emerson's, and we could desire no pleasanter occupation 
 than compiling a volume of these suggestive hints. We feel 
 quite sure it would be an acceptable offering to the American 
 public. 
 
 "The useful arts (says Emerson) are but reproductions, or 
 new combinations by the wit of man, of the same natural bene- 
 factors. He no longer waits for favoring gales, but by means 
 of steam realizes the fable of Eolus' bag, and carries the two-and- 
 thirty winds in the boiler of his boat. To diminish friction, he 
 paves the road with iron bars, and mounting a coach with a 
 shipload of men, animals, and merchandise behind him, he darts 
 through the country, from town to town, like an eagle or a swal- 
 low through the air. By the aggregate of these aids, how is 
 the face of the world changed from the era of Noah to that 
 of Napoleon ! The private poor man hath cities, ships, canals, 
 bridges, built for him. He goes to the post-office, and the human 
 race run on his errands; to the workshop, and the human race 
 read or write of all that happens, for him ; to the court-house, 
 and nations repair his wrongs. He sets his house upon the 
 road, and the human race go forth every morning, and shovel 
 out the snow, and cut a path for him." 
 
 The little volume from which we have made these few 
 extracts excited the attention of many men of eminence, but 
 its non-adaptability for the million prevented general popu- 
 larity. 
 
 After the publication of "Nature," he contributed to a 
 periodical called " The Dial," which did not commercially 
 succeed. 
 
66 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 In tliis magazine appeared several of his poems, and his 
 " Three Lectures on the Times." The first was called " The 
 Introductory ;" the second, " The Conservative ;" and the last, 
 " The Transcendentalist." 
 
 For many of the chief points in the second lecture he is 
 indebted to Goethe. Its argument is to prove that in pro- 
 portion as we grow in age, wealth, position, and power, we 
 become conservative. Many authors of the day are illus- 
 trations, such as Coleridge, Wordsworth, Moore, Lamb, Goethe, 
 Talfourd, &c. These were all great radicals in their early 
 days, indeed very nearly verging on socialism. This is natural 
 in man. When young and poor we are roused to activity : 
 we grow old and rich, and consequently yearn for repose. 
 
 Reform is the activity of nations; conservatism its repose; 
 and aristocracy its indolence. 
 
 His third essay is his finest, and from this he has been 
 so frequently accused of being a " Transcendentalist. 1 '' No- 
 thing is so easy, and nothing so unjust, as to affix a stigma to 
 a man of this kind. 
 
 The enemies of progress joyfully catch them, and an air 
 of impracticability or absurdity is thrown over the cause 
 itself. What the fool cannot understand, and the knave will 
 not, he declares to be either absurd or unintelligible, and 
 the masses being easily led believe the slander without inquir- 
 ing for themselves. 
 
 It is the fashion of the world to confound the appearance 
 with the subject ; the garb with the form ; and hence the cry 
 of Emerson's unintelligibility. 
 
 To abuse a man because he does not write like Joseph 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 67 
 
 Addison or Samuel Johnson is absurd : they may with the 
 same reason condemn him for being himself, instead of some- 
 body else. It is the criticism of the fool. Emerson certainly 
 has a style more marked than most writers, but he has like- 
 wise a greater individuality of thought to accompany it. 
 When a teacher utters profounder thought than the untaught 
 have been accustomed to hear, the latter accuse him of being 
 mystical or transcendental : just as boys of the lower form 
 grumble at Euclid, and abuse their tutor. There seems some- 
 thing galling to an inferior mind in the confession of ignorance. 
 It appears to wound self-love or egotism more than any other 
 accusation. The generality would prefer to be suspected of 
 knavery, than of boobyism. This will account for the virulence 
 of the blockhead : to surpass him in genius or learning is to 
 make him your deadly enemy. A warfare is always waged by 
 the dull against the witty ; they have the worst of it, and 
 fools though they are, they know it : the alpha and omega of 
 dulness is to this extent, no more. They are sensible of their 
 stupidity. We admit this to be unpleasant, but it is unavoid- 
 able, and by way of consolation we recommend the old adage 
 of— 
 
 " What can't be cured, 
 Must be endured." 
 
 So there's an end of the matter, and they had better rest 
 in silence under the misfortune. 
 
 We remember in our young days that Lamb was attacked 
 by a very solemn man (who only wanted the fairy head of 
 Bottom, the weaver, to be the "complete animal"), in these 
 
b8 RALPH WALDO EMERSON* 
 
 words : — " Mr. Lamb, you are always aiming at being witty, 
 but you do not always succeed." The old humorist replied, 
 " That's better, Mr. ***, than you, who are always aiming at 
 being dull, and, I must say, you invariably succeed." We 
 agree with " rare old Charles," that it is better to aim at the 
 highest mark. 
 
 On the subject of Transcendentalism Emerson well ob- 
 serves : — 
 
 " There is transcendentalism, but no pure transcendentalist : that 
 we know of none but the prophets and heralds of such a philosophy — 
 that all who by strong bias of nature have leaned to the spiritual 
 side in doctrine have stopped short of their goal. We have had 
 many harbingers and forerunners, but of a purely spiritual life 
 history has yet afforded no example. I mean, we have yet no man 
 who has leaned entirely on his character, and eaten angels' food : 
 who, trusting to his sentiments, found life made of miracles : who, 
 working for universal aims, found himself fed, he knew not how : 
 clothed, sheltered, and weaponed, he knew not how; and yet it 
 was done by his own hands: only in the instinct of the lower 
 animals we find the suggestion of the methods of it, and something 
 higher than our understanding : the squirrel hoards nuts, and the 
 bee gathers honey, without knowing what they do, and they are 
 thus provided for without selfishness or disgrace." 
 
 This transcendentalism is evidently founded on Christian 
 Doctrine ; it is merely a paraphrase of Christ's words, " Take 
 no thought of what ye shall eat, what ye shall drink, or where- 
 withal ye shall be clothed ; but do these things, which I 
 command ye, and all the rest shall be added unto you." 
 
 Every new doctrine, when first preached, sounds like a tran- 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 69 
 
 scendentalism, and it is only when it becomes traditional that the 
 mass receive it unchallenged ; then any additional obscurity is 
 swallowed as a matter of course. In another place he says, 
 "Transcendentalism is the faith proper to a man in his 
 integrity." 
 
 This is the pure religion of regenerate man, or of man in 
 his primal state ; it was, doubtless, the faith of Eden. 
 
 Now the discussion lies between the believers in the com- 
 parative perfectibility of man, and those who have no desire to 
 rise into a loftier sphere ; the wing and the wish are at variance 
 in every imperfect nature, and so far as physical happiness is con- 
 cerned, this discrepancy is fatal. 
 
 Mr. Emerson, in the next place, thus discourses of "Pure 
 Nature." These extracts must not be read hastily, but well 
 thought over. 
 
 " Language cannot paint it with his colors. It is too subtle. It 
 is undefinable, immeasurable, but we know that it pervades and 
 
 contains us In sickness, in languor, give us a strain of 
 
 poetry or a profound sentence, and we are refreshed. . . . See 
 how the deep divine thought demolishes centuries and millenniums, 
 
 and makes itself present through all ages A thrill 
 
 passes through all men at the reception of new truth, or at the 
 performance of a great action, which comes out of the heart of 
 nature. In these communications the power to see is not separated 
 from the will to do, but the insight proceeds from obedience, and 
 the obedience proceeds from a joyful perception." 
 
 We must confess here that we cannot do justice to our 
 author by picking a piece here, and another there, as each sen- 
 
'TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 tence belongs so essentially to the one before, and the other 
 after, that we are nearly misrepresenting the man, instead, of 
 presenting him to onr readers. What, therefore, we must do for 
 the future must be to indicate as nearly as we can, the idea per- 
 vading the article we have to comment on. It is not, however, 
 an easy matter to do this with the next essay, " Circles" which 
 w r e will pass to speak of the next, " Intellect" where we find 
 the same difficulty. We go to the next one, " Art" and we 
 still find it as difficult to give the leading idea. We could give 
 sentences without number, eloquent, poetical, golden, but, as 
 we have already given a number from this little volume of 
 essays — sufficient, we think, to cause the reader to go to the 
 Book itself — once for all, therefore, we must refer him to the 
 fountain head, the essays themselves, confident that he will be 
 richly rewarded for his pains. 
 
 Besides these Essays, our author has published several sepa- 
 rate orations and lectures : " Man Thinking, an Oration," " An 
 Address delivered at Cambridge," " Literary Ethics, an Ora- 
 tion," " The Method of Nature," " Man the Reformer," and 
 " The Young American." We select a few sentences from 
 these. 
 
 " The theory of Books is noble. The scholar of the first age 
 received into him the world around ; brooded thereon ; gave it the 
 new arrangement of his own mind, and uttered it again. It came 
 into him — life ; it went from him — truth. It came to him — short- 
 lived actions ; it went from him — immortal thoughts. It came to 
 him — business ; it went from him — poetry. It was dead fact ; 
 now it is quick thought. It can stand and it can go. It now 
 endures, it now flies, it now inspires. Precisely in proportion to 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. Yl 
 
 the depth of mind from which it issued, so high does it soar, so 
 long does it sing. 
 
 " The true scholar grudges every opportunity of action passed by 
 as a loss of Power. It is the raw material out of which the intel- 
 lect moulds her splendid products. A strange process, too, this by 
 which experience is converted into thought as a mulberry leaf is 
 converted into satin. The manufacture goes forward at all hours." 
 
 Mark the more than morning glow thrown over the opening 
 of " the Address." 
 
 " In this refulgent summer it has been a luxury to draw the 
 breath of life. The grass grows, the buds burst ; the meadow is 
 spotted with fire and gold in the tint of flowers ; the air is full of 
 birds, and sweet with the breath of the pine, the balm of Gilead, 
 and the new hay. Night brings no gloom to the heart with its 
 welcome shade. Through the transparent darkness pour the stars 
 their almost spiritual rays. Man under them seems a young child, 
 and his huge globe a toy. The cool night bathes the world as 
 with a river, and prepares his eye again for the crimson dawn. 
 The mystery of nature was never displayed more happily. The 
 corn and the wine have been freely dealt to all creatures, and the 
 never broken silence with which the old bounty goes forward has 
 not yielded yet one word of explanation." 
 
 The Address, of which this is the opening, did not please the 
 professors, and one of them remonstrated. We give Emerson's 
 reply, as it is a part of his spiritual history. 
 
 " What you say about the Discourse at Divinity College is just 
 what I might expect from your truth and charity, combined with 
 
72 RALPH , WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 your known opinions. I am not a stock or a stone, as one said in 
 the old time, and could not feel but pain in saying some things in 
 that place and presence which I supposed would meet with dissent, 
 and the dissent I may say of dear friends and benefactors of mine. 
 Yet, as my conviction is perfect in the substantial truth of the doc- 
 trines of this discourse, and is not very new, you will see at once 
 that it must appear very important that it be spoken ; and I thought 
 I could not pay the nobleness of my friends so mean a compliment 
 as to suppress my opposition to their supposed views out of fear of 
 offence. I would rather say to them — These things look thus to 
 me, to you otherwise. Let us say our uttermost word, and be the 
 all-pervading truth, as it surely will, judge between us. Either of 
 us would, I doubt not, . be equally apprised of his error. Mean- 
 time I shall be admonished by this expression of your thought to 
 revise with great care the ' Address ' before it is printed (for the 
 use of the class), and I heartily thank you for this expression of 
 your tried toleration and love." 
 
 This was followed by a sermon against Emerson's views, a 
 copy of which was sent to him with a letter, to which he 
 replied as follows : 
 
 " I ought sooner to have replied to your kind letter of last week, 
 and the Sermon it accompanied. The letter was right manly and 
 noble. The sermon, too, I have read with attention. If it assails 
 any doctrine of mine — perhaps I am not so quick to see it as 
 writers generally — certainly I did not feel any disposition to 
 depart from my habitual contentment that you should say your 
 thought, whilst I say mine. I believe I must tell you what I think 
 of my new position. It strikes me very oddly that good and wise 
 men, and Cambridge and Boston, should think of raising me into 
 an object of criticism. I have always been, from my very incapa- 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON* 73 
 
 city of methodical writing, ' a chartered libertine,' free to worship 
 and free to rail, lucky when I could make myself understood, but 
 never esteemed near enough to the institutions and mind of society 
 to deserve the notice of the masters of literature and religion. I 
 have appreciated fully the advantages of my position, for I well 
 know that there is no scholar less willing or less able to be a 
 polemic. I could not give account of myself, if challenged. I 
 could not possibly give you one of the arguments you cruelly hint 
 at, on which any doctrine of mine stands. For I do not know what 
 arguments mean in reference to any expression of a thought. I 
 delight in telling what I think ; but if you ask me why I dare say 
 so, or why it is so, I am the most helpless of mortal men. I do 
 not even see that either of these questions admits of an answer, so 
 that in the present posture of affairs, when I see myself suddenly 
 raised to the importance of a heretic, I am very uneasy when I 
 advert to the supposed duties of such a personage, who is to make 
 good his thesis against all comers. I certainly shall do no such 
 thing. I shall read what you and other good men write, as I have 
 always done, glad when you speak my thoughts, and skipping the 
 page that has nothing for me. I shall go on just as before, seeing 
 whatever I can, and telling what I see ; and, I suppose, with the 
 same fortune that has hitherto attended me ; the joy of finding 
 that my abler and better brothers, who work with the sympathy of 
 society, loving and beloved, do now and then unexpectedly confirm 
 my perception, and find my nonsense is only their own thought in 
 motley. And so I am your affectionate servant, R. W. E," 
 
 We have now spoken of about one half of Mr. Emerson's 
 labors. He has published a second series of Essays, and a 
 volume of Poems. The Second Series of Essays are nine in 
 number, and consist of the Poet, Experience, Character, Man- 
 
74 RALPH' WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 ners, Gifts, Nature, Politics, Nominalist and Realist, and New 
 England Reformers. It would occupy too much space to speak 
 of these in detail, or to quote largely from them, laden as they 
 are with original thought, apt expression, and felicitous illustra- 
 tion. We believe no one has ever gone to the heart of the 
 matter like Mr. Emerson has in his Essay on the Poet. It 
 is a fine statement of the intellectuality of Poetry — not 
 Hazlitt, nor Wilson, nor Macaulay, nor Talfourd, nor Lamb, 
 — and we believe these are the most eminent among modern 
 critics who have ever got anear the subject ; they have dis- 
 coursed about it, and essayed on it, and lectured of it, but not 
 one of these ever got to the head of the matter like our 
 author. Arriving there, he tells us of it, and we are for ever 
 satisfied, for at last he has expounded the secret, and with him 
 we know, but feel not. It is a difficult matter to refrain from 
 quoting, but necessity compels us. And though we may 
 not quote further, we have still something to say about them ; 
 we have to record our regret that these earnest, sincere, and 
 truthful words should be so little known — so little known in his 
 own country even — we have to record our regret that no able 
 brother of universal truth has stepped forth to rescue his name 
 from the aspersions cast upon his character as a teacher. Carlyle, 
 it is true, introduced him to the English public ; but it is one 
 thing to introduce a man to a new world, and another thing to 
 help and aid him therein. It may be that Carlyle thought an in- 
 troduction was sufficient ; it may even be that Emerson thought 
 so also, and trusted to the intrinsic worth of his thought to work 
 its way in the minds of men ; but still we cannot help expressing 
 our regret that the greatest man in the 1 9th century should be 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 75 
 
 so little known, so barefacedly robbed, and so carped at by the 
 Pharisees of the day, without any one stepping forth to take 
 up his cause, and show that he is not the person they represent 
 him. 
 
 We were going to say, to any unprejudiced rnind Emerson's 
 writings must commend themselves ; we were going to say this, 
 when the difficulty struck us of finding any unprejudiced mind. 
 We are all prejudiced, either by birth, or habit, or education, 
 and therefore we can only hope for two classes who will appre- 
 ciate Emerson — the highly cultured and the ignorant; these 
 last, however, must be those that think for themselves. It is 
 the middle class, the men who have a smattering of all things 
 and know nothing entirely, to whom Emerson appears as an 
 Atheist, a Pantheist, and an Infidel. To the first he approves 
 himself a man — a great and worthy teacher ; and to the last he 
 is new life, new light — a spiritual sun which shines as freely, as 
 warmly on their hearts as the sun of nature does upon their 
 bodies. We have felt the truth of what we say, and there- 
 fore do not feel any diffidence in telling our experience. We 
 belong to the lowest class ; we have believed with our fathers 
 and elders, we have doubted and thought, thought earnestly 
 and long, and found comfort, and joy, and pleasure in the 
 instruction Emerson has afforded us. His views have been to 
 us a new existence, or rather have shown us the true value of 
 the existence God has already given to us. His views have 
 set us on our feet again, and gave us hope, and heart, and 
 courage, when all else has proved vain, authoritative, and arbi- 
 trary. Our study of Emerson has not been exclusive ; we have 
 had time to taste of most of the poetry and philosophy writ- 
 
?6 RALPH'WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 ten in the English language from Chaucer downwards ; and we 
 ao-ain declare that we know of no author that is so full of suo*- 
 gestion, speaks so directly to the heart, and is so free from the 
 prejudices of the time, and the fashions in which we live. 
 Bacon, the great Lord Bacon, sinks to a mere politician along- 
 side Emerson. But we do not, nevertheless, undervalue Bacon ; 
 he was a great man in his time, and exercised a wide influence 
 upon his age and ages after. But he was neither so deep-see- 
 ing nor so true-spoken as Emerson ; for proof take any Essay 
 these two have written on the same subject — ' Love,' for instance 
 — and compare them, and see how much one excels the other. 
 Bacon's spirit, great as it was (and it was marvellous for his 
 age), never mounted so high, never extended so wide, never 
 descended so low as Emerson's. There is one reason, however, 
 that is obvious why our author should greatly eclipse these 
 luminaries, and that is, he has had all their light, all their 
 genius to assist his own. We can trace in his writings many 
 thoughts he has got from Chaucer, Sidney, Herbert, Shakspeare, 
 Bacon, the Elder Dramatists, from the Greeks, from the Romans, 
 from the Hindoos, from the Scandinavians, from the Germans, 
 and lastly from his own experience, on which last he himself 
 sets most value, and justly, seeing that all Ms teachers' 
 worth was thus obtained. Truth being universal, and not any- 
 thing exclusive, to those who will receive it is as common as 
 the air we breathe, and, like the best of all things, should be 
 most acceptable. Emerson and his philosophy are as remarka- 
 ble things in this age as are the locomotive, the electric tele- 
 graph, and the daguerreotype. They are, too, exercising as 
 deep an influence, slowly but surely winning men to look 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. *7*7 
 
 rightly at things, and with their own eyes. He is a pioneer as 
 brave, and as indomitable in clearing away obstructions to the 
 growth of rnind, as are those of the West in clearing the soil. 
 Many a great work and many a noble deed will yet take its 
 date from his words, and if they have the power to produce 
 such fruit, and we affirm that they have to a high degree, who 
 shall say this man is an opponent to Christianity ? Who, 
 indeed, but those who make that doctrine a business, and not a 
 rule of life ! We have one other phase in which we wish to 
 present our author, and that is, as a poet. The selections we 
 have made from his prose have already given evidence of his 
 poetic faculty, not as a poet of passion, but of reason. 
 
 Mr. Emerson possesses so many characteristics of genius that 
 his want of universality is the more to be regretted ; the lead- 
 ing feature of his mind is intensity; he is deficient in heart 
 sympathy. Full to overflowing with intellectual appreciation, 
 he is incapable of that embracing reception of impulses which 
 gives to Byron so large a measure of influence and fame. 
 Emerson is elevated, but not expansive ; his flight is high, but 
 not extensive. He has a magnificent vein of the purest gold, 
 but it is not a mine. To vary our illustration somewhat, he is 
 not a world, but a district ; a lofty and commanding eminence 
 we admit, but only a very small portion of the true Poet's uni- 
 verse. What, however, he has done is permanent, and America 
 will always in after times be proud of Ralph Waldo Emerson, 
 and consider him one of her noblest sons. 
 
78 NATHAMEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 NATHANIEL PAKKEK WILLIS. 
 
 There is a want of naturalness in Mr. Willis's writings which 
 will inevitably affect their continuance, and we have doubts 
 whether any of his numerous prose works will remain perma- 
 nent portions of Literature. 
 
 There are two descriptions of popularity which are essen- 
 tially different ; the first is founded on the human heart, the 
 other is merely supported by the conventionalities of the present 
 time. Popularity is, therefore, not a sure test ; we should then 
 first inquire what kind of popularity an author possesses 
 before we decide upon his relative chance of immortality. 
 
 How many great celebrities have passed away ? Who was 
 so popular as Churchill in his own day ? Yet he is now seldom 
 read or quoted. His popularity was built on a figment of 
 Human Nature, and not based on the breath of the Heart of 
 Man. He was a satirist, and not a poet ; the personal dies with 
 the man and his victim, but the universal will live for ever. In 
 like manner, to descend to the present day, we can come pretty 
 near a prophetic glance into the future, by carefully selecting 
 the characteristics of any author, and judging him by that 
 unerring standard. We may give as an instance Mr. Thackeray, 
 whose productions are now so generally read and lauded ; the 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 79 
 
 slightest glance at him will convince the critic that when the 
 peculiar phase of society he treats on shall pass away, he will 
 likewise go with it. It is also worthy of observation that the 
 very fact which might in some cases preserve it becomes its 
 destroyer. It might naturally be supposed that it would be 
 prized as a record of the past ; but it seems as though the 
 interest died away with the thing described. 
 
 On this ground we fear that Mr. Willis will not be an endur- 
 ing writer. The persiflage and piquancy of his style, which 
 are now so enticing, will in a few years become the obscurers 
 of his fame, just as the pertness and vivacity of the blooming 
 girl become intolerable in the matron. Posterity demands 
 something substantial, condensed, and truthful. It is a very 
 close-judging critic, and all personal considerations are lost 
 upon it. Appeals to feeling are unknown ; it is the Rhada- 
 manthus of authors. The present race, on the other hand, are 
 too apt to overlook the solid merits of a work, and be taken by 
 the tinsel of the outside garb ; they choose beauty, grace, or 
 accomplishment, before virtue or truth. Many honorable, noble 
 natures sit in the judgment-seat and discourse most excellent 
 music, but their audiences grow weary and thin away, till they 
 themselves depart unheeded ; while the dancing girl, organ- 
 grinder, tumbler, or Punch and Judy, have a ready and nume- 
 rous crowd of listeners. 
 
 However much this may be deplored, it cannot be helped. 
 The present race is not instructed by its contemporaries, but by 
 its ancestors. The writers of the day only amuse ; the living 
 man is listened to only as long as he is entertaining or exciting ; 
 but the grave sanctifies the voice of the dead, and arrests the 
 
80 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 traveller's attention. The Siste Viator of the sepulchre is 
 the " open sesame " to the attention of the world. 
 
 We have thought it necessary to make these preliminary- 
 remarks, lest our estimate of so popular an author as Mr. 
 Willis should be considered harsh or unjust. It will be seen 
 we try our American men of genius by the highest stan- 
 dard. It is no child's plaything that they have to bend, but 
 the Bow of Ulysses ; and we feel sure, upon a little considera- 
 tion, they will consider it as a compliment rather than a detrac- 
 tion or reproach. We want them to be fellow-laborers with 
 Marlow, Shakspeare, Milton, and Halley, and men of that 
 calibre, and not the playfellows of the minnesinger and the 
 troubadour. 
 
 To quote the verse of Watts : — 
 
 " Were I so tall as reach the pole, 
 And grasp the ocean with a span, 
 I would be measured by my soul, 
 That is the standard of the man." 
 
 It is not his popularity by which we must measure the 
 author, but the intellect he puts forth. This is a perpetual 
 landmark not washed away by every strong tide of opinion, 
 always ebbing and flowing, but unmoved and visible to all. 
 
 Intellect is even more unvarying than faith. Plato, Euclid, 
 Aristotle, and the Greek dramatists, remain undiminished, like 
 the pyramids. Time consolidates the achievements of poetry, 
 philosophy, and mathematics. All minds, even now, bow to 
 the masters of thought ; but the religious faith of these great 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 81 
 
 men is now too childish for even the boy, and we read it 
 now, and regard it, as a fable or an absurdity. 
 
 This fact will lead us to a better estimate of our living 
 authors than we shall attain without keeping it fully in 
 view. We are aware there is a certain instinct in our nature, 
 which seems to forbid or modify any admiration of one 
 with whom we are in the habit of frequent intercourse. Our 
 egotism steps in and places before the brightness of their 
 inner mind, the blinding or intercepting screen of those per- 
 sonal infirmities or necessities which are part and parcel of 
 human nature, and the absence of which places a man out of 
 the pale of humanity itself. All see and feel the palpable 
 injustice of this mode of judging, but inevitably fall into it. 
 
 The poet felt this when he said : 
 
 " Let fame, which all hunt after in their lives, 
 Live registered upon their brazen tombs." 
 
 The grave seems to be the only pedestal on which a man 
 shows to advantage. 
 
 Mr. Willis first became popular with a class on account of 
 his sacred poems. These are still much admired. Our first 
 impression was with his admirers, but our more matured judg- 
 ment is bound to state that they lack the very soul of sacred 
 poetry, simplicity and earnestness. They are too elegant to 
 be sublime, and breathe more of the perfumer's shop than 
 the fragrant incense of the altar. 
 
 A few quotations will illustrate our meaning, and we hope 
 establish our judgment ; at all events, it will enable the reader 
 to decide upon either our discretion or our candor. 
 
82 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 We select a passage from "The Healing of the Daughter 
 of Jairus." The touching simplicity of this is known to every 
 reader of the Bible. Mr. Willis thus renders it : 
 
 " They passed in. 
 The spice lamps in the alabaster urns 
 Burned dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke 
 Curled indolently on the chamber walls. 
 The silken curtains slumbered in their folds — 
 Not e'en a tassel stirring in the air — 
 And as the Saviour stood beside the bed, 
 And prayed inaudible, the Ruler heard 
 The quickening division of his breath 
 As he grew earnest inwardly. There came 
 A gradual brightness o'er his calm, sad face : 
 And drawing nearer to the bed, he moved 
 The silken curtains silently apart, 
 And looked upon the maiden." 
 
 This short passage displays almost every peculiarity which 
 sacred poetry should not possess. It is pretty, very pretty; 
 but as far from truth and nature as a French milliner is 
 from the Venus de Medicis. We have italicized a few of 
 the most glaring violations of propriety. 
 
 We give one more extract to complete the picture : it 
 immediately follows the previous quotation. 
 
 " Like a form 
 Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay — 
 The linen vesture folded on her breast, 
 And over it her white transparent hands, 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 83 
 
 The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. 
 A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, 
 And in her nostrils, spiritually thin, 
 The breathing curve was mockingly like life :^ 
 And round beneath the faintly tinted skin, 
 Ran the light branches of the azure veins, 
 And on her cheek the jet lash o'erlay, 
 Matching the arches pencilled on her brow, — 
 Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose 
 Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears 
 In curls of glossy blackness, and about 
 Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hung, 
 like airy shadows floating as they slept. 
 'T was heavenly beautiful." 
 
 With this crowning climax we close this attempt to diminish 
 into mere prettiness the sublime simplicity of this gospel nar- 
 rative. 
 
 We need hardly point out, to the most casual reader, 
 the singular taste which has dictated the selection of the 
 images and epithets of this piece of sacred verse. 
 
 As a curious specimen of scriptural vocabulary we may 
 quote the following : — 
 
 " Spice lamps ;" " alabaster urns ;" " white and fragrant smoke ;" 
 " curled indolently ;" " silken curtains slumbered in their folds ;" 
 " silken curtains," 
 
 repeated in a few lines further down the page. 
 
 The description of the dead maiden, in the next quotation, v is 
 
84 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 rather an anatomical auctioneer Robins cataloguing her limbs, 
 than a fine picture of death, sketched by the hand of a poet. 
 
 Our readers must pardon our placing in juxtaposition to 
 this elegant elaboration, a passage from Byron. However 
 well known these lines may be, their reiteration now will 
 do more to show the difference between false and true poetry 
 than a volume of critical analysis. 
 
 " He who hath bent him o'er the dead, 
 Ere the first day of death is fled, 
 The first dark day of nothingness, 
 The last of danger and distress ; 
 Before decay's effacing fingers 
 Have swept the lines where beauty lingers, 
 And marked the mild, angelic air, 
 The rapture of repose that's there, 
 The fixed yet tender traits that streak 
 The languor of that pallid cheek ; — 
 And but for that sad, shrouded eye, 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, 
 And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
 Where ' cold obstruction's ' apathy 
 Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
 As if to him it would impart 
 The doom he dreads yet dwells upon, — 
 Some moments, aye, a treacherous hour, 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's power, 
 So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, 
 The first, last look by death revealed." 
 
 Although these vices of style pervade to a great extent 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 85 
 
 the poems of Mr. Willis, there are many occasions when 
 he writes with force and plainness. The following opening 
 to his poem entitled "Rizpah with her Sons," is not open 
 to our former objections. We dare say, however, that many 
 will consider our former quotations the best poetry; and we 
 fear that the poet has himself been frequently led to consult 
 the taste of his admirers, rather than his own. 
 
 " ' Bread for my mother !' said the voice of one 
 Darkening the door of Rizpah. She looked up — 
 And lo ! the princely countenance and mien 
 Of dark-browed Armeni. The eye of Saul, 
 The very voice and presence of the king, 
 Limb, port, and majesty, were present there, 
 Mocked like an apparition in her Son. 
 Yet as he stooped his forehead to her hand 
 With a kind smile, a something of his mother 
 Unbent the haughty arching of his lip, 
 And through the darkness of the widow's heart 
 Trembled a nerve of tenderness, that shook 
 Her thought of pride all suddenly to tears." 
 
 It is a conclusive proof of the bad taste of over ornament 
 that it always fails of effect when so unsparingly laid on. The 
 mind readily welcomes the poetical and intensed lines : 
 
 " And through the darkness of the widow's heart 
 Trembled a nerve of tenderness, that shook 
 Her thought of pride all suddenly to tears. n 
 
 We here feel that the metaphor is justified by the passion 
 4* 
 
86 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 of the scene ; but the besetting sin is too strong, and after a few 
 more lines we come to these : 
 
 " Was this the fairest of the sons of Saul ? 
 The violet's cup was harsh to his blue eye, 
 Less agile was the fierce barb's fiery step ; 
 His voice drew hearts to him : his smile was like 
 The incarnation of some blessed dream, 
 Its joyousness so sunned the gazer's eye ! 
 Fair were his locks : his snowy teeth divided 
 A bow of love, drawn with a scarlet thread. 
 His cheek was like the moist heart of the rose, 
 And but for nostrils of that breathing fire 
 That turns the lion back, and limbs as lithe 
 As is the velvet muscle of the pard, 
 Mephibosheth had been too fair for man." 
 
 It really seems, on reading these lines, that the author had 
 deliberately resolved to rack his fancy for the most outrageous 
 conceits and hyperboles that he could invent. 
 
 It is pleasant to leave this strained metaphorical style, and 
 come to such verses as these. 
 
 " THIRTY-FIVE. 
 
 Oh ! weary heart, thou'rt half way home I 
 
 We stand on life's meridian height, 
 As far from childhood's morning come, 
 
 As to the grave's forgetful night. 
 Give youth and hope a parting tear, 
 
 Look onward with a placid brow — 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 87 
 
 Hope promised but to bring us here, 
 
 And reason takes the guidance now. 
 One backward look — the last — the last, 
 
 One silent year — for youth is past I" 
 
 These are natural, manly verses, and show how much Mr. 
 Willis has lost by not cultivating this simpler style. The whole 
 of this poem is so good that we shall quote it. 
 
 " Who goes with hope and passion back 1 
 
 Who comes with me and memory on? 
 Oh ! lonely looks that downward track — 
 
 Joy's music hushed — Hope's roses gone. 
 To pleasure and her giddy troop , 
 
 Farewell, without a sigh or tear ! 
 But heart gives way, and spirits droop, 
 
 To think that love may leave us here." 
 
 There is a pathos in the last line which had Mr. Willis more 
 frequently displayed, would have rendered him one of the most 
 charming of modern American Poets. 
 
 " Have we no charm when youth has flown, 
 Midway to death left sad and lone" 
 
 " Yet stay, as 'twere a twilight star 
 
 That sends its thread across the wave, 
 
 I see a brightening light from far, 
 That shows a path beyond the grave, 
 
 And now— bless God ! — its golden line 
 Comes o'er, and lights my shadowy way, 
 
88 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 And shows the dear hand clasped in mine ! 
 But list what those sweet voices say : 
 
 The better land's in sight, 
 
 And, by its chastening light, 
 All love for life's midway is driven, 
 Save her whose clasped hand will bring thee on to Heaven." 
 
 The close of this is certainly too much in the old orthodox 
 school, but they are almost entirely free from the faults of style 
 we have before objected to. 
 
 There seems to us a great affinity between the poetry of 
 Barry Cornwall and Willis ; not so much the imitation of the 
 younger one, as a natural resemblance. If Mr. Proctor excels 
 his younger competitor in verse, Mr. Willis has the advantage 
 over him in prose, and they will make an admirable parallel in 
 some future poetical Plutarch. 
 
 Who would believe that the author of the tinsel tawdry 
 verses we have presented to our readers had written the follow- 
 ing natural poem : 
 
 "SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
 
 " I love to look on a scene like this, 
 Of wild and careless play, 
 And persuade myself that I am not old, 
 And my locks are not yet grey. 
 
 " For it stirs the blood hi an old man's heart, 
 And makes his pulses fly, 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 89 
 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 " I have walked the world for fourscore years, 
 And they say that I am old, 
 That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 
 And my years are well nigh told. 
 
 " It is very true : it is very true, 
 I am old and I bide my time, 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 
 And half renew my prime. 
 
 " Play on, play on, I am with you there, 
 In the midst of your merry ring, 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 
 And the rush of the breathless swing. 
 
 " I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
 And I whoop the smothered call, 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 " I am willing to die when my time shall come, 
 And I shall be glad to go, 
 For the world at best is a weary place, 
 And my pulse is getting low. 
 
 " But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 In treading its gloomy way, 
 And it whiles my heart from its dreariness, 
 To see the young so gay." 
 
90 
 
 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 Some critics have contended that this poem is deficient in 
 sympathetic consistency, inasmuch as the latter part differs 
 from the commencement, and consequently jars that fine artistic 
 sense which is inseparable from the pure poetic mind. 
 
 This is, however, a hypercriticism we shall not venture 
 into, and we merely name it as a critical problem for the 
 reader's entertainment. We well remember the first time 
 we read these verses many years ago, and they became a 
 part of the heart's household from that very hour. 
 
 Had Mr. Willis often written in this style criticism would 
 have been needless, for they would have at once settled 
 the question by seizing upon the hearts of all readers. 
 
 We think it the unalienable right of every writer to be 
 judged by his whole case : yet how frequently is an author 
 condemned for failure in one branch of literature, while his 
 triumph in other and loftier departments is forgotten or 
 neglected! We think in this we perceive a great difference 
 between American and English criticism. In the latter coun- 
 try an author's reputation generally remains where it was 
 before the publication of the unsuccessful work; if he gains 
 nothing, he loses nothing, except possibly a portion of that 
 prestige which always accompanies success — he has a corps 
 de reserve to retire upon. But in America a writer may lose 
 all on account of one failure, and be well abused into the bar- 
 gain. There is a monomaniacal spirit of detraction in their 
 critical press which is truly astounding, and would be ludicrous 
 were it not for the injurious tendency it has upon the literature 
 of the country. Agreeably to this view, we not only wish to 
 consider Mr. Willis as a poet, but also to test his powers in the 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 91 
 
 various branches of that divine art. We have already weighed 
 him in the scale of sacred descriptive poetry, and found him 
 wanting, and have likewise expressed our admiration of his 
 occasional verses ; we now present him in another light, as a 
 writer of devotional impulse, and as a proof quote the " Dedi- 
 cation Hymn," sung at the consecration of Hanover Street 
 Church, Boston. 
 
 " The perfect world by Adam trod, 
 Was the first temple, built by God : 
 His fiat laid the corner-stone, 
 And reared his pillars one by one. 
 He hung its starry roof on high — 
 The broad illimitable sky ; 
 He spread its pavements, green and bright, 
 And curtained it with morning light. 
 
 " The mountains in their places stood — 
 The sea — the sky — and all was good : 
 And when its first pure praises rang, 
 The morning stars together sang — 
 Lord, 't is not ours to make the sea, 
 And earth, and sky, a house for thee : 
 But in thy sight our offering stands, 
 A humbler temple made with hands." 
 
 This is certainly better than the descriptive poetry on sacred 
 subjects, but the same defect spoils this, although in a lesser 
 degree ; the hymn is very pretty, and herein the failure con- 
 sists. 
 
92 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 The next specimen we shall give is certainly a startling con- 
 trast to the foregoing piece, but this is, perhaps, the truest way 
 of ascertaining the real vein of an author. The critics, cold- 
 blooded and calculating too often, oppose this plan on the 
 argument that the violent reaction prevents the palate from 
 regaining its natural taste. In despite of this we shall give the 
 following city lyric : 
 
 " Come out, love, the night is enchanting, 
 
 The moon hangs just over Broadway, 
 The stars are all lighted and panting 
 
 (Hot weather up there, I dare say). 
 'T is seldom that coolness entices, 
 
 And love is no better for chilling, 
 But come up to Thompson's for ices, 
 
 And cool your warm heart for a shilling. 
 ***** 
 Oh ! on by St Paul's and the Astor, 
 
 Religion seems very ill planned : 
 For one day we list to the pastor, 
 
 For six days we list to the band. 
 The sermon may dwell on the future, 
 
 The organ your pulses may calm, 
 When — past — that remembered cachuca, 
 
 Upsets both the sermon and psalm. 
 Oh ! pity the love that must utter 
 
 While goes a swift omnibus by, 
 Though sweet is I scream, when the flutter 
 
 Of fans shows thermometer's high. 
 But if what I bawl, or I mutter, 
 
 Falls into your eye but to die, 
 Oh ! the dew that falls into the gutter, 
 
 Is not more unhappy than I." 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 93 
 
 We think our readers will agree that Mr. Willis is not very- 
 successful as a comic writer in verse. We will, however, give 
 him one more trial before we decide that point. 
 
 " TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS. 
 
 " I know not who thou art, thou lovely one. 
 Thine eyes were drooped, thy lips half sorrowful, 
 Yet thou didst eloquently smile on me, 
 While handing up thy sixpence through the hole 
 Of that o'er-freighted omnibus ! — Ah, me ! — 
 The world is full of meetings such as this ; 
 A thrill — a voiceless challenge and reply, 
 And sudden partings after — we may pass, 
 And know not of each other's nearness now. 
 Thou in the Knickerbocker Line, and I 
 Lone in the Waverley ! Oh ! life of pain. 
 And even should I pass where thou dost dwell, 
 Nay, see thee in the basement taking tea, 
 So cold is this inexorable world, 
 I must glide on. I dare not feast mine eye, 
 I dare not make articulate my love, 
 Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in, 
 Venture to throw to thee my innocent card, 
 Not knowing thy papa." 
 
 Mr. Willis seems to be fond of the mock-heroic style of 
 verse, for we have another copy of verses to " The Lady in the 
 White Dress whom I helped into the Omnibus." We shall, how- 
 ever, not quote any portion of this, as it is in a similar strain to 
 the other ; our readers will decide as to what amount of humor 
 there is displayed in these pieces. In another phase of banter, 
 
94 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 we think Mr. Willis shows considerable cleverness ; there is an 
 elegance about his frivolity which lends a grace to the effort not 
 otherwise belonging to it. 
 
 " LOVE IN A COTTAGE. 
 
 " You may talk of love in a cottage, 
 And bowers of trellised vine, 
 Of nature bewitchingly simple, 
 
 And milkmaids half divine. 
 ******* 
 
 But give me a sly flirtation, 
 
 By the light of a chandelier, 
 With music to play in the pauses, 
 
 And nobody very near. 
 Or a seat on a silken sofa, 
 
 With a glass of pure old wine, 
 And mamma too blind to discover 
 
 The small white hand in mine. 
 Your love in a cottage is hungry, 
 
 Your vine is a nest for flies, 
 Your milkmaid shocks the graces, 
 
 And simplicity talks of pies. 
 ******* 
 True love is at home on a carpet, ] 
 
 And mightily likes his ease, 
 And true love has an eye for a dinner, 
 jsAnd starves beneath shady trees. 
 His wing is the fan of a lady, 
 
 His foot's an invisible thing, 
 i And his arrow is tipped with a jewel, 
 
 And shot from a silver string." 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 95 
 
 These verses are highly characteristic of the writer's genius. 
 Nature is pronounced somewhat vulgar and inconvenient, and 
 the elegances of life are considered as the pure Ideal. But we 
 mightily object to Mr. Willis's definition of elegance ; the true 
 elegance is the ideal of human nature ; the elegance of the fop 
 is as far removed from this as are the poles asunder. The 
 Arcadia of our poet very much depends upon the upholsterer, 
 the milliner, and the jeweller. His nature is artificial, and, 
 instead of grassy meads, with heaven's dew glistening on them, 
 they are covered with Turkey carpets ; the shady banks are 
 removed, and velvet couches placed in their stead ; the mur- 
 muring brooks are muffled, and the birds driven away to make 
 room for an Italian Opera. This may be civilization in a very 
 high degree, but it is not the natural elegance of man ; one of 
 the old dramatists has admirably touched upon the Ideal and 
 the Conventional in those celebrated lines alluding to our 
 Saviour, as, 
 
 L, C*C, 
 
 " The first true gentleman that e'er wore 
 Earth about him." 
 
 "We may mention as a singular proof of the artificiality of 
 Mr. Willis's style, the curious fact that his bantering or mock- 
 heroic verses are scarcely distinguishable from his scriptural 
 poems. We give part of "The Declaration" as evidence 
 of our statement. 
 
 " 'T was late, and the gay company was gone, 
 And light lay soft on the deserted room 
 From alabaster vases, and a scent 
 Of orange leaves and sweet verbena came 
 
96 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 Through the unshuttered window on the air, 
 And the rich pictures, with their dark old tints, 
 Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things 
 Seemed hushed into a slumber. Isabel, 
 The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel, 
 Was leaning on her harp, and I had stayed 
 To whisper what I could not, when the crowd 
 Hung on her look like worshippers — 
 * * * * 
 
 She upraised 
 Her forehead from its resting place, and looked 
 Earnestly on me. She had been asleep." 
 
 This is very heavy trifling. 
 
 But the chief test of how far Mr. Willis is a humorous writer 
 is to be decided by his " Lady Jane, a Humorous Novel in 
 Rhyme." Here there can be no mistake in the matter. He 
 himself avows boldly his deliberate and determined intention to 
 be funny. It is not left in doubt, as was the intention of 
 the farce which was performed some time since at Burton's 
 Theatre. After a few nights it was withdrawn by the author, 
 who declared that the actors and audience had certainly mis- 
 taken the nature of the piece : he had intended it for a farce, 
 but they had actually considered it as a serious drama. Had 
 the author followed Mr. Willis's advice he would have pre- 
 vented the dilemma. 
 
 To return to the humorous novel in verse. The following 
 description of the heroine is very felicitous : 
 
 " Yet there was fire within her soft grey eye, 
 And room for pressure on her lips of rose J 
 And few who saw her gracefully move by, 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 9*7 
 
 Imagined that her feelings slept, or froze. 
 You may have seen a ctmning florist tie 
 
 A thread about a bud, which never blows, 
 But with shut chalice from the sun and rain, 
 Hoards up the morn — and such was Lady Jane. 
 * * * * 
 
 Some stanzas back we left the ladies going 
 At six to dress for dinner. Time to dine 
 
 I always give in poetry, well knowing 
 That to jump over it in half a line, 
 
 Looks (let us be sincere, dear Muse) like showing 
 Contempt we do not feel for meat and wine. 
 
 Dinner ! ye gods ! — What is there more respectable ? 
 
 For eating, who, save Byron, ever checked a belle V 
 
 We have read this poem through, consisting of two or 
 three hundred verses in the Boccaccian or Don Juan stanza, 
 but with the exception of an occasional play upon words, we do 
 not recognise any of those strokes of humor and unexpected 
 contrasts which render Byron so charming. Still there are a 
 pleasant banter and gentlemanly quizzing about many of the 
 best stanzas, which enable a reader to get through it. There 
 are, however, few passages which will repay a second perusal. 
 
 We do not charge this upon Mr. Willis as a fault, because 
 his forte is evidently prose, where his vivacity and polished 
 style serve him admirably. His want of earnestness is fatal 
 to him as a poet, but helps him in those lighter sketches 
 where he seems quite at home. 
 
 We have no space to consider Mr. Willis as a dramatist ; 
 we must therefore content ourselves by remarking that, as 
 his plays have not retained possession of the stage, he adds 
 
98 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 one more to that long list of writers who have been seduced 
 by the temptation of popular applause to over-estimate their 
 powers. We may be permitted to add, that the total absence 
 of dramatic power in his writings is so marked, that we 
 should have been more astonished at success than failure : we 
 consequently merely chronicle his attempt rather as a bio- 
 graphical fact than as a poetical feat. 
 
 There are few things more anomalous in the history of 
 literature than the present position of the American stage. 
 Out of eight theatres in the metropolis of the western world 
 seven are owned by foreigners, the only exception being the 
 small and somewhat inferior one called the National, in Chat- 
 ham street, under the control of Mr. Chanfrau. We are 
 informed that it is almost impossible for an American to get 
 a play produced, however adapted it may be for popular repre- 
 sentation. We are perfectly aware that many will allege 
 the want of dramatic genius as a sufficient and conclusive 
 reason for this singular state of things ; but we may be allowed 
 to observe that so long as this excluding or prohibiting system 
 exists, there never will be any genius shown in this branch of 
 poetry : encouragement is essentially necessary for every pro- 
 duct, and for none more than for intellectual variety. 
 
 There is, perhaps, nothing more indicative of a healthy 
 national state than a legitimate drama, and the greatest critics 
 in England have thought that to this species of excellence 
 England owes more than to her victorious fleets. It certainly 
 reflects more of a country's glory than any other shape of 
 mind, and a glance at the past will confirm this view. 
 
 The victories of Greece have died away. Marathon is only 
 
NATHANIEL PABKER WILLIS. 99 
 
 a barren and desolate plain, but the papyrus on which iEschylus 
 inscribed his Prometheus is peopled still with his undying 
 characters. How transient are the mightiest triumphs of force — 
 how everlasting the poet's thought ; every year deadens the 
 shout of the warrior, but the voice of the poet rolls down the 
 corridors of the Future, awakening on its passage, like so many 
 echoes, the sympathies of the unborn millions — nations yet to 
 be ; England will always be immortal in the world's esteem as 
 the land of Shakspeare, when her colonies and her commerce 
 have perished. 
 
 As we shall have a fitter place to discuss the want of an 
 American Drama, we shall reserve what we have to say on this 
 subject for that opportunity. 
 
 It frequently occurs that men run against difficulties which 
 they have no occasion to meet; this is the case with Mr. 
 Willis. In the intoxication of his vanity he believed he could 
 drive his Pegasus to its dramatic Parnassus, but he found 
 obstacles in the way he littled dreamed of. 
 
 This reminds us of an accident a lively novelist related one 
 evening, as having happened to himself. Having occasion to 
 dine with a friend, he jumped into a cab, and told the man to 
 drive as fast as he could to Russell square. He had not been 
 long in the conveyance before he felt assured the man was 
 drunk; now he drove against a cart — then he went into an 
 oyster stall. He extricated himself from this dilemma by rushing 
 upon a heavy wagon ; unable to overcome this obstacle, he violated 
 the proprieties of driving by disorganizing a funeral procession ; 
 his efforts reached a climax by mistaking the footpath for the 
 road, and, immediately after, a sharp shock, and then a dead 
 
100 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 stand-still, convinced the rider inside that the cab was inextrica- 
 bly fixed. Springing out, our friend observed that the man 
 was in the middle of the footpath, and that the wheel was 
 locked in a lamp-post. Indignantly demanding what the fellow 
 meant, he received the following reply : — " Who the devil 
 would have thought of finding a post in the middle of the 
 road ?" We fear this will be our author's apology for writing 
 plays — he had no idea he should find any ■ obstacles in his 
 way! 
 
 We must now consider the prose writings of Mr. Willis, and 
 we are glad to say that although he displays the self-same 
 peculiarities we have condemned in his poetic musings, yet the 
 less condensed style of composition renders them less apparent, 
 from the greater diffusion of the fault. Once for all, we must 
 here make the remark that he has very little self-reliance, and, 
 indeed, not a particle of dignity ; there is a total want of inde- 
 pendence about him, which at times becomes absurdly deferen- 
 tial. He seems to have made Polonius his study, but, unlike 
 that wise old man, he has not the same excuse. The Danish 
 Minister believed he had a madman to humor, and not a 
 rational being to converse with ; and we have always considered 
 this as one of Shakspeare's most wonderful touches of Nature. 
 " Very like a whale" was a perfectly accountable expression 
 from Polonius to a prince whom he believed to be crazy, but 
 when Mr. Willis expects that we shall coincide with his dittoes 
 to London dilettanti, he is wofully mistaken. He seems 
 delighted with everything he saw and heard in the British 
 capital ; he never bares the hideous mass of suffering under 
 that velvet pall of aristocracy. Our space warns us that we 
 
NATHANIEL l'AKK I«: R \V I LL IS . 101 
 
 must finish what we have to say without further loss of 
 time. We have not judged him without the very best avail- 
 able evidence in his favor, by his own works; we say this 
 on the presumption that he would subpoena these witnesses to 
 speak his character in case of a literary trial. 
 
 Having just completed the perusal of Mr. Willis's collected 
 works, our impression is this : — He is a lively, entertaining 
 writer, full of conceits, quips, and cranks, but destitute of 
 that breadth and vigor of mind which give vitality to a writer ; 
 he is content, swallow-like, to skim on the surface, and never 
 feels power or inclination to turn up the hidden beauties of 
 nature or thought. He is content with chatting in the Muses' 
 boudoir, at a morning call, and leaves without producing any 
 impression. He is, therefore, only an occasional visitor, and not 
 their intimate and friend. He is sometimes employed to carry 
 a message, but is never treated as their interpreter or ambassa- 
 dor. We close our notice of Mr. Willis with a very charac- 
 teristic anecdote of Bulwer, as related to us by an eye- 
 witness : — 
 
 Having been invited, at some three weeks' notice, by the 
 author of Pelham to a grand dejeuner, or Fete Champetre, at 
 his Villa near Fulham, Mr. upon the afternoon in ques- 
 tion found himself driving towards the scene of action. On his 
 arrival there, about two in the afternoon, he joined a large and 
 fashionable company there assembled. Various groups were 
 scattered about, occupied in different ways ; a party here were 
 engaged in archery — a party there were listening to some 
 manuscript verses by some unpublished genius, who had basely 
 
102 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 taken advantage of that courteous forbearance so nearly allied to 
 martyrdom to inflict his undeveloped poems. At a little dis- 
 tance, pacing up and down, were a brace of political economists, 
 busily engaged in paying off the national debt, and very pro- 
 perly inattentive to their own tailors' claims. On the bank of 
 the river was the celebrated novelist himself, chatting to a small 
 party of ladies, one of whom was occupied in fishing with so 
 elegant a rod that Sappho herself need not have despised to use 
 it. Of a sudden there was a faint and highly lady-like scream. 
 " A bite, a bite, Sir Edward," was the fascinating ejaculation of 
 the fair angler. With that presence of mind so eminently 
 characteristic of the beautiful part of creation, she pulled the 
 rod from the water, and there, sure enough, w T as a monstrous 
 fish, almost as large as a perch. While the poor little thing 
 kicked violently about, the ladies cried with one accord for Sir 
 Edward to secure the struggling prisoner by unhooking it. The 
 baronet looked imploringly first at the ladies, then at the fish, 
 and still more pathetically at his flesh-colored kid gloves, inno- 
 cent of a stain. Sir Edward's alarm was apparent ; he would 
 have shrunk from brushing the down from off a butterfly's 
 wing, lest he should soil the virgin purity of his kids, but a fish 
 — it was too horrible. The ladies, who seemed to take a 
 fiendMi delight in torturing their fastidious host, insisted upon 
 his releasing the poor captive, and appealed loudly to his 
 romantic sympathies. At length one of them more lively 
 and mischievous than the rest, seized the rod and actually 
 waved it close to Sir Edward's face ; throwing his hand out to 
 protect himself his fingers came in contact with the scaly 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 103 
 
 phenomenon ; — then nerving himself for the deed, he resolutely 
 seized the dangerous animal, and, extricating it from the hook, 
 threw it into its native element. Lamb has in one of his essays 
 observed, how would men like if some superior being were to 
 go out manning, and, letting down a hook through the air 
 towards the earth, baited with a beefsteak, draw a man up to 
 heaven, roaring like a bull, with a hook in his gills. 
 
 Our friend was cordially welcomed by the fish releaser, and 
 finding several of his old friends, rambled about the grounds, 
 chatting first with one, and then another, until he felt all the 
 vulgar sensations of hunger. It was now five o'clock, and no 
 symptoms of the dejeuner ; he had unfortunately breakfasted 
 early, and had purposely abstained from lunching, Iris know- 
 ledge of fashionable French being so limited as to translate 
 erroneously the word " dejeuner," to mean a meal of that kind. 
 At eight o'clock in the evening the lunch bell rang, and a 
 nonchalant rush was made towards the house. The blaze of 
 light ushered them to the room where all was laid out in the 
 perfection of Gunter's best manner ; but judge our famished 
 friend's dismay, when a rapid survey, like a Napoleon's glance, 
 discovered only the elegances of eating, the ornaments of the 
 appetite, and not its substantialities. Jellies in the shape of 
 crystal mounds ; cakes battlemented like the baronial dwell- 
 ings of feudal tyrants. Trifles light as air, swelling over 
 Chinese dwellings, crimson flushed with vermilion sweets ; piles 
 of bon-bons and scented crackers, gorgeously gilded and rain- 
 bow colored. At each side were flesh-colored masses of ice 
 creams, flanked by a regiment of infinitesimal mince pies, rasp- 
 berry tarts, and triangular cheese-cakes. At solemn intervals 
 
104 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 were Maraschino, Curacoa, Noyau, and other liqueurs, confined 
 in small decanters, about the size of Eau de Cologne phials, while 
 scattered around were goblets to drink out of, about the size of 
 overgrown thimbles. It was a diabolical improvement (so 
 far as starvation went) on the feast of Tantalus. A glass of 
 water would have had a gigantic look in our friend's eyes per- 
 fectly titanic. A narrower scrutiny discovered to his longing 
 sight two dishes, one a tureen of palish, green-looking water, 
 where there were a few diminutive new potatoes, swimming for 
 their lives, and trying to escape, which they did with ease, from 
 the abortive efforts of our friend, who, with a ladle, was doing 
 his best to capture one, to satisfy the cravings of his appetite. 
 
 The other dish was one of fritters, and presented the ap- 
 pearance of having been made out of Sir Edward's kid gloves 
 dipped in batter, and then elaborately fried. We must draw 
 a veil over our friend's sufferings. After securing a spoonful 
 of jelly — one of the afore-named small forced-meat balls — 
 a portion of truffle, evanescent and shadowy as mist — (not 
 half so substantial as a good wholesome London November 
 fog, which at times is so thick that it can be easily cut cling- 
 ing to the knife) — and a glass-thimbleful of maraschino — our 
 friend drove home in his gig through the chill evening 
 air, with his teeth chattering to themselves, and trying to 
 console his importunate gastric juice and empty stomach. 
 
 He astonished his wife and household on his return home 
 by eating seriatim everything in the house in the way of flesh, 
 from a haunch of mutton down to a ham bone, and from 
 the new bread down to the stale crust. 
 
 Mr. "Willis's productions very much resemble Sir Edward's 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 105 
 
 dtjeuner: elegant, tasteful, and unsubstantial, they offer but 
 poor satisfaction to the wholesome appetite of a healthy 
 guest. 
 
 Mr. Willis leaves on us the impression that he is not 
 in earnest ; that he has no fixed principles, except a fastidious, 
 but very artificial taste. There is a want of healthiness about 
 his mind, which leaves robustness altogether out of the ques- 
 tion. The color on the cheeks of his muse is not the rosy 
 freshness of health, but the carmine of the dressing-room ; her 
 attitudes are the result of the dancing-master, and not of 
 native grace ; there is more of the Aspasia than the Vestal 
 in her manners and discourse, always deducting the wit of 
 the celebrated Grecian beauty. It has always appeared to 
 us that foreign travel, which steadies and consolidates the 
 true poet, has a deteriorating influence on the mere man 
 of elegant susceptibilities. To be sure, every true poet has 
 a taste, but it is a natural relish for truth, and not a 
 craving for excitement. The palate of health can derive de- 
 light and sustenance from a crust and a draught from the crys- 
 tal spring, and does not require its appetite to be provoked 
 by the ragouts of Paris or the curries of the Indies. In short, 
 the attraction of Mr. Willis's muse proceeds rather from the 
 hectic of consumption and disease, than from the blushing 
 glow and grace of buxom health : its energy is the effect 
 of stimulants, and not the result of symmetrical elasticity 
 and genuine cheerfulness. 
 
 To produce an effect by contrast let us create the opposite 
 of the being personified by Collins, and we have the female 
 Frankenstein muse of Mr. Willis. 
 
106 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 He * * * * * 
 
 " When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 
 
 Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
 
 Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 
 Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, 
 The hunter's call, to Fawn and Dryad known ; 
 The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, 
 
 Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen 
 
 Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 
 
 Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, 
 And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear." 
 
 "We cannot avoid mentioning as a peculiarity in Mr. Willis's 
 writings the singular fact that the majority of his illustrations 
 proceed from articles of female clothing. When we read 
 with the intention of noticing this peculiarity the effect is 
 very comical ; first one allusion, then another, until at length 
 a roar of laughter follows the experiment, and convinces us 
 we have proved our point. 
 
 There is also at times a most inappropriate use of " adjec- 
 tives," such as these, "porphyry eyes," — or likening a lady's 
 bosom to "a shelf of alabaster." Indeed Mr. Willis would 
 be nothing without his adjectives. 
 
 Some humorous poet wrote once, 
 
 " Without black velvet breeches, what is man f ' 
 
 A critic might substitute " adjectives " for " velvet smalls," and 
 exclaim in like manner. 
 
 It is related of Nollekens, that once when his wife, who was 
 proverbially a passionate woman, was so angry as to stop 
 
N A I 11 A N I E L P A R K E R W I L L I 8 . lOV 
 
 in the midst of her vituperation, he cried out during her 
 speechless trance : " If you are short of adjectives, my dear, 
 swear, it will ease you so /" 
 
 The author of " Rural Letters " never allows his deficiency 
 to carry him into the realms of abjuration, but we sometimes 
 involuntarily think of the sculptor's wife when we read his 
 characteristic productions. 
 
 In person, Mr. Willis is tall and elegantly ♦made. His 
 manners are courteous, and he has the polisli of high-breeding ; 
 his hair is light brown ; and altogether he leaves the impres- 
 sion of the English gentleman, refined by travel and obser- 
 vation. He is an elaborate dresser, and is estimable in his 
 private relations. 
 
108 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE, 
 
 As the grave has closed over the poet, we shall give a 
 short biographical sketch of him. 
 
 Edgar Poe was the son of David Poe and Elizabeth Arnold. 
 His father was the fourth son of General Poe, a name well 
 known in the Revolutionary AVar. Some little interest is 
 attached to his memory from the fact of General Lafayette, 
 during his memorable visit to this country, making a pilgrimage 
 to his grave. 
 
 Mr. David Poe had three children — Henry, Edgar (the poet), 
 and Rosalie. On the death of their parents Edgar and Rosalie 
 were adopted by a wealthy merchant of the name of Allan. 
 Having no children, Mr. Allan unhesitatingly avowed to all 
 his intention of making Edgar his heir. 
 
 In 1816 the subject of this memoir was taken by his adopted 
 parents to England, and after making with them the tour of 
 Scotland, he was left for five years to complete his education at 
 Dr. Bransby's, of Stoke Newington. The curious reader will 
 find a description of this school in one of Poe's sketches called 
 "William Wilson." 
 
 Returning to America he went to various academies, and 
 
EDGAR ALLAN ?0E. 109 
 
 finally to the University of Virginia, at Charlottesville. The 
 dissolute manners of the Institution infected him, and he was 
 no exception to the general rule. His abilities, notwithstanding, 
 enabled hirn to maintain a respectable position in the eyes of 
 the Professors. His time here was divided between lectures, 
 debating societies, rambles in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and 
 in making caricatures of his tutors and the heads of the col- 
 lege. We are informed he had the habit of covering the walls 
 of his sleeping-room with these rough charcoal sketches. 
 Rousing himself from this desultory course of life, he took the 
 first honors of the college and returned home. 
 
 To escape froin the reproaches of his friends, and possibly 
 from the consequences of his thoughtlessness, he formed the 
 design, in conjunction with a friend, of visiting Greece, with the 
 intention of aiding the Revolution then in progress in that 
 classic land. His companion, Ebenezer Burling, abandoned the 
 rash design almost as soon as projected, but the energetic 
 nature of the poet was not so easily turned aside from his path. 
 He proceeded, therefore, as far as St. Petersburg, where he had 
 a narrow escape from the fangs of that brutal government, in 
 consequence of an irregularity in his passport. The exertions 
 of the Consul saved him from the consequences of the error, 
 and through his friendship he returned to America. 
 
 Here he found a great change awaiting him. His benefac- 
 tress, Mrs. Allan, was dead ; he reached Richmond the day after 
 her funeral. This was the origin of all his subsequent misfor- 
 tunes* After an apparent reconciliation with Mr. Allan, he 
 entered West Point Academy, resolved to devote himself to a 
 military life. Here he entered upon his new studies and duties 
 
110 EDGAH ALLAN POfi, 
 
 with characteristic energy, and an honorable career was opened 
 to him ; but the Fates willed that Mr. Allan should in his 
 dotage marry a girl young enough to be her husband's grand- 
 daughter. The birth of a child convinced Mr. Poe that his 
 hopes to inherit his adopted father's property were at an end, 
 and he consequently left West Point, resolving to proceed to 
 Poland, to join the struggle for liberty then making by that 
 heroic nation against her diabolical oppressors* The fall of 
 Warsaw ended the conflict, and our chivalric poet was again 
 deprived of his intention. 
 
 He therefore proceeded to Baltimore, where he learned the 
 death of Mr. Allan. As he had left him nothing, he was now 
 thrown upon the world well nigh resourceless. It is said that 
 this man's widow even refused him his own books. 
 
 About this time came the turning point in Mr. Poe's life. 
 Nature had given him a poetical mind ; accident now afforded 
 the opportunity for its development. 
 
 The Editors of the Baltimore Visitor had offered a premium 
 for the best prose tale, and also one for the best poem. The 
 umpires were men of taste and ability, and, after a careful 
 consideration of the productions, they decided that Mr. Poe was 
 undoubtedly entitled to both prizes. As Mr. Poe was entirely 
 unknown to them, this was a genuine tribute to his superior 
 merit. 
 
 The poem he sent was the " Coliseum," and six tales for 
 their selection. 'Not content with awarding the premiums, they 
 declared that the worst of the six tales referred to was better 
 than the best of the other competitors. 
 
 Some little time after this triumph he was engaged by Mr. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE. Ill 
 
 "White to edit the " Southern Literary Messenger," which had 
 been established about seven months, and had attained a circu- 
 lation of about four hundred subscribers. 
 
 There he remained for nearly two years, devoting the energies 
 of his rich and ingenious mind to the interest of the Review ; so 
 much was he regarded there that when he left he had raised the 
 circulation of the journal to above three thousand. 
 
 Very much of this success was owing to the fearlessness of 
 his criticisms. Always in earnest, he was either on one side or 
 the other ; he had a scorn of the respectable level trash which 
 has too long brooded like a nightmare over American Literature. 
 Mr. Poe did not like tamely to submit to the dethronement of 
 genius, and the instalment of a feeble, sickly grace, and an 
 amiable mediocrity. What gods and men abhor, according to 
 Horace, a certain class of critics and readers in America adore. 
 America is jealous of her victories by sea and land — is proud 
 of advantages with which she has nothing to do, such as 
 Niagara, the Mississippi, and the other wonders of nature. An 
 American points with pride to the magnificent steamboats which 
 ride the waters like things of life. Foreigners sometimes 
 smile at the honest satisfaction, even enthusiasm, which lights 
 up the national face when a few hundred troops file down 
 Broadway, to discordant drums and squeaking fifes. But all 
 their natural feeling and national pride stop here. So far from 
 the American public taking any interest in their own men of 
 genius — in the triumphs of mind — they absolutely allow others 
 openly to conspire, and put down eveiy attempt to establish a 
 National Literature. 
 
 The Americans are a shrewd and far-seeing people, but they 
 
112 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 are somewhat too material ; they must not believe that a 
 nation can long exist without men of thought, as well as men of 
 action. The salvation of America lies in the possession of a 
 Republican Literature. The literature of England is slowly 
 sapping the foundation of her institutions. England does all her 
 thinking, and if this system continues, the action of this great 
 nation will be in accordance with the will of the old country. 
 Like the Gulf Stream of Florida, the current of aristocratical 
 genius is slowly drifting the ark of America to a point they 
 little dream of, and never intend. The very bulk of this coun- 
 try renders the operation unseen ; but, though imperceptible to 
 the eye, it is palpable to the mind, and certain in its results. 
 
 What hope of victory would the armies and navies of this 
 young republic have had, if, when they were arming for the 
 fight, the bystanders had discouraged them; or when sailing to the 
 encounter, the jibes or indifference of their fellow-citizens had been 
 expressed ? Certain defeat and disgrace, as sure as heaven ! 
 And how can America expect her young authors to vindicate 
 her national glory when she treats them with indifference and 
 neglect. Nay, even worse, she openly discourages them in their 
 attempt, and tacitly confesses that it is hopeless to compete 
 with the writers of England or France. These remarks apply 
 to every branch of American literature ; let the people con- 
 sider this matter, and remedy it before they find the republican 
 form governed by a foreign and aristocratical mind. If luxury 
 enervated the Roman Body, so will a foreign pabulum destroy 
 the American Mind. 
 
 It is a curious fact that the worst enemies of the national mind 
 have been a few of her own sons. These are authors who till 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE. 113 
 
 lately have entirely enjoyed the monopoly of the English mar- 
 ket ; now they will be obliged to join the body of native authors, 
 and hurry to the rescue. So long as they could trespass on the 
 mistaken courtesy of the British publishers, and get four thou- 
 sand guineas for this Life of Columbus, and two hundred 
 guineas for that Typee, there was no occasion for any inter- 
 ference ; in fact, they were materially benefited by this crying- 
 injustice to the great body of authors. Now their own rights 
 are in jeopardy, and they must join the ranks of International 
 Copyright. 
 
 We cannot help here remarking that if we were an Ameri- 
 can author, we should compel certain writers to account for 
 their past apathy and their present activity ; as, however, we 
 wish to close these remarks with good-humor, we shall quote 
 a little anecdote which has gone the round of society in 
 England. It also evidences that Janus-faced figure which 
 every fact and fiction possesses for the human thought. 
 
 Owing to some accident there are two portraits of an 
 author in Mr. Murray's private office, in Albemarle street. 
 A friend inquiring of him one day the cause of this super- 
 abundant reverence for the great writer, received for reply: 
 "Really, I cannot account for it on any other ground than 
 the fact that I have lost twice as much by that author 
 as by any other." 
 
 Although somewhat irrelevant the mention of Mr. Murray's 
 name reminds us of a joke played off by Byron upon that 
 prince of publishers. Mr. Leigh Hunt was our informant. 
 
 The "moody Childe" had given to Murray as a birthday 
 present a Bible magnificently bound, and which he enriched 
 
114 EDGAR ALLAN POE, 
 
 by a very flattering* inscription. This was laid by the grateful 
 publisher on his drawing-room table, and somewhat osten- 
 tatiously displayed to all comers. One evening, as a large 
 company were gathered around the table, one of the guests 
 happened to open the Testament, and saw some writing in 
 the margin. Calling to Murray, he said : " Why, Byron has 
 written something here!" Narrower inspection proved that 
 the profane wit had erased the word " robber " in the text 
 and substituted that of " publisher," so that the passage read 
 thus : " Now, Barabbas was a publisher !" The legend goes 
 on to state that the book disappeared that very night from 
 the drawing-room table. 
 
 After this digression we must return to our poet's fortunes. 
 
 Mr. Poe abandoned the " Southern Literary Messenger " 
 to assist Professors Anthon, Henry, and Hawks in the con- 
 ducting of the " New York Quarterly Review." Here he came 
 down pretty freely with his critical axe, and made many ene- 
 mies. At the end of a year he went to Philadelphia, and 
 amused himself by writing for the " Gentleman's Magazine," 
 since merged into Graham's. His criticisms here, as usual, 
 occasioned much discussion. 
 
 Mr. Poe's first volume of poems was a modest pamphlet, 
 called "Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems, by a Vir- 
 ginian." It was published at Boston, in his fifteenth year. 
 The following lines were written two years previous ; they 
 exhibit great promise for a boy of thirteen. 
 
 "TO HELEN. 
 
 " Helen, thy beauty is to me, 
 
 Like those Nicean barks of yore, 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE, 115 
 
 That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 
 
 The weary, way-worn wanderer bore, 
 To his own native shore. 
 
 " On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
 Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 
 Thy naiad airs have brought me home, 
 To the glory that was Greece, 
 And the grandeur that was Rome* 
 
 " Lo ! in yon brilliant window niche, 
 How statue-like I see thee stand, 
 The agate lamp within thy hand, 
 Ah ! Psyche, from the regions which 
 Are Holy Land." 
 
 There is a confused and misty classic reminiscence about 
 tbese lines which shows the poetical mind in its first dreamy 
 efforts to realize. 
 
 A second edition of this volume was published in Baltimore 
 in 1827 ; and a tbird, we are informed, during tbe author's 
 cadetship at West Point. 
 
 We are much struck with a poem entitled " Ligrea." It 
 is intended as a personification of music. It is too long to 
 quote entire ; we must, however, find space for a few stanzas. 
 For a boy of fourteen it is certainly a singular production, and 
 evidences a psychological development painfully precocious, and 
 indicative of future sorrow. 
 
 There is a peculiarity of rhythm in all Mr. Poe's verses 
 
116 EDGAR ALLAN £0E. 
 
 which is attractive, although occasionally exhibiting too much 
 of their mechanical nature. 
 
 This is the " Spirit's Invocation." 
 
 " Spirit, that dwellest where 
 
 In the deep sky 
 The terrible and fair 
 
 In beauty vie. 
 Beyond the line of blue, 
 
 The boundary of the star. 
 That turneth at the view 
 
 Of thy barrier and thy bar. 
 
 * * # 
 Bright beings that ponder 
 
 With half-closing eyes, 
 On the stars which grave wonder 
 Hath drawn from the skies, 
 
 * # * 
 
 Up ! shake from your wings 
 All hindering things, 
 The dew of the night 
 Will weigh down your flight, 
 And true-love caresses — 
 
 Oh ! leave them apart, 
 They are light on the tresses, 
 
 But lead on the heart. 
 
 * * * 
 The sound of the rain, 
 
 That leaps down to the flower, 
 And dances again 
 In the rhythm of the shower. 
 
EDGAli ALLAN POE. 117 
 
 The murmur that springs 
 
 From the growing of grass, 
 Are the music of things, 
 
 But are modelled — alas !" 
 
 * * * 
 
 It is evident to all that the melody of the young poet was 
 here, and only required study and opportunity to come out in 
 glorious and enduring shapes. 
 
 In the ensuing extract Aye have a singular phase of the youth- 
 ful mind — dreamy, confused ; yet in this misty vision we see a 
 world of order forming. It is evidently inspired by some of 
 Keats. 
 
 " Ours is a world of words : Quiet we call 
 Silence, which is the veriest word of all. 
 Here nature speaks, and evil ideal things 
 Flap shadowy hands for visionary wings. 
 A dome, by linked light from heaven let down, 
 Sat gently on these columns as a crown, 
 And rays from God shot down that meteor chain, 
 And hallowed all the beauty twice again, 
 Save when between the empyrean and that ring 
 Some eager spirit flapped his dusky wing. 
 Within the centre of this hall to breathe 
 She paused, and panted Zanthe ! all beneath 
 The brilliant light that kissed her golden hair, 
 And long to rest, yet could not sparkle there. 
 From the wild energy of wanton haste 
 Her cheek was flushing, and her lips apart, 
 And zone, that clung about her gentle waist, 
 Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart." 
 
118 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 "When critical readers object to the laborious combination 
 of images here, let it be remembered this was the composition 
 of a boy. This, however, if carried out strictly, becomes a 
 very serious drawback upon our estimate of Mr. Poe's genius, 
 for we do not find, as a poet, he made much progress from 
 fourteen to forty. His prose grew firmer, more thoughtful, 
 fuller of artistic effects every year he wrote, as his numerous 
 tales unmistakably testify ; but his verses seemed modelled on 
 his earliest school. Of all poets he seems earliest to have 
 caught the trick of verse. His schoolboy effusions possess the 
 glow of his more matured efforts ; and with the exception of two 
 or three productions, where the ingenuity of the mechanical 
 construction shows the man's thought, there is nothing to demar- 
 cate one poem from another. 
 
 That development of progressive power so naturally visible 
 in all the productions of a great mind is not traceable in our 
 author's verse, but, with a singular psychological contradiction, 
 is evident throughout his other writings. 
 
 In this short extract we may observe much of the after man. 
 
 " Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light, 
 She fears to perfume, perfuming the night : 
 And that aspiring flower that sprang on earth, 
 And died ere scarce exalted into birth, 
 Bursting its odorous heart in spirit, to wing 
 Its way to heaven from garden of a king. 
 And Valisnerian Lotus thither flown, 
 From struggling with the waters of the Rhone, 
 And thy most lovely purple perfume Zante, 
 Isola d' oro — fior de Levante, 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE. 119 
 
 And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever, 
 With Indian Cupid down the Holy River." 
 
 This description of poetry is, of all others, the most difficult 
 to judge from. It possesses so many features of the composite 
 order that we know not how much belongs to the memory or 
 the imagination. Still there is a flow of music throughout 
 which convinces the most sceptical of the presence of poetic 
 susceptibilities and power of sound. 
 
 In his sonnet to Science we have a clearer insight into our 
 author's mode of dealing with thought in an emphatic manner : 
 
 " Science, true daughter of Old Time thou art : 
 Who alterest all things with thy piercing eyes, 
 Why prey'st thou thus upon the poet's heart, 
 Vulture, whose wings are dull realities ? 
 How should he love thee ? or how deem thee wise 
 Who would'st not leave him in his wandering 
 To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, 
 Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing ? 
 Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car, 
 And driven the Hamadryad from the wood, 
 To seek a shelter in some happier state ? 
 Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, 
 The Elfin from the green grass, and from me 
 The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree ?" 
 
 This is certainly a fine sonnet, and contains an agreeable 
 mixture of classical reminiscence and personal romance. 
 
 Without in any way meaning to convey to the reader the 
 
120 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 idea of imitation, we cannot help quoting, as an agreeable com- 
 panion to the above, Wordsworth's sonnet embodying similar 
 regrets. It is justly considered one of the old English Bard's 
 most finished efforts. 
 
 " The world is too much with us ; late or soon, 
 Getting or spending, we lay waste our powers. 
 Little we see in nature that is ours ; 
 We've changed our hearts away — a sordid boon. 
 Yon sea that bares its bosom to the moon — 
 The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
 But are upgathered now like sleeping flowers. 
 For this — for all things we are out of tune, 
 They move us not : great God I'd rather be 
 A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn, 
 
 " So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn. 
 Have sight of Venus rising from the sea, 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn." 
 
 Of all the masters of versification Mr. Coleridge was certainly 
 the one who made it a great feature in his poetry ; but his 
 system was so refined, so subtilized, as to escape the notice of 
 the outward senses ; its presence was felt within by reason of 
 the effect produced on the mind by his charmed verses. His 
 witchcraft was invisible ; the spell was a pervading power. In 
 Mr. Poe, who in some respects may be called a mechanical or 
 machine Coleridge, we have more of the old conjurer's tricks. 
 There is a needless display of cabalistic symbols ; an officious 
 
EDGAR ALLAN FOE, 121 
 
 devil draws ostentatious circles, and other mathematical deviltry, 
 so that we surrender to the show, and not to the soul of magic 
 power ; it is really not too much to say that a fine algebraist 
 might get a tolerably correct idea of some of the most charac- 
 teristic of Mr. Poe's verses by an architectural skeleton or 
 design of his poems. The physique of melody is generally 
 fatal to its spirituality ; but, owing to a curious faculty in our 
 author, he marvellously escapes detection, except from a few of 
 the more over wise and over curious critics. To many, we feel 
 sure this is his great charm ; it requires a very nice and a very 
 close analysis to discover the source of his success with the 
 many. 
 
 That the author of the " Raven," &c, was a poet no 
 doubt can exist. Extravagant as our opinion may now ap- 
 pear, we venture to say that in a few years, when the 
 memory of his failings shall have died away, he will be 
 considered one of America's best poets. He was the first 
 who arrested our attention, and conveyed to our mind the 
 fact that a man of great peculiarity was speaking. "We use 
 peculiarity out of a sort of insecurity and hesitation we do 
 not often feel, otherwise we have a full and strong incli- 
 nation to write originality. Had we been in England we 
 should unhesitatingly have done so ; but as Mr. Poe is only 
 an American, we forbear to move a second time the indig- 
 nation of the Press by claiming for a native of this great 
 republic a common share of God's great gift of intellect. The 
 day will, however, come when all the objections of a foreign 
 Press will not prevent justice being done to the native genius 
 of the land of Washington. 
 
122 EDGAR ALLAN POI. 
 
 One grand distinguishing feature in Mr. Poe's mind is 
 his mathematical power. He even constructs his poetry on 
 its basis : in his prose writings he carries this occasionally 
 to a wearisome extent: it is also visible in the mechanical 
 form of his verse. In his later productions it is very strong ; 
 we more particularly allude to the most celebrated of his 
 poems, -viz. " The Raven ;" this is too well known to quote 
 entire, we shall therefore content ourselves by giving only 
 a few stanzas, in order to illustrate our position and confirm 
 our assertion. 
 
 We cannot dismiss this subject without paying our earnest 
 tribute to the womanhood of the poet's chief friend, his wife's 
 mother. To Mrs. Clem will be awarded in the history of 
 genius the rarest of all crowns, the wreath placed by God's 
 hands — through his noblest creatures — on woman's beautiful 
 and matron brow. Even in her lifetime she will receive 
 the world's acknowledgment of her nobility of soul ; and 
 the tongues whom envy or shame froze in the life of her 
 gifted but unhappy son-in-law, will thaw, and like the fable 
 of old utter praises to the perished one, condemning their 
 own wretched selves. 
 
 Oh! that a hand would arise, who, carefully registering 
 the arts of these wretched shams of humanity — these suits 
 of dress with a patent digester placed inside — would whip 
 them naked through the world ; when — after persecuting the 
 prophets, and guarding the clothes of the murderers — they, 
 terrified into a mongrel and disgusting recognition of genius, 
 audaciously join in the procession, as though they were the 
 genuine mourners of the martyred man. 
 
E 1) GAR ALLAN POE, 123 
 
 We will not dwell long on the darkness of our poet's 
 fate : his errors were many and grievous. We all know 
 how greedily the dull and the malignant catch at any straws 
 to save them from perishing in their own self-contempt, 
 for it is given to every man to feel his own low nature 
 as compared with the lords of mind. 
 
 We have been told by those who knew Mr. Poe well, 
 that so weakly strung were all his nerves, that the smallest 
 modicum of stimulant had an alarming effect upon him, 
 and produced actions scarcely resolvable by sanity. It may 
 be said that it is not the quantity of stimulant, but the 
 effect produced, which constitutes the drunkard, and that 
 Mr. Poe was as much to blame for the inebriation of a 
 glass as of a bottle ; but we w^ould tell these cold-blooded 
 fishes — for they are not men — that it is not given to the 
 common-place men either to feel the raptures of poetical 
 inspiration, or the despondency of prostrated energies. The 
 masses are wisely, as Pope says, 
 
 " Content to dwell in decencies for ever." 
 
 There is a homely verse in an old ballad which was made 
 upon Shakspeare's masterpiece of human philosophy : 
 
 " Hamlet loved a maid ; 
 Calumny had passed her : 
 She never had played tricks — 
 Because nobody had asked her." 
 
 This rough and unconditional doggrel gives a graphic 
 
124 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 insight into the proprieties of the masses : they have neither 
 had the impulse nor the opportunity to be indiscreet. Let 
 our readers clearly understand we are not the apologists 
 of Mr. Poe's errors — as Mark Antony 
 
 " We come to bury Csesar, not to praise him ;" 
 
 but, at the same time, we will not allow any undue defer- 
 ence to the opinion of the world. 
 
 We are glad to be confirmed in this by the testimony of the 
 Editor of the Home Journal, a gentleman not only distinguished 
 for his sympathy with men of genius, but also for the respect 
 he pays the proprieties of life. 
 
 We quote the following manly tribute to his " dead brother 
 in verse :" 
 
 " Some four or five years since, when editing a daily paper in 
 this city, Mr. Poe was employed by us for several months as critic 
 and sub-editor. This was our first personal acquaintance with him. 
 He resided with his wife and mother, at Fordham, a few miles out 
 of town, but was at his desk in the office from nine in the morning 
 till the evening paper went to press. With the highest admiration 
 for his genius, and a willingness to let it atone for more than ordi- 
 nary irregularity, we were led by common report to expect a very 
 capricious attention to his duties, and occasionally a scene of vio- 
 lence and difficulty. Time went on, however, and he was invaria- 
 bly punctual and industrious. * * * With a prospect of taking 
 the lead in another periodical, he at last voluntarily gave up his 
 employment with us, and through all this considerable period, we 
 had seen but one presentment of the man — a quiet, patient, indus- 
 trious, and most gentlemanly person, commanding the utmost 
 respect and good feeling, by his unvarying deportment and ability. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE. 125 
 
 " Residing as he did in the country, we never met Mr. Poe in 
 hours of leisure ; but he frequently called on us afterwards at our 
 place of business, and we met him often in the street — invariably 
 the same sad-mannered, winning, and refined gentleman, such as we 
 had always known him. It was by rumor only, up to the day of his 
 death, that we knew of any other development of manner or 
 character. We heard, from one who knew him well (what should 
 be stated in all mention of his lamentable irregularities) that, with 
 a single glass of wine his whole nature was reversed, the demon 
 became uppermost, and, though none of the usual signs of intoxi- 
 cation were visible, his will was palpably insane. Possessing his 
 reasoning faculties hi excited activity, at such times, and seeking his 
 acquaintances with his wonted look and memory, he easily seemed 
 personating only another phase of his natural character, and was 
 accused, accordingly, of insulting arrogance and bad-heartedness. * 
 * * The arrogance, vanity, and depravity of heart of which Mr. 
 Poe was generally accused, seem to us referable altogether to this 
 reversed phase of his character. Under that degree of intoxication 
 which only acted upon him by demonizing his sense of truth and 
 right, he doubtless said and did much that was wholly irreconcilable 
 with his better nature ; but, when himself, and as we knew him 
 only, his modesty and unaffected humility as to his own deservings 
 were a constant charm to his character." 
 
 The peculiar cadence of the poet's soul — somewhat, perhaps, 
 too artificially forced upon the attention, is well developed in the 
 little poem of Annabel Lee. It is evidently an echo of 
 " Christabel," but it is a very beautiful one, and charms the ear, 
 if it does not strike the mind as an original. There is a haunt- 
 ing sense of beauty about the metrical arrangement of Poe's 
 
 
 
126 EDGAR ALLAN POE, 
 
 verses which is always evidence of a finely strung nervous 
 system. 
 
 ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 " It was many and many a year ago, 
 
 In a kingdom by the sea, 
 That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
 
 By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
 And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
 
 Than to love and be loved by me. 
 
 " I was a child and she was a child, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 But we loved with a love that was more than love — 
 
 I and my Annabel Lee — 
 With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 " And this was the reason that, long ago, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea, 
 A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 So that her high-born kinsmen came 
 
 And bore her away from me, 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea." 
 
 The next line is a striking proof of that mixture of puerility 
 and beauty, which, like the conflict of his own discordant 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE. 127 
 
 nature, renders his writings as well as himself a problem to his 
 fellow men. 
 
 There is great force and beauty in 
 
 " The wind came out of the cloud by night," 
 
 and yet how immediately he spoils the effect for the sake of the 
 jingle of " chilling and killing — " 
 
 " The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
 Went envying her and me — 
 Yes ! — that was the reason (as all men know 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea) 
 That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
 Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
 " But our love, it was stronger by far than the love 
 
 Of those who are older than we — 
 
 Of many far wiser than we — 
 And neither the angels in heaven above, 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea, 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 
 " For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 1 
 And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 
 And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side : 
 Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 
 
 In her sepulchre there by the sea — 
 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea." 
 
128 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 Well known as the " Raven " is, we should leave the poetical 
 idea of him incomplete without illustrating our remarks by a 
 quotation. We have printed the stanzas differently in shape to 
 the method he has followed, but the words are of course 
 unaltered. 
 
 " Once upon a midnight dreary, 
 While I pondered weak and weary, 
 Over many a quaint and curious 
 
 Volume of forgotten lore, 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, 
 Suddenly there came a tapping, 
 As of some one gently rapping, 
 
 Rapping at my chamber door. 
 ' Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 
 * Tapping at my chamber door — 
 
 Only this, and nothing more.' " 
 
 The next stanza closes with one of the finest touches of 
 poetical imagery and pathos. 
 
 " For the rare and radiant maiden 
 Whom the angels name Lenore" 
 
 As Coleridge says, " beautiful exceedingly." 
 
 The mechanical structure of the verse is very apparent when 
 read with attention to the pauses. Nevertheless, it is a poem which 
 will always give pleasure to the reader, even though it be read 
 for the hundredth time ; for, notwithstanding the marked arith- 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE. 129 
 
 metic of the shape, it is one of those few productions which 
 bear repetition without palling. 
 
 " Deep into that darkness peering, 
 Long I stood there, wondering, fearing, 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 
 
 Ever dared to dream before ; 
 But the silence was unbroken, 
 And the darkness gave no token, 
 And the only word there spoken 
 
 Was the whispered word ' Lenore !' 
 This I whispered, and an echo 
 
 Murmured back the word ' Lenore !' 
 Merely this, and nothing more. 
 
 " Back into the chamber turning, 
 All my soul within me burning, 
 Soon I heard again a tapping 
 
 Somewhat louder than before. 
 ' Surely,' said I, ' surely that is 
 Something at my window lattice ; 
 Let me see, then, what thereat is, 
 
 And this mystery explore — 
 Let my heart be still a moment 
 
 And this mystery explore ; — 
 
 'Tis the wind and nothing more !' 
 
 " Open here I flung the shutter, 
 When, with many a flirt and flutter, 
 In there stepped a stately raven 
 
 Of the saintly days of yore; 
 
130 EDGAR ALLAN POE, 
 
 Not the least obeisance made he ; 
 
 Not an instant stopped or stayed he ; 
 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, 
 
 Perched above my chamber door — 
 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas 
 
 Just above my chamber door — 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more." 
 
 The last stanza is very felicitous. 
 
 How visibly the poet's intention to produce effect by the 
 outer shape of verse is here made apparent : 
 
 j£ " Then this ebony bird beguiling 
 My sad fancy into smiling, 
 By the grave and stern decorum 
 
 Of the countenance it wore, 
 ' Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
 Thou,' I said, ' art sure no craven, 
 Ghastly grim and ancient raven 
 
 Wandering from the Nightly shore — 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is 
 
 On the Night's Plutonian shore I' 
 
 Quoth the raven, ' Nevermore.' " 
 
 " Then, methought, the air grew denser, 
 Perfumed from an unseen censer 
 Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls 
 
 Tinkled on the tufted floor. 
 * Wretch,' I cried, ' thy God hath lent thee, 
 By these angels he hath sent thee 
 Respite — respite and nepenthe 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE. 131 
 
 From thy memories of Lenore ! 
 Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe 
 
 And forget this lost Lenore !' 
 Quoth the raven, ' Nevermore.'" 
 
 " ' Be that word our sign of parting, 
 Bird or fiend !' I shrieked, upstarting — 
 Get thee back into the tempest 
 
 And the Night's Plutonian shore ! 
 Leave no black plume as a token 
 Of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken ! 
 
 Quit the bust above my door ! 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and 
 
 Take thy form from off my door !' 
 Quoth the raven ' Nevermore.' 
 
 " And the raven, never flitting, 
 Still is sitting, still is sitting 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas 
 
 Just above my chamber door ; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming 
 Of a demon's that is dreaming, 
 And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, 
 
 Throws his shadow on the floor ; 
 And my soul from out that shadow 
 
 That lies floating on the floor 
 
 Shall be lifted — nevermore !" 
 
 Although bis mechanical art is too visible, we cannot with- 
 hold our praise for the success of the attempt. Coleridge was a 
 
132 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 great master of the musical chords of verse, but he superadded 
 a charm which spiritualized the vehicle of his thought. 
 
 In Mr. Poe we miss this power, and consequently we feel 
 at times inclined to consider the whole affair as machine 
 poetry, so far as the outer shape is concerned. But here Mr. 
 Poe has not done himself justice ; he has wilfully made his 
 mechanical artifice so prominent, as to intercept the effect 
 of his own poetical spirit. He has encumbered it with a need- 
 less ornament, which resembles a scaffolding so interwoven 
 with the structure, as to persuade the beholder it is essential 
 for the very support of the building. 
 
 We need hardly point out the injurious effect this has 
 had upon Mr. Poe's reputation as a man of genius, for such 
 he undoubtedly was. 
 
 Nor was his power confined to poetry alone. As a prose 
 writer he was one of the most peculiar of his age ; his stories 
 have a circumstantiality about them perfectly marvellous ; they 
 seem bewilderingly true ; the most astounding contradictions 
 are accounted for, and a combination of improbabilities seems 
 to meet as matter of course. This of necessity implies a 
 genius, in our estimate of the word, although many acute 
 writers merely term it ingenious. We would say above all 
 other writers of American prose and verse, Mr. Poe is undoubt- 
 edly the most peculiar. Now that the grave has made him 
 famous in the eyes of the world, he will have a school of 
 imitators, and this will no doubt be accepted as a sure proof 
 of a certain originality. From first to last there is the peculiar 
 stamp of the man on everything he did : it is his own genuine 
 coin, with his well-known effigy upon it. We must, however, 
 
EDGAlt ALLAN POfi, 133 
 
 state that we think his circumstantiality becomes tedious, and 
 that his over-anxiety to make every improbability fit into 
 another improbability, so as to form a consecutive chain out 
 of inconsistencies, throws very often a doubt over the whole 
 story, and defeats his own object. "We cannot illustrate this 
 better than by relating a little anecdote we heard in out 
 boyhood. 
 
 A certain Gascon nobleman, famous for his enormous fables, 
 which he always swore were true, had a sycophant, who, 
 whenever his patron's guests seemed staggering into unbelief 
 by some outrageous Munchausen, was appealed to as a kind 
 of witness to testify and confirm the truth of the story in 
 question. 
 
 At an entertainment one day, the Gascon lord was peculiarly 
 sublime in his marvels and his boastings, and encouraged 
 by his guests' capacious swallow, he ventured to affirm that 
 he had a herring pond in his park. As this was well known 
 to be a salt-water fish, a general doubt of the fact was ex- 
 pressed. The somewhat offended owner of the pond in ques- 
 tion appealed to his convenient friend, as to the truth of the 
 statement. He readily and boldly confirmed it in the fol- 
 lowing manner : 
 
 "I can assure you, gentlemen, that what my lord says 
 is true. He has a pond in his garden full of herrings ! Ah ! 
 and red herrings too." 
 
 This over-proving a case by capping it with a notorious 
 impossibility is the besetting sin of Mr. Poe's writings, more 
 especially of his prose works. Nevertheless they are so mar- 
 
 6* 
 
134 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 vellously well done, that we are inclined to think in a few 
 years he will chiefly be remembered for his tales, and that his 
 poetical works will dwindle into a small compass composed 
 of half-a-dozen favorite poems. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 135 
 
 HENEY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 It is somewhat unfortunate for Mr. Longfellow that he has 
 thrown by far the greatest part of his poetical treasure into 
 the most thankless of all forms, the hexameter. A long 
 acquaintance justifies us in the assertion, that there are few 
 American poems where so much fine thought and tender 
 feeling are hid as in " Evangeline." The story is simple, yet 
 touching; and the theme is the fidelity and endurance of 
 betrothed love. Two lovers were separated on the eve of 
 their marriage to be reunited in old age at the deathbed 
 of the intended bridegroom. We are told by the historian, 
 that such were the harshness and haste of the British govern- 
 ment when it expelled the neutral French population from 
 Acadia, that many families were suddenly scattered east and 
 west never to meet again. 
 
 In " Evangeline " we have a couple thus torn apart, spending 
 their lives in a fruitless search for each other, with the wasting 
 fire of hope deferred wearing their hearts away. The opening 
 sketch of the tranquil lives of the French Acadians, on the 
 Gulf of Minas, is truly idyllic ; but the peculiarity of the mea- 
 
136 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 sure — to which the English language is so little adapted — 
 renders it very difficult to do justice in it even to the finest 
 poetry. The hexameter is the grave of poetry. It is the 
 crowning monotony of writing. A sort of stale prose. An 
 author like Mr. Longfellow should not deprive himself of 
 so much fame, by pushing to the utmost a peculiarity by 
 which he had attained, in so many quarters, a somewhat unde- 
 served reputation. Imitation has been charged on all poets, 
 and we know that the indignation of Robert Green was so 
 soured by the appropriations of Shakspeare, that he denounced 
 him "as a jay strutting about in our feathers, and fancying 
 himself as the only Shakscene of the country." This charge 
 is always more or less true of a young author, and it is 
 in the very nature of things : it arises from the very suscep- 
 tibility of his system. The Beautiful is his idol ; his com- 
 monest thought is an anthem to her praise ; and, like a true 
 disciple, he insensibly adopts the manner of the priest he has 
 confessed to, till he himself becomes one of the elect. A curious 
 volume of psychological biography is opened to our study 
 if we trace the young poet to his progenitor. Life itself 
 is an imitation : we are all copies of each other : the shades 
 of difference are minute ; and as in a herd of buffaloes one 
 is scarcely distinguishable from another, yet each is as distinct 
 in its own individuality as though one were an animalcule 
 and the other a mastodon. The laws of the intellectual being 
 are as recognisable as those of the physical, and we never 
 yet heard the right of a separate existence denied to Julius 
 Csesar, Wellington, or Washington, on account of their having 
 had a parent. On the same ground we claim individuality for 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 13V 
 
 poets, in despite of their having founded their nature on 
 the inspiration of another. The real difference lies in the 
 degree of imitation. The true poet absorbs, the versifier imi- 
 tates. Every poet commences with more or less of some 
 predominant mind, the most assimilant to his own. 
 
 Into " Evangeline " Mr. Longfellow has thrown more of his 
 own individual poetry than into any other production, and 
 we shall endeavor to elicit from it the most striking traits 
 of his mind. 
 
 The opening is simple, and full of fine clear description. 
 
 s In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 
 Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre 
 Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the east- 
 ward, 
 Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. 
 Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant, 
 Shut out the turbulent tides : but at stated seasons the flood-gates 
 Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. 
 West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and corn- 
 fields 
 Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the 
 
 northward 
 Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains 
 Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic 
 Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended. 
 There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. 
 Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and chestnut, 
 Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the 
 Henries. 
 
138 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 The closing line is an instance of that want of keeping which 
 occasionally spoils the effect of a fine picture; it carries the 
 reader away from the American scene to the feudal times. 
 
 The heroine, Evangeline, is thus introduced ; not very hap- 
 pily, we think : 
 
 " Fair was she to "behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. 
 Black were her eyes as the herry that grows on the thorn by the 
 
 way-side, ; 
 Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of 
 
 her tresses ! 
 Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the 
 
 meadows. 
 When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noon-tide 
 Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was the maiden. 
 Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its 
 
 turret 
 Sprinkled with holy sounds the ear, as the priest with his hyssop 
 Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, 
 Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and 
 
 her missal, 
 Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, 
 Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom, 
 Handed down from mother to child, through long generations." 
 
 The maiden is loved and sought by all the lads in the vil- 
 lage, but the favored one is Gabriel Lajeunesse. They had 
 been educated together, and they had grown up as brother and 
 sister. Her father, the old farmer, is thus graphically described 
 in a few lines : 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 139 
 
 " Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters ; 
 Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes ; 
 White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the 
 oak-leaves." 
 
 Nor is the picture of Gabriel's sire unworthy to be placed 
 by its side : 
 
 " Thus as they sat, were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted, 
 Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. 
 Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith, 
 And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. 
 c Welcome !' the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the 
 
 threshold, 
 1 Welcome, Basil my friend ! Come, take thy place on the settle 
 Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee ; 
 Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco ; 
 Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling 
 Smoke of the pipe, or the forge, thy friendly and jovial face 
 
 gleams 
 Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the 
 
 marshes.' 
 Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the black- 
 smith, 
 Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside." 
 
 The blacksmith comes to announce the arrival of a fleet from 
 England with hostile intentions. 
 
 The incredulity of the old farmer is admirably described. 
 
 " Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer : 
 
140 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 4 Safer we are unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our corn* 
 
 fields, 
 Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean, 
 Than were our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. 
 Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow 
 Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the night of the contract. 
 Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village 
 Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe round 
 
 about them, 
 Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelve- 
 month. 
 Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhom. 
 Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children V 
 As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's, 
 Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, 
 And as they died on his lips the worthy notary entered." 
 
 The decision of the English Government is that the inhabit- 
 ants of this happy village shall be scattered. Mr. Longfellow 
 paints with great force, beauty, and tenderness, the departure of 
 the villagers. 
 
 " Four times the sun had risen and set ; and now on the fifth day 
 Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. 
 Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, 
 Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, 
 Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore, 
 Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, 
 Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the wood- 
 land. 
 Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, 
 Clasping still in their little hands some fragments of playthings." 
 
HENRY WAD8W0RTH LONGFELLOW. 141 
 
 There is a simplicity about many of the descriptions in 
 Evangeline which is very seldom apparent in his other 
 poems. Our readers will, of course, remember how well the 
 English hexameter sounds for a dozen lines or so, but a poem 
 in that measure is insufferably tedious. 
 
 The lovers are separated, and the end of the first part closes 
 with the following beautiful lines : 
 
 " Lo ! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation, 
 Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 
 'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, 
 With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying land- 
 ward. 
 Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ; 
 And, with the ebb of that tide, the ships sailed out of the harbor, 
 Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in 
 
 The second part does not seem to be equal to the first. Still 
 it has pieces of painting worthy of any poet, and every fine 
 image makes us regret the injudicious metre it is written in. 
 The wanderings and patient enduring of Evangeline are told 
 with great pathos. Finally, after many sore heart-wastings she 
 meets her lover, but it is in old age, and on his death-bed. 
 
 This scene is thus described : — 
 
 " Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, 
 Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder 
 Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from 
 her fingers, 
 
142 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And, from her eyes and cheeks, the light and bloom of the 
 
 morning. 
 Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, 
 That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. 
 On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. 
 Long, and thin, and grey were the locks that shaded his temples ; 
 But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment 
 Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood ; 
 So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. 
 Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, 
 As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals, 
 That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over, 
 Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted 
 Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness, 
 Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sinking. 
 Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, 
 Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded, 
 Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 
 ' Gabriel ! O my beloved !' and died away hi silence." 
 
 The concluding scene of this tale of Faithful Love is 
 exquisitely done. It is a perfect gem ! 
 
 " Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood; 
 Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, 
 Viilage, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, walking under their 
 
 shadow, 
 As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. 
 Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, 
 Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. 
 Vainly he strove to whisperher name, for the accents unuttered 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 143 
 
 Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would 
 
 have spoken. 
 Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, 
 Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. 
 Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into 
 
 darkness, 
 As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement." 
 
 Thus ends the most elaborated of Mr. Longfellow's poems, 
 and it is one, perhaps, on which he most prides himself. We 
 do not set the high estimate on it which many of his admirers 
 do, but we think we have quoted enough to convince the reader 
 that it is full of poetical thought and feeling. "We cannot help 
 thinking that the author has missed a great success by embody- 
 ing this conception in hexameters. 
 
 The next production on which Mr. Longfellow has lavished 
 his greatest care is the play entitled " The Spanish Student." 
 As a dramatist he has signally failed. He lacks nerve and con- 
 densation. The story is very prettily told by the actors, but 
 beyond the dialogue form it has no pretensions to be called a 
 Drama. You are informed, but not roused. The progress is 
 pleasant, the speeches are elegant, and there is an external of 
 velvet thrown over the form which is fatal to its interest, indi- 
 viduality, and vigor. The actors are masks, and not men. It 
 is a refined conversation, and not a human group working to 
 an intelligible end, moved by their own foibles and pursuits, but 
 determined by some master passion in the superior mind of the 
 one man, round whom the others revolve, by the force of 
 a psychological gravitation, as unerring as that natural law by 
 
144 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 which moons spin round planets, planets round suns, and suns 
 in due degrees round the eternal centre. Every fine play is 
 reducible to a passion, which is a centre or circle ; for different 
 as these two definitions may appear at first glance in mathematics, 
 yet in metaphysics they are one and the same thing, or rather, we 
 ought to say, one includes the other. They are indissolubly 
 connected ; the centre is the soul of the circle, and the circle is 
 the body of the centre. 
 
 If we take Othello, we shall find jealousy the controlling 
 power ; in Hamlet, indecision ; Macbeth, superstition — not am- 
 bition, as commonly supposed, for this is developed in Richard 
 the Third; in Lear, the great idea is not ingratitude, but 
 a prudential reserve of rights and a warning against dotage. 
 This is the test of a great dramatist. The soul of a drama 
 is its controlling passion ; its body is the plot ; the actors 
 are the faculties ; its life i& the progress ; and the catastrophe 
 is the death. Judged by this rule, we need scarcely observe 
 that Longfellow has no pretension to be considered a dramatist. 
 
 In the very first scene there is an incident so absurd as 
 almost to stamp upon the very first page — this is no play. 
 
 The scene turns upon the purity of a danseuse, one Preciosa, 
 the heroine of a play : she is a gipsy. 
 
 " LARA. 
 
 " Then I must try some other way to win her ! 
 Pray, dost thou know Victorian ? 
 
 " FRANCISCO. 
 
 " Yes, my Lord ; 
 I saw him at the jeweller's to-day. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 145 
 
 " LARA. 
 
 " What was he doing there ? 
 
 " FRANCISCO. 
 
 " I saw him buy 
 A golden ring, that had a ruby in it. 
 
 " LARA. 
 
 " Was there another like it ? 
 
 " FRANCISCO. 
 
 " One so like it 
 I could not choose between them. 
 
 " LARA. 
 
 " It is well. 
 To-morrow morning bring that ring to me. 
 Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. 
 
 [Exeurt." 
 
 A man of dramatic genius would never so palpably make 
 a giant merely to kill him, nor would he invent a jeweller 
 on purpose to have two rings exactly alike. There is too 
 much of the make-believe, as children term it, to throw an 
 air of nature over the scene. 
 
 In the second scene there is an attempt at humor, but 
 of a very dismal kind. Chispa says, among other witticisms, 
 
 " And now, gentlemen," (addressing the serenaders,) " fax vobis- 
 eum, as the ass said to the cabbages." 
 
148 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " Now look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of crickets. 
 You enjoy hunger by day, and noise by night!" 
 
 We are introduced to the heroine in the third scene. Were 
 she only a dancer, or singer, or actress, we might possibly 
 accept her opening words as a key-note to her character ; but 
 she is meant to be any thing but either of those characters, and 
 the reader will judge how undramatic are the introductory 
 tokens of her dramatic existence. They are, singularly enough, 
 a complete contradiction to her character. We do not analyse 
 this play thoroughly on its own account, for that would hardly 
 be fair, seeing that Mi*. Longfellow does not assume to be 
 a dramatist, but chiefly to develope our theory of a drama. 
 
 " PRECIOSA. 
 
 " How slowly through the lilac-scented air 
 Descends the tranquil moon ; like thistle down 
 The vapory clouds float in the peaceful sky : 
 And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade 
 The nightingales breathe out their souls in song. 
 And hark ! what songs of love, what soul-like sounds, 
 Answer them from below !" 
 
 Then follows a very fine scene between the dancer and her 
 lover Victorian. We quote part of the lover's speech. 
 
 " VICTORIAN. 
 
 " What I most prize in woman 
 Is her affection, not her intellect. 
 The intellect is finite, but the affections 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 14? 
 
 Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. 
 Compare me with the great men of the earth : 
 What am I ? Why, a pigmy among giants ! 
 But if thou lovest ? — Mark me — I say, lovest ! 
 The greatest of thy sex excels thee not ! 
 The world of aifection is thy world, 
 Not that of man's ambition ! In that stillness 
 That most becomes a woman, calm and holy, 
 Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart 
 Feeding its flame." 
 
 In the fourth scene, Crispa, the comic gentleman, again 
 appears, but with the exception of devouring a supper, he 
 does nothing very laughable. We generally notice that the 
 finest fun at Niblo's comes off when Francis Ravel is eating 
 his own or somebody else's supper. By way of critical objec- 
 tion, we may say that the drama does not take one single step 
 forward in this scene. 
 
 In the next scene between the gipsy girl's lover Victorian 
 and an intimate, we have very pleasant writing, but there 
 is no action; as the sailors say, "all are at anchor." Vic- 
 torian's praise of Preciosa is well said : 
 
 " The angels sang in heaven when she was born J 
 She is a precious jewel I have found 
 Among the filth and rubbish of the world. 
 I'll stoop for it ; but when I wear it here, 
 Set on my forehead like the morning star, 
 The world may wonder, but it will not laugh !" 
 
 This scene is full to overflowing with the most excellent 
 
148 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 writing. We wish the author of " Jacob Leisler " would study 
 this drama ; we feel sure he would learn something that would 
 vastly improve his writings. 
 
 There is a skill in the grouping of the following thought 
 which almost makes it seem original, although it is merely versi- 
 fied from a thought of Carlyle : - 
 
 " HYPOLITO. 
 
 " Hast thou e'er reflected 
 How much lies hidden in that one word, now ? 
 
 " VICTORIAN. 
 
 " Yes ; all the awful mystery of Life ! 
 I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, 
 That could we, by some spell of magic, change 
 The world and its inhabitants to stone, 
 In the same attitudes they now are in, 
 What fearful glances downward might we cast 
 Into the hollow chasms of human life ! 
 What groups should we behold about the deathbed, 
 Putting to shame the group of Niobe ! 
 What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells ! 
 What stony tears in those congealed eyes ! 
 What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks ! 
 What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows \, 
 What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling ! 
 What lovers with their marble lips together !" 
 
 We have been told that the following lines are not original. As 
 we were not informed from whom they were taken, we shall treat 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 149 
 
 the unknown author as a Mrs. Harris, and shall therefore con- 
 sider Mr. Longfellow as their lawful owner. 
 
 " Hark ! how the loud and ponderous mace of time 
 Knocks at the golden portals of the day." 
 
 This scene closes the first act. With the exception of an 
 introduction to some of the actors there is no progress. We 
 do not certainly expect much done at the beginning of a play, 
 but we cannot conceive a dramatist writing five scenes, and 
 remaining stationary all the time. The second act commences 
 with a scene which, like the whole play, is well written, but the 
 introduction of the Gipsy's father is unartistic, and immediately 
 following the bestowal of the purse to another, shows too fully the 
 artificial nature of the incident ; but the succeeding case is too 
 gross a departure from the truth of nature to be tolerated in a 
 drama. As a satire it is admissible, but the probabilities are too 
 grossly violated by making an archbishop and a cardinal, out of 
 admiration for a dancer, join in the Cachuca, throw up their caps 
 in the air, and finish, the scene by applauding vehemently. 
 
 We may remark here, by the way, that, with scarcely an 
 exception, this play is entirely composed of dialogues. The 
 second act closes with a little bustle which puzzles the audience 
 — a sort of Comedy of Errors, without the occasion. 
 
 The last act is full of elegant writing. Victorian says :— 
 
 " Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle, 
 Is ever weaving into life's dull warp ; 
 Bright, gorgeous flowers, and scenes Arcadian, 
 1 
 
150 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Hanging our gloomy prison house about 
 . With tapestries, which make its walls dilate 
 In never ending visions of delight." 
 
 The following metaphor is well conceived and finely executed, 
 Unable to forget his lady-love the Student says : 
 
 " Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain 
 I throw into oblivion's sea the sword 
 That pierces me : for like Excalibar, 
 With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink. 
 There rises from below a hand that grasps it, 
 And waves it in the air, and wailing voices 
 Are heard along the shore." 
 
 We think the repetition of the word and is a slight defect, 
 but every lover of poetry will admire it ; it has been, however, 
 evidently suggested by Tennyson's fragment entitled "Morte 
 d'Arthur." 
 
 This scene has only one fault, that it is perfectly in the way 
 of the action. As a piece of poetical writing it is as fine 
 as any dramatic scene in Barry Cornwall. Indeed, like the 
 English poet, Mr. Longfellow lacks the nerve and sustained 
 power to form a play, but in single scenes he is very happy. 
 There are a propriety and polish about his sentiments which 
 charm the fastidious critic, but fail in rousing the attention 
 of the many. 
 
 As a specimen of elegant composition we present the close 
 of the scene already referred to. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 151 
 
 " HYPOLITO. 
 * * % * * 
 
 " Thou art too young, too full of lusty health, 
 To talk of dying. 
 
 " VICTORIAN. 
 
 " Yet I fain would die ! 
 To go through life, unloving and unloved ; 
 To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul 
 We cannot still ; that longing, that wild impulse, 
 And struggle after something we have not 
 And cannot have; the effort to be strong; 
 And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile, 
 While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks ; 
 All this the dead feel not, — the dead alone ! 
 Would I were with them ! 
 
 " HYPOLITO. 
 
 " We shall all be soon. 
 
 " VICTORIAN. 
 
 " It cannot be too soon ; for I am weary 
 Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, 
 Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers ; 
 Where whispers overheard betray false hearts ; 
 And through the mazes of the crowd we chase 
 Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons, 
 And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us 
 A mockery and a jest ; maddened, — confused, — 
 Not knowing friend from foe. 
 
r 
 
 152 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " HYPOLITO. 
 
 « Why seek to know 1 
 Enjoy the merry shrovetide of thy youth ! 
 Take each fair mask for what it gives itself, 
 Nor strive to look beneath it. 
 
 " VICTORIAN. 
 
 " I confess, 
 That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer 
 Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, 
 Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, 
 Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, 
 Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off, 
 And sinks again into the weltering sea, 
 Helpless and hopeless ! 
 
 " HYPOLITO. 
 
 " Yet thou shalt not perish. 
 The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. 
 Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines 
 A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star ! 
 
 (Sound of a village bell in the distance.) 
 
 " VICTORIAN. 
 
 " Ave Maria ! I hear the sacristan 
 Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry ! 
 A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide 
 Over the red roofs of the cottages, 
 And bids the laboring hind afield, the shepherd 
 Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer, 
 
HENRY WADSWORIH LONGFELLOW. 153 
 
 And all the crowd in village streets, stand still, 
 And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin ! 
 
 " HYPOLITO. 
 
 " Amen ! amen ! Not half a league from hence 
 The village lies. 
 
 " VICTORIAN. 
 
 " This path will lead us to it, 
 Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows sail 
 Across the running sea, now green, now blue, 
 And, like an idle mariner on the main, 
 Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on. 
 
 [Exeunt" 
 
 Few poets excel the author of the " Spanish Student " 
 in the art with which he takes a well-known thought, either 
 from some other poet or one common as the air, and combining 
 other images equally hackneyed, moulds them into one har- 
 monious speech, without the slightest appearance of patch- 
 work. 
 
 In the scene between Bartolome and Preciosa there is 
 a felicitous instance of this ingenious dovetailing. 
 
 " All holy angels keep me in this hour ! 
 Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me ! 
 Mother of God, the glorified, protect me ; 
 Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me. 
 Yet why should I fear death 1 what is 't to die ? 
 To leave all disappointment, care, and sorrow, 
 
154 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 To leave all falsehood, treachery, and unkindness, 
 
 All ignominy, suffering, and despair, 
 
 And be at rest for ever ! O dull heart, 
 
 Be of good cheer ! When thou shalt cease to beat, 
 
 Then shalt thou cease to suffer and complain !" 
 
 The following part of this scene, where Victorian and Hypo- 
 lito meet Preciosa, is like reading from Beaumont and Fletcher, 
 softened into the woman ! 
 
 Hypolito's speech at the reconciliation is happily stated. 
 
 " All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets, 
 All passionate love-scenes in the best romances, 
 All chaste embraces on the public stage, 
 All soft adventures, which the liberal stars 
 Have winked at, as the natural course of things, 
 Have been surpassed here by my friend, the student, 
 And this sweet Gipsy lass, fair Preciosa I" 
 
 The character of Hypolito is well sketched. His adieu to 
 the Student's wandering life is admirably done. 
 
 " So farewell 
 The student's wandering life ! Sweet serenades, 
 Sung under ladies' windows in the night, 
 And all that makes vacation beautiful ! 
 To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala, 
 To you, ye radiant visions of romance, 
 Written in books, but here surpassed by truth, 
 The Bachelor Hypolito returns, 
 And leaves the Gipsy with the Spanish Student." 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 155 
 
 There is a fine passage in the last scene. 
 
 " VICTORIAN. 
 
 " This is the highest point : here let us rest. 
 See, Preciosa, see how all about us, 
 Kneeling like hooded friars, the misty mountains 
 Receive the benediction of the sun. 
 O ! glorious sight. 
 
 " PRECIOSA. 
 
 " Most beautiful, indeed. 
 
 " Most wonderful ! 
 
 HYPOLITO. 
 
 " VICTORIAN. 
 
 " And in the vale below, 
 Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds, 
 San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries, 
 Sends up a salutation to the morn, 
 As if an army smote their brazen shields 
 And shouted victory !" 
 
 A friend has observed that this has been suggested by 
 Wordsworth's far-famed passage in the "Excursion." We 
 do not perceive the resemblance in form, although we feel 
 it in spirit. With regard to such "stolen thoughts," we 
 are inclined to say] with the Emperor (when he was 
 told Mozart stole his best melodies from the old masters) 
 
156 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 that he wished the gentlemen who complained would also 
 steal a few like them. 
 
 It is always pleasant to compare poets with each other, so we 
 make no apology for transcribing the following lines from 
 Wordsworth : 
 
 " What soul was his, when from the naked top 
 Of some hold headland he beheld the sun 
 Rise up, and bathe the world in light 1 He looked ; 
 Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
 And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay 
 In gladness and deep joy ; the clouds were touched, 
 And in their silent faces did he read 
 Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
 Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank f 
 The spectacle ; sensations, soul and form 
 All melted into him ; they swallowed up 
 His animal being ; in them did he live, 
 And by them did he live ; they were his life. 
 In such access of mind, in such high tones 
 Of visitation from the living God, 
 Thought was not, in enjoyment it expired ; 
 No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request. 
 Rapt into still communion that transcends 
 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
 His mind was a thanksgiving to the power 
 That made him — it was blessedness and love." 
 
 There is little doubt but that Longfellow has been too much 
 disposed to think how other poets have written, and would 
 write, rather than trust to his own impulses. We are, conse- 
 
HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 157 
 
 quently, ever and anon reminded of passages in foreign writers, 
 which materially impair our faith in his originality of mind. 
 Nevertheless, if the end of poetry is to afford pleasure, the 
 author of Evangeline is sure of a favorable reception from the 
 student and the peasant. Coming fresh from the perusal of 
 the Spanish Student, we feel that it is too frail a fabric to bear 
 the test of a mixed audience, but for a company of young 
 ladies and their lovers it is one of the most gracefully adapted 
 of modern pieces. Every word is elaborately placed, and the 
 melody of the rhythm is a musical accompaniment of itself. 
 But it is as a writer of occasional verses that Longfellow will 
 be popular with the people. We question if any but a few 
 peculiar admirers will ever read his Evangeline or Spanish 
 Student a second time, while they will recur over and over 
 again to his minor poems. They will not pause to inquire with 
 the critic whether this beautiful thought is taken from an 
 English poet, or translated literally from the German. They 
 read not to criticise, but to admire — not to think, but to feel. 
 They wish to receive pleasure, not to explain it away. This 
 system of objection may be carried to any extent. A cele- 
 brated divine, who prided himself upon his originality, and who 
 would reject his best thought if he thought it was traceable to 
 any previous author, was startled one day by a friend coolly 
 telling him that his favorite discourse was stolen every word 
 from a book he had at home. The astonished writer, staggered 
 by his friend's earnestness, begged for a sight of this volume. 
 He, however, was released from his misery by the other smil- 
 ingly announcing the work in question to be Johnson's Dictionary, 
 
 1% 
 
158 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 where, continued his tormentor, I undertake to find every word 
 of your discourse. 
 
 The different views which men may take of the same subject, 
 even under the same aspect, are well illustrated in a story we 
 heard some years ago. It is given to the reign of James the 
 First, of England. This monarch, as is well known, was 
 famous for his admiration of all the frivolities of literature. 
 He was delighted one day to hear that a man had arrived from 
 Paris who could talk by signs, and understand any one else 
 who possessed that accomplishment. In order to test his 
 veracity, the curious king empowered one of his courtiers to find 
 another man who was similarly endowed. Determined to have 
 some sport, he consulted a shrewd fellow of his household, who 
 said that he knew one, a raw Scotchman, who would be the 
 very man for the purpose. 
 
 On the day in question these rival masters of the silent 
 language of signs were brought before the pedantic monarch, 
 who was on his throne surrounded by his court. The two pro- 
 fessors sat on a platform where all eyes were placed on them. 
 
 The foreign professor began first. He held up one finger — 
 the Scotchman looked steadily and held up two ; the reply of 
 his antagonist was holding up three ; the other then closed his 
 hand, and held it up deliberately in the other's face. Hereupon 
 the foreign professor declared aloud that he was vanquished, for 
 the other was a greater master than himself, as he perfectly 
 understood a system which he thought was known only to 
 himself. 
 
 The monarch, anxious to convince himself there was no collu- 
 sion between the two professors, resolved to examine them 
 
HENRY WADSWOKTH LONGFELLOW. 159 
 
 apart. Left alone with the foreigner, his account was this. I 
 held up one finger to say there was but one God — the Father ; 
 your professor held up two fingers, to signify that there was 
 another, the Father and the Son. I then held up three, to sig- 
 nify there were Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Upon this my 
 opponent closed his hand, to certify that those Three are One. 
 The monarch was charmed ; the explanation was entirely con- 
 firmed by the facts ; he was present and saw all. 
 
 Still, to render assurance doubly sure, he resolved to question 
 the other. His explanation, which was in broad Scotch, was 
 this : " Please your majesty, when I saw the fool hold up one 
 finger I held up two, to show I could beat him there. When 
 the dog held up three to mock me, I got angry, and doubled my 
 fist, signifying I could knock him down if I had any more of 
 that nonsense." The critical king was perfectly satisfied that 
 two persons may very differently explain the same thing. 
 
 We hope our readers will pardon this story, but we think the 
 critics may receive it with some profit. 
 
 Among the occasional pieces of Mr. Longfellow are his lines 
 to the Village Blacksmith. There is a vigor of portraiture 
 about them which is not very often the characteristic of our 
 poet's muse. He is seldom so graphic as this : 
 
 "Under a spreading chestnut tree 
 
 The village smithy stands ; 
 The smith, a mighty man is he, 
 
 With large and sinewy hand, 
 And the muscles of his brawny arms 
 
 Are strong as iron bands. 
 
160 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 "His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 
 His face is like the tan, 
 His brow is wet with honest sweat, 
 
 He earns whate'er he can, 
 And looks the whole world in the face, 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
 "And the children coming home from school 
 
 Look in at the open door ; 
 They love to see the naming forge, 
 
 And hear the bellows roar, 
 And catch the burning sparks that fly 
 
 Like chaff from a threshing floor." 
 
 To this fine poem the author very unnecessarily appends the 
 moral in the old way of iEsop's Fables : 
 
 " Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
 
 For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
 Thus at the flaming forge of life 
 
 Our fortunes must be wrought, 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
 
 Each burning deed and thought." 
 
 There is a great sympathy with nature in most of Mr. Long- 
 fellow's writings, but it is not of that fresh, dewy kind which 
 shows nature. There is too much of being persuaded into the 
 loveliness of outward things by an effort of the mind, and not 
 of the heart ; there is more of the scholar than the lover in his 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 161 
 
 admiration. He is too fastidious to be natural. His hymns to 
 his Goddess breathe too strongly of the lamp. 
 
 " Pleasant it was, when woods were green, 
 
 And winds were soft and low, 
 To lie amid some sylvan scene, 
 Where, the long drooping houghs between, 
 Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 
 
 Alternately come and go. 
 
 " Or where the denser grove receives 
 
 No sunlight from above, 
 
 But the dark foliage interweaves 
 
 In one unbroken roof of leaves, 
 
 Underneath whose sloping eaves 
 
 The shadows hardly move. 
 
 "Beneath some patriarchal tree 
 
 I lay upon the ground ; 
 His hoary arms uplifted he, 
 And all the broad leaves over me 
 Clapped their little hands in glee, 
 
 With one continuous sound. 
 
 "A slumberous sound — a sound that brings 
 
 The feeling of a dream, 
 As of innumerable wings, 
 As when a bell no longer swings, 
 Faint the hollow murmur rings, 
 
 O'er meadow, lake, and stream." 
 
 All this, though reminding us strongly of Coleridge, both in 
 
162 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 thought and expression, is a very favorable specimen of that 
 elegant sympathy with nature which is so distinguishing 
 a feature in our author's poetry. It lacks that freshness which 
 has made Wordsworth so great a writer. Listen for a moment 
 to the great High Priest of the open air : 
 
 " In vain through water, earth, and air, 
 The soul of happy sound was spread, 
 When Peter on some April morn, 
 Beneath the broom or budding thorn, 
 Made the warm earth his lazy bed. 
 
 "At noon, when by the forest's edge 
 
 He lay beneath the branches high, 
 
 The soft blue sky did never melt 
 
 Into his heart ; he never felt 
 
 The witchery of the soft blue sky. 
 ***** 
 "A savage wildness round him hung, 
 
 As of a dweller out of doors, 
 
 In his whole figure and Ms mien 
 
 A savage character was seen, 
 
 Of mountains and of dreary moors." 
 
 Peter Bell. 
 
 We should, however, be doing Mr. Longfellow injustice were 
 we to confine our extracts to his descriptions of nature. He is 
 a firm believer in the better part of human kind. In his 
 Psalm of Life he has declared this faith. 
 
 " Life is real — life is earnest ! 
 And the grave is not its goal ! 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 163 
 
 Dust thou art — to dust returnest — 
 Was not spoken of the soul ! 
 
 " Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 Is our destined end or way : 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 Find us further than to-day." 
 
 The following verse contains a beautiful image : 
 
 " Art is long, and time is fleeting, 
 
 And our hearts though stout and brave, 
 
 Still like muffled-drums are beating 
 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 * * * % * 
 
 " Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 And departing, leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time ! 
 
 " Footprints ! that perhaps another, 
 Sailing o'er Life's solemn main, 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
 Seeing shall take heart again !" 
 
 This "psalm" is eminently poetical, and bas doubtless 
 in the future much fine effect locked up in it. The acorn 
 holds the oak, and the oak in time floats a palace o'er the 
 ocean. How often has the unregarded phrase of one time 
 been the inspirer to the glorious deed of another! We 
 remember one instance, in which a father named his child 
 
164 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 after a celebrated man, in the express hope that should he 
 at any time feel sinking to the degradation of a mean 
 action, the sound of his name might recall him to the path 
 of honor ! 
 
 There are, notwithstanding, many happy instances of Mr. 
 Longfellow's talent for applying a fact to a feeling, and of 
 illustrating the processes of duty by metaphors drawn from 
 outside life. This very facility is sometimes fatal : it very 
 often becomes common-place, so that we feel inclined now 
 and then to resent a truism as though it were a falsehood; 
 at all events, to treat it as an impertinence or an intrusion. 
 This strikes us as the prevailing defect in many otherwise 
 very fine poems. We may instance as a proof of this, some 
 otherwise very fine lines which are spoiled by this obtrusive 
 subjectiveness. 
 
 " There is a reaper whose name is Death, 
 And with his sickle keen, 
 He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 
 And the flowers that grow between. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 
 He kissed their drooping leaves, 
 It was for the Lord of Paradise] 
 He bound them in his sheaves. 
 
 * * * # 
 
 "Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 
 The reaper came that day, 
 'T was an angel visited the green earth, 
 And took the flowers away." 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 165 
 
 This sounds more like Watts's hymns than a philosophical 
 reflection modified by the spirit of poetry, the highest expres- 
 sion of philosophy. Although somewhat out of keeping, 
 we cannot help here quoting a ludicrous explanation which 
 Leigh Hunt once gave of the difference between philosophy 
 and poetry. He said it was the difference between mutton 
 and venison : and apostrophized " venison as the poetry of 
 mutton !" 
 
 In the commencement of the " Hymn to the Night " there 
 is an instance of bad taste in the selection of metaphors, 
 which rarely happens to our author. 
 
 " I heard the trailing garments of the night 
 Sweep through her marble halls ; 
 I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
 From the celestial walls." 
 
 He redeems this artificial imagery by the following verse : 
 
 " I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 
 Stoop o'er me from above ; 
 The calm majestic presence of the night, 
 As of the one I love ! 
 * * * 
 
 " O, holy night ! from thee I learn to bear 
 What man has done before ; 
 Thou layest thy finger on the lips of care, 
 And they complain no more !" 
 
 We must, however, warn Mr. Longfellow against the indis- 
 
166 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 criminate use of " stars " and celestial machinery : it shows 
 either a poverty of illustration, or an indolence in searching 
 after new combinations. 
 
 In the following he copies some of the puerilities of Words- 
 worth's earlier poems. It should, however, be borne in mind 
 that the English reformer of verse had an object in view 
 when he thus violently rushed into the opposite extreme, 
 which Longfellow has not. When Wordsworth wrote, the 
 Rosa-Matildaish style was predominant. The moon, stars, 
 and other natural objects were banished from decent poetry, 
 and " luna," " stella," " lamps of light," " Apollo," &c, were 
 invoked by the whole regiment. The palate then was so 
 diseased that a violent remedy was required. 
 
 " The night is come, but not too soon, 
 And sinking silently, 
 All silently, the little moon 
 Drops down behind the sky." 
 
 In the " Midnight Mass for the Dying Year," our American 
 poet has forgotten how^ completely Alfred Tennyson had anti- 
 cipated him. 
 
 The same remark applies to the poem entitled, "Woods 
 in Winter :" it is too much like Southey's poem " On Winter." 
 Mr. Longfellow has only to be warned of these coincidences, 
 for we are sure he has too much poetical wealth of his 
 own to render borrowing from another necessary. 
 
 The great fault of many of the poems before us is their 
 elegant diffusiveness : they would have been twice as good 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 167 
 
 had they been only half as long. There is, however, a want 
 of condensation in most of his productions. 
 
 As a proof of success in the difficult department of sonnet 
 writing, we shall quote one on 
 
 " Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, 
 With thoughtful pace, and sad majestic eyes, 
 Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, 
 Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 
 Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom ! 
 Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, 
 What soft compassion glows, as in the skies 
 The tender stars their clouded lamps relume ! 
 Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, 
 By Fra Hilario, in his diocese, 
 As up the convent walls, in golden streaks, 
 The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease. 
 And as he asks what there the stranger seeks, 
 Thy voice along the cloister whispers, ' Peace /' " 
 
 Our limits will not allow us to bestow any space upon 
 " Kavanagh." Although in prose, there is too much poetry 
 in Longfellow's mind to take him into the lower region of 
 art, without a constant return to the loftier realms. Its popu- 
 larity renders quotation needless. We shall, therefore, content 
 ourselves by stating that it displays powers of observation 
 and skill in writing of the peculiarities of New England 
 life, we did not give our author credit for. 
 
 We conclude this attempt to examine the works of a popular 
 
168 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 poet by the opinion that his great want is self-reliance. He 
 is too apt to consult poetical precedents, instead of boldly 
 chalking out a path for himself. His very studies have been 
 against hirn. When a poet trusts to another for his thoughts 
 he will soon lose his individuality. We do not say this has 
 actually happened to Mr. Longfellow, but we see many evi- 
 dences of a tendency to indulge in that fatal habit, which 
 we think in his case springs more jrom indolence than want 
 of power. Let him resolutely think and write for himself, 
 retaining his force, elegance, and purity of diction, but throwing 
 from him his undue elaboration and cuffusiveness of execution : 
 let him care less for what others have written, and more of 
 what he ought and can write, and boldly throwing away his 
 artificial supports, soar unaided into an element of his own : 
 let him scorn another's balloon, and boldly take to his own 
 wings, and then America will have reason to consider as one 
 of her best poets Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT, 169 
 
 WILLIAM H. PEESGOTT. 
 
 Mr. Prescott seems to us to combine many of the qualities 
 requisite to make a popular historian. Less philosophical 
 than Hume, he is more graphic and interesting ; and the 
 charm of his narrative so far exceeds the cold and dispassionate 
 style of Hallam, as to give him a decided advantage over 
 that classical and condensed historian. We must not, how- 
 ever, forget that the subjects treated of by Mr. Prescott are 
 his own selection, and the most attractive on record. The 
 unbaring to the eyes of the old world the other half so 
 long buried in the western waters, is undoubtedly the greatest 
 marvel in the history of the world. It is almost tantamount 
 to some adventurous spirit reaching the moon and leading 
 his companions to explore its mysterious recesses. It may 
 be doubted if curiosity is not the controlling passion of the 
 large majority of human kind, and mystery is the greatest 
 provocative to its exercise existing. The discovery of America 
 roused the known world into an activity unparalleled in his- 
 tory. Had a new planet suddenly swung alongside our earth, 
 and courted millions by the easiest of conveyances to land 
 and trace its wonders, not more astonishment could have 
 
170 WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 
 
 been manifested. It was the absorbing topic, and even now 
 the desire to be mentally present at that time exists in 
 full force. Every one seems anxious to accompany the daring 
 few who unsealed the wonders of the new world, and we 
 venture to say never has the true nature of a historian for 
 those exciting times been better developed than in the author 
 now under notice. 
 
 Every passage is based on a fact, while it reads as a 
 romance. There is the dignity of truth and the chivalric 
 exciting spirit of adventure harmoniously blended. Nor is 
 he less successful in tracing with the eye of a shrewd observer 
 the progress of those changes which in time affect the 
 stability of states. Every nation, like every individual, has 
 its birth, manhood, and death ; but just as a nation exceeds 
 a man in amount, so do its processes work with a propor- 
 tionable slowness. There is nothing in one generation to show 
 how far the shadow of decay has crept over the vast com- 
 plexity of interests which constitutes a nation. We see not 
 in a single year the stealing change in a human being, but 
 a decade is unmistakable. In like manner the journalist lives 
 and dies, and has no tangible mark to show how far the day 
 has advanced in the life of his own country, or in those around 
 him ; but the historian, looking back from the eminence of 
 Time, beholds the ascent and the decline. But it not alone 
 requires the philosophical eye to see this, but it also requires 
 other qualities to make this apparent to others. If the writer 
 treats this in a dry, technical manner, the lesson is lost to the 
 world; it only exists as a book of reference to the scholar 
 or the antiquary; it buries itself in its own dust, and rots 
 
WILLIAM H. PRE SCOTT. 171 
 
 in the sepulchre of its own research. But when a man comes 
 who has the power, he bids the dead Lazarus of a life of 
 labor come forth and talk to the masses of mankind. 
 
 A first-rate historian requires powers seldom found in one 
 man. A deficiency of any of these qualities is more apparent 
 and deteriorates the whole, more than the absence of any 
 single faculty in the poet, the philosopher, or the novelist. A 
 poet may be of first-rate excellence without the possession 
 of a philosophical mind : he may be unapproached as a lyrical 
 writer. The philosopher may be great, and yet altogether 
 destitute of poetical imagination. The metaphysician may be 
 a pioneer into a new world of thought, and yet be devoid 
 of imagination or command of language. It is only a great 
 dramatist, like Shakspeare or Schiller, who enjoys so large 
 a combination of opposite qualities. In like manner, the 
 great historian is in the world of fact what the dramatist 
 is in the world of fiction. He requires a philosophical mind ; 
 a keen insight into human nature ; a patient investigation of 
 conflicting testimonies ; a power of judging from the con- 
 text, and in seizing upon the most probable fact, out of the 
 very instinct which always accompanies a large and accurate 
 knowledge of human nature ; and above all, he must possess 
 the Promethean spark of imagination to put all this into 
 coherent life and motion, when he has gathered the dead 
 materials of the past. He must satisfactorily answer the ques- 
 tion, " Can these dry bones live ?" 
 
 A great merit in Mr. Prescott is the total absence he 
 displays of all onesidedness. He is less subjective than any 
 prominent historian we are acquainted with. This is a rare 
 
1*72 WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 
 
 virtue. A glance at the most celebrated authors will prove 
 this. While Lingard's statements must be received with cau- 
 tion whenever his Romanist prejudices come into play, Gib- 
 bon is not to be trusted on account of his hatred of Chris- 
 tianity. Hume, without any dislike to Christianity in par- 
 ticular, has a strong tendency to infidelity in general. These 
 objections apply only to religious opinions ; but when we come 
 to a political bias the disturbing influences are enormous. 
 Who can trust Robertson, where the evidence conflicts, on the 
 Queen of Scotland? — and few can receive the special-pleading 
 of Hume, as conclusive, on the civil war in England. Even 
 Macintosh and Macaulay are swayed by these elements, and 
 it is, perhaps, difficult to find any entirely free from them. 
 Now we claim for Mr. Prescott a great exemption from this 
 evil ; he is decidedly an objective writer ; there is the elo- 
 quence of the pleader, and the impartiality of the judge ; and 
 we feel, as we proceed in his details, that we can place con- 
 fidence in his verdicts. 
 
 Another distinguishing trait is in his endeavor to throw 
 his readers back into the times he is treating on. He is not 
 content with considering the past as the past, but he endeavors 
 to carry us back to the time itself. Many, consequently, 
 consider the commencement of his histories tedious, but we 
 feel glad afterwards that we have listened to the exordium. 
 Coleridge was in the habit of observing that it is said, any 
 fool can ask a question, but it takes a wise man to answer it ; 
 his version was, it also took a wise man to put the question 
 aright. We have, therefore, often heard common-place men accuse 
 Coleridge of never giving a direct answer. When this was named 
 
WILLIAM H . PRESCOTT 
 
 173 
 
 to him one day, by a "yes and no" man, the great logician 
 smiled at the ignorance and folly of the objector ; and began 
 forthwith to explain to the bewildered blockhead that it re- 
 quired also a wise man to put a question in a proper shape. 
 There is scarcely an inquiry in the world, either metaphysical, 
 circumstantial, or personal, that is capable of being directly 
 answered. It requires a thorough investigation of all points 
 connected with the subject to be able to master what the 
 interrogator wants. 
 
 This applies in an eminent manner to history. It is not 
 enough to narrate the actions just as they happened, or to 
 report the speeches just as they were said. It is indispensably 
 necessary that the starting-ground should be thoroughly recon- 
 noitred. Without this we answer, just as men walk in the 
 dark over a field they are ignorant of; they may put their 
 foot on firm ground, or fall headlong down some yawning 
 chasm. It is absolutely requisite that some insight should 
 be had into the history, pursuits, and designs of the actors, 
 and some personal knowledge of the man. Then we are 
 better able to judge how far the historian puts true motives 
 for this or that equivocal act. Many deeds, now apparently 
 obscure or startling, are perfectly intelligibly when judged 
 in context with others ; but taken singly and alone they are 
 enough to damn a man's reputation and contradict his whole 
 career. We need only glance at this ; to insist upon it would 
 be a waste of time. We leave eveiy reader to fill up the 
 sketch out of his own experience. 
 
 Now it occurs to us that the author before us feels this neces- 
 sity in all its force, and that he does his best to remedy the 
 
 8 
 
174 WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 
 
 defect. Not content with starting at the beginning of the drama, 
 he very properly gives us a history of the characters before the 
 commencement, so that we are prepared, as the pageant of fate 
 moves on, to recognise the aesthetic truth of each man's life. Nor 
 does this destroy the interest of the denouement ; it greatly 
 adds to it. A personal knowledge of any one always enhances 
 the interest we feel in his fortunes, and it is half the task of a 
 writer to enlist the attention of his readers. This is a hard 
 labor to accomplish, but it ought to be done, otherwise the 
 relator of the event is a narrator, and not a historian. Another 
 besetting sin with this class of writers is their liability to over- 
 estimate the importance of some particular event. How easy 
 is it to exaggerate this fact and diminish that ? An undue promi- 
 nence is thus given to a secondary idea, and so far history is 
 falsified. The historian lies as much by the concealment of a 
 fact, or even of an extenuating motive, as though he boldly 
 stated the reverse of the case. 
 
 Properly treated, history should be a plain, ungarbled account 
 of events as they really happened, accompanied with as much 
 light as can be thrown upon the public stage by the private 
 biographies of the actors themselves. In addition to this we 
 should have the abuses of the time, and the irritative causes 
 conspiring to rouse the masses calmly placed before us, so that 
 a reason should be given for every result. To complete all, a 
 careful summary should be drawn up, to show the amount of 
 human advancement in the progress of this great spectacle, 
 where nations are actors, empires scenes, crowns baubles, and 
 revolutions the denouement. 
 
 This is the cause why romance is devoured in preference to 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 195 
 
 the time the " gloomy Chilcle " was in daily intercourse with 
 Shelley a very perceptible change in his poetry is visible. 
 We throw this out as a study for the curious. 
 
 In the progress of his review of the world Mr. Bryant 
 comes to the New World, and thus speaks : 
 
 " Late, from this western shore, that morning chased 
 The deep and ancient night, that threw its shroud 
 O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste, 
 Nurse of full streams, and lifter-up of proud 
 Sky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud. 
 Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear, 
 Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were loud 
 Amid the forest ; and the bounding deer 
 
 Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled near." 
 
 Having thus traced the march of civilization westward, 
 rising in the east like the sun, to travel to the west : going 
 down perhaps there, like the physical light, to rise again 
 in the east; the poet finishes his history by this apostrophe 
 to his native land : 
 
 " But thou, my country, thou shalt never fall, 
 Save with thy children — thy maternal care, 
 Thy lavish love, thy blessings showered on all — 
 These are thy fetters — seas and stormy air 
 Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where, 
 Among thy gallant sons that guard thee well, 
 Thou laugh' st at enemies : who shall then declare 
 The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell 
 
 How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell ?" 
 
 It may be affirmed that his intention was to take a calm 
 
196 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 general view of the ages of the world ; if so, he has perfectly- 
 succeeded as a philosopher, but failed somewhat as a poet. 
 We may also observe that we do not think he shines in the 
 Spenserian stanza. 
 
 Our readers must not think, because we intend to consider 
 ' this phase of his mind the first, that we are wilfully blind to 
 his other faculties. We shall now enter into an exposition of 
 the more agreeable and stirring parts of his nature. 
 
 The tendency to moralize is an evil when indulged in indis- 
 criminately ; and a greater one when it is superinduced. Mr. 
 Bryant's productions are, however, so pervaded by this predis- 
 position that it is the leading faculty of his mind. It is, 
 indeed, his very nature. This will always give a value to 
 his reflections over the mere artificial moralist. We feel that 
 it is genuine thought — no make-believe — it is deep from the 
 poet's soul. He looks on nature with a sad calmness, like 
 Wordsworth's muse in many of his finest moods. He, how- 
 ever, falls short -of the art shown by the author of "Netley 
 Abbey," of hiding his intention. As we said before, Mr. 
 Bryant labors to obtrude his design; this, with all deference 
 to so true a poet, we think an error, either of judgment or 
 execution. 
 
 We give, as an instance, the commencement of the " Inscrip- 
 tion for the Entrance to a Wood." 
 
 " Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs 
 No school of long experience, that the world 
 Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen 
 Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares, 
 To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood 
 
WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 1*75 
 
 history. We are chilled into apathy by the generalization of 
 the latter, while the personal specialties of the former are 
 enchaining to old and young. Yet a moment's reflection is 
 sufficient to convince all that the excitement of the one is far 
 superior to the other. What can exceed the magnificence 
 of a drama when kings are actors ? And yet so badly 
 managed is history generally that every lesson is received with 
 lassitude. 
 
 When Mr. Prescott has prepared the argument of his works 
 he becomes graphic. Till then there may appear too great an 
 anxiety for every one to know everything. This is, however, a 
 fault on the right side. 
 
 While he has a proper horror of tyranny, we observe a 
 charity extending even to the perpetrator of the outrage ; 
 action and reaction follow each other in natural steps. The 
 French Revolution, dreadful as were its excesses, was created by 
 the enormities of the ancient regime ; centuries of wrong-doing 
 were heaped into one measure, and poured out at once on the 
 devoted heads of the offending class. The narrator who regards 
 the vengeance as distinct from the provocation, only sees one 
 half the question, and his opinion is worthless. The true 
 philosopher is sensible they are inseparable, and would be more 
 astonished at the absence of the catastrophe than that it 
 occurred. 
 
 Mr. Prescott's first work was the result of a labor of many 
 years, and was called " The History of the Pieign of Ferdinand 
 and Isabella." It displays many faults which a young writer 
 would naturally fall into-— an ostentatious display at word 
 painting, and an attempt at fine writing. This censure, however, 
 
176 WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 
 
 only applies to the earlier chapters, which display a cumbrous 
 diction not at all native to his style. As the work proceeds the 
 author has gained his native element, and is thoroughly master 
 of his vocation. 
 
 Mr. Prescott has divided his history of Ferdinand and 
 Isabella into two parts, prefaced with an introduction, which par- 
 takes of his usual painstaking. The description of the Castilian 
 monarchy, with its manners, customs, &c, is as complete as it 
 is possible to make it. The reader feels at once among the 
 nation described, and becomes imbued with many of the feelings 
 of that momentous time. 
 
 The second part opens with a luminous review of the condition 
 of Europe, and the bearing which the different states had upon 
 the most important monarchy then existing. This is stated 
 with admirable impartiality, and impresses every one that the 
 writer was thoroughly master of his subject. Some of the 
 characters in this work are sketched with great force and pre- 
 cision. "We would especially notice Ferdinand and his noble 
 wife. Columbus is done con amore, and stands out in bold 
 relief as he should do, the greatest of his time. Ximenes is 
 likewise well drawn. Rising from the perusal of this work it 
 seems as though we had a personal acquaintance with the chief 
 actors in this eventful drama. The sagacity of Ferdinand 
 seems as characteristic of him, as the fine womanly, heroism and 
 nobility of soul are of his glorious wife. Six years after the pub- 
 lication of this work appeared his History of the Conquest of 
 Mexico. For this he possessed advantages seldom vouchsafed 
 to any author. The Spanish Government placed at his disposal 
 unpublished correspondence, chronicles, legal documents, &c, 
 
WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. ITT 
 
 sufficient to set up a dozen historians. From Mexico lie also 
 received most important and valuable assistance. Nor were 
 these unusual advantages thrown away. As an English reviewer 
 has observed, many of the characters are so well and vividly 
 described that we may almost be permitted to call Mr. Prescott 
 the Homer of history. "We cannot, ourselves, go to this extent, 
 but we frankly acknowledge that of all historical writers he 
 possesses more of the epic romancist than any narrative writer 
 of the day. 
 
 We have heard some of his most extravagant admirers con- 
 tend that the Conquest of Mexico is a magnificent poem. This 
 is absurdity ; we can, however, truly predicate that it possesses 
 many of the chief ingredients. Till Mr. Prescott published his 
 voluminous histories there was much vagueness in the knowledge 
 possessed by the masses on the subjects of which he has treated ; 
 he seems suddenly to have illuminated the general world, 
 and to have created a knowledge where before there was a 
 darkness. This is seldom achieved without the possession of 
 that peculiar power termed genius, and we consider ourselves 
 within the bounds of demonstration when we say that in these 
 respects we consider Mr. Prescott as deserving the rare dis- 
 tinction of having a genius for historical composition. 
 
 We should like to present to the reader the passages we 
 have alluded to, but our space will not permit us. We cannot, 
 however, avoid quoting the closing pages of the " Conquest of 
 Mexico." Here we have a passage full of Mr. Prescott's merits 
 and blemishes. His partiality to Cortes is excessive ; this is, 
 however, on the right side ; when it is known, we can guard 
 against the bias. We can easily pardon an author's partiality 
 
178 
 
 WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 
 
 for a subject, more especially a biographer for bis hero. All 
 we require is a calm, statement of facts, nothing extenuate, 
 or aught set down in malice. We are then in a position to 
 counteract the warmth of coloring of the poet, or the undue 
 partiality of the advocate. 
 
 The character of Cortes has either been the subject of out- 
 rageous abuse, or else of fulsome adulation. Mr. Prescott, 
 after a careful balancing of the conflicting evidence, sums up 
 candidly : — 
 
 " He was a knight-errant, in the literal sense of the word. Of 
 all the band of adventurous cavaliers, whom Spain, in the sixteenth 
 century, sent forth on the career of discovery and conquest, there 
 was none more deeply filled with the spirit of romantic enterprise 
 than Hernando Cortes. Dangers and difficulties, instead of deter- 
 ring, seemed to have a charm in his eyes. They were necessary 
 to rouse him to a full consciousness of his powers. He grappled 
 with them at the outset, and, if I may so express myself, seemed to 
 prefer to take his enterprises by the most difficult side. He con- 
 ceived, at the first moment of Ms landing in Mexico, the design of 
 its conquest. When he saw the strength of its civilization, he was 
 not turned from his purpose. When he was assailed by the supe- 
 rior force of Narvaez, he still persisted in it ; and, when he was 
 driven in ruin from the capital, he still cherished his original idea. 
 How successfully he carried it into execution we have seen." .... 
 
 This is no doubt true of every great mind. It is this pecu- 
 liarity which distinguishes the hero from the charlatan ; the 
 man who is reasoned, bullied, or laughed out of an opinion, 
 
WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 179 
 
 once deliberately stated to the world, is only fit to be a slave, 
 and not a master. 
 
 Prescott thus proceeds : 
 
 " This spirit of knight-errantry might lead us to undervalue his 
 talents as a general, and to regard him merely in the light of a 
 lucky adventurer. But this would be doing him injustice; for 
 Cortes was certainly a great general, if that man be one, who per- 
 forms great achievements with the resources which his own genius 
 has created. There is probably no instance in history, where so 
 vast an enterprise has been achieved by means apparently so inade- 
 quate. He may be truly said to have effected the Conquest by his 
 own resources. If he was indebted for his success to the co-opera- 
 tion of the Indian tribes, it was the force of his genius that 
 obtained command of such materials. He arrested the arm that 
 was lifted to smite him, and made it do battle in his behalf. He 
 beat the Tlascalans, and made them his stanch allies. He beat 
 the soldiers of Narvaez, and doubled his effective force by it. 
 When his own men deserted him, he did not desert himself. He 
 drew them back by degrees, and compelled them to act by his 
 will, till they were all as one man. He brought together the most 
 miscellaneous collection of mercenaries who ever fought under 
 one standard; adventurers from Cuba and the Isles, craving for 
 gold; hidalgos, who came from the old country to win laurels; 
 broken-down cavaliers, who hoped to mend their fortunes in 
 the New World ; vagabonds flying from justice ; the grasping fol- 
 lowers of Narvaez, and his own reckless veterans, — men with 
 hardly a common tie, and burning with the spirit of jealousy and 
 faction ; wild tribes of the natives from all parts of the country, 
 who had been sworn enemies from their cradles, and who had 
 met only to cut one another's throats, and to procure victims 
 
180 WILLIAM H. PBESCOTT. 
 
 for sacrifice; men, in short, differing in race, in language, and 
 in interests, with scarcely anything in common among them. Yet 
 this motley congregation was assembled in one camp, compelled to 
 bend to the will of one man, to consort together in harmony, to 
 breathe, as it were, one spirit, and to move on a common principle 
 of action! It is in this wonderful power over the discordant 
 masses thus gathered under his banner, that we recognise the 
 genius of the great commander, no less than in the skill of his 
 military operations." 
 
 Here again the historian dwells too much on a general fact, 
 and absolutely turns it into an individual virtue. This was 
 eminently the case with Hannibal, Scipio, and many other 
 generals. Then why seems it so jDarticular in Cortes ? 
 
 With a singular mixture of simplicity and superfluity of 
 statement, Mr. Prescott actually favors the public with the 
 reasons for this result. 
 
 " His power over the minds of his soldiers was a natural result 
 of their confidence in his abilities. But it is also to be attributed 
 to his popular manners, — that happy union of authority and com- 
 panionship, which fitted him for the command of a band of roving 
 adventurers. It would not have done for him to have fenced him- 
 self round with the stately reserve of a commander of regular 
 forces. He was embarked with his men in a common adventure, 
 aud nearly on terms of equality, since he held his commission by 
 no legal warrant. But, while he indulged this freedom and fami- 
 liarity with his soldiers, he never allowed it to interfere with their 
 strict obedience, nor to impair the severity of discipline. When he 
 had risen to higher consideration, although he affected more state, 
 he still admitted his veterans to the same intimacy. « He prefer- 
 
WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 181 
 
 red,' says Diaz, ' to be called Cortes by us, to being called by any 
 title ; and with good reason,' continues the enthusiastic old cava- 
 lier, ' for the name of Cortes is as famous in our day as was that of 
 Caesar among the Romans, or of Hannibal among the Cartha- 
 ginians.' He showed the same kind regard towards his ancient 
 comrades in the very last act of his life. For he appropriated a 
 sum by his will for the celebration of two thousand masses for the 
 souls of those who had fought with him in the campaigns of 
 Mexico." 
 
 The following quotation is, however, open to the gravest 
 censure : it is not borne out by the evidence. 
 
 " Cortes was not a vulgar conqueror. He did not conquer from 
 the mere ambition of conquest. If he destroyed the ancient capital 
 of the Aztecs, it was to build up a more magnificent capital on its 
 ruins. If he desolated the land, and broke up its existing institu- 
 tions, he employed the short period of his administration in digest- 
 ing schemes for introducing there a more improved culture and a 
 higher civilization. In all his expeditions he was careful to study 
 the resources of the country, its social organization, and its phy- 
 sical capacities. He enjoined it on his captains to attend par- 
 ticularly to these objects. If he was greedy of gold, like most of 
 the Spanish cavaliers in the New World, it was not to hoard it, 
 nor merely to lavish it in the support of a princely establishment, 
 but to secure funds for prosecuting his glorious discoveries. Wit- 
 ness his costly expeditions to the Gulf of California. His enter- 
 prises were not undertaken solely for mercenary objects; as is 
 shown by the various expeditions he set on foot for the discovery 
 of a communication between the Atlantic and the Pacific. In his 
 schemes of ambition he showed a respect for the interests of 
 
 8* 
 
182 WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 
 
 science, to be referred partly to the natural superiority of his mind, 
 but partly, no doubt, to the influence of early education. It is, 
 indeed, hardly possible, that a person of his wayward and mercurial 
 temper should have improved his advantages at the University, but 
 he brought away from it a tinctnre of scholarship, seldom found 
 among the cavaliers of the period, and which had its influence in 
 enlarging his own conceptions. His celebrated Letters are written 
 with a simple elegance, that, as I have already had occasion to 
 remark, have caused them to be compared to the military narrative 
 of Caesar. It will not be easy to find in the chronicles of the 
 period a more concise, yet comprehensive, statement, not only of 
 the events of his campaigns } but of the circumstances most worthy 
 of notice in the character of the conquered countries. 
 
 " Cortes was not cruel ; at least, not cruel as compared with 
 most of those who followed his iron trade. The path of the con- 
 queror is necessarily marked with blood. He was not too scrupu- 
 lous, indeed, in the execution of his plans. He swept away the 
 obstacles which lay in his track ; and his fame is darkened by the 
 commission of more than one act which his boldest apologists 
 will find it hard to vindicate. But he was not wantonly cruel. 
 He allowed no outrage on his unresisting foes. This may seem 
 small praise, but it is an exception to the usual conduct of his 
 countrymen in their conquests, and it is something to be in ad- 
 vance of one's time. He was severe, it may be added, in enforcing 
 obedience to his orders for protecting their persons and their pro- 
 perty. With his licentious crew, it was sometimes not without 
 hazard that he was so. After the Conquest, he sanctioned the 
 system of repartimientos ; but so did Columbus. He endeavored 
 to regulate it by the most humane laws, and continued to suggest 
 many important changes for ameliorating the condition of the 
 natives. The best commentary on his conduct, in this respect, is 
 the deference that was shown him by the Indians, and the con- 
 
WILLIAM H . PRESCOTT. 183 
 
 fidence with which they appealed to him for protection in all their 
 subsequent distresses." 
 
 Here we leave the case in the hands of the reader ; we 
 cannot judge so favorably of the great butcher. 
 
 Mr. Prescott concludes his character of the warrior by this 
 attempt to explain away or account for his superstition : 
 
 " One trait more remains to be noticed in the character of this 
 remarkable man ; that is, his bigotry, the failing of the age, — for 
 surely it should be termed only a failing. When we see the hand, 
 red with the blood of the wretched native, raised to invoke the 
 blessing of Heaven on the cause which it maintains, we experience 
 something like a sensation of disgust at the act, and doubt of its 
 sincerity. Bnt this is unjust. We should throw ourselves back 
 (it cannot be too often repeated) into the age ; the age of the Cru- 
 sades. For every Spanish cavalier, however sordid and selfish 
 might be his private motives, felt himself to be the soldier of the 
 Cross. Many of them would have died in defence of it. Who- 
 ever has read the correspondence of Cortes, or, still more, has 
 attended to the circumstances of his career, will hardly doubt that 
 he would have been among the first to lay down his life for the 
 Faith. He more than once perilled life, and fortune, and the suc- 
 cess of his whole enterprise, by the premature and most impolitic 
 manner in which he would have forced conversion on the natives. 
 To the more rational spirit of the present day, enlightened by a 
 purer Christianity, it may seem difficult to reconcile gross devia- 
 tions from morals with such devotion to the cause of religion. 
 But the religion taught in that day was one of form and elaborate 
 ceremony. In the punctilious attention to discipline, the spirit of 
 Christianity was permitted to evaporate. The mind, occupied with 
 
184 WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 
 
 forms, thinks little of substance. In a worship that is addressed 
 too exclusively to the senses, it is often the case that morality 
 becomes divorced from religion, and the measure of righteousness 
 is determined by the creed rather than by the conduct." 
 
 Our historian need only to have gone to the Te Deunas 
 of London and Paris, the twin centres of civilization, for an 
 excuse for Hernando Cortes. "We, however, expect a higher 
 standard from a man of Mr. Prescott's calibre. 
 
 In his next great work, the " Conquest of Peru," we recog- 
 nise a still greater advance, and the public have accorded great 
 preference for it. It is undoubtedly the most popular of Mr. 
 Prescott's productions. 
 
 There are more force and clearness in this history than in his 
 others ; the adjuncts are painted with more brilliancy, and 
 the scenes are more vividly before us. Some may consider 
 that the author has treated this with more freedom of coloring 
 than is allowable, but we incline to the belief that a historical 
 picture should be as brightly painted as a scene from the 
 " Midsummer Night's Dream." 
 
 The " Conquest of Peru " has more of that terrible retribu- 
 tion in it which makes history a great instructor. From the 
 first page to the last, we behold that master-spirit of cruelty, 
 avarice, and fraud, Pizarro, preparing for his own inevitable 
 fate. His very successes, almost miraculous, lure him to 
 destruction. And after a time, when his great triumphs 
 seemed to invest him with the monopoly of wrong- doing, 
 he falls by the hands of assassins. The old proverb, "that 
 sure destruction dogs the steps of crime," is visible in the 
 
WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 185 
 
 histories of Pizarro and Napoleon, very clearly. But the 
 powers they offended were different. The Spaniard outraged 
 humanity ; the Corsican, liberty. The recoil was equally 
 crushing. There also appears a sort of poetical fitness in 
 the punishments awarded to each. The outrager of humanity 
 lost his life ; the violator of liberty his freedom. One was 
 killed ; the other was a captive. A celebrated poet has ob- 
 served, that the history of the world is a game of chess which 
 has not yet been played out. What is termed a revolution 
 is merely a change in the phase of the game. Many may 
 consider this the view of a Fatalist, but we do not see 
 why this word should be used when there is the better word 
 Necessity. Fatalism, in human progress, is Calvinism in 
 religion : it paralyses effort. Under one aspect, inaction is 
 as good as energy. But this is only one aspect. It has, 
 however, the counterbalancing virtue of fortitude. 
 
 No sane man ever believed that Calvinism in religion, 
 and Necessity in politics, meant stagnation of thought and 
 action. This would be a living death ; a complete and suicidal 
 solecism. 
 
 The true light by which history ought to be read, is 
 the certainty of every fact producing its kind. What we 
 sow, we reap. Tyranny is the parent of anarchy, which, in 
 its turn, begets another despotism. Throw human freedom 
 down, and in proportion to the force of the overthrow will 
 be the violence of the rebound. Action and reaction revolve 
 constantly, and produce events which constitute the life of 
 humanity. 
 
 It would be a curious study to consider the world dra- 
 
186 WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 
 
 matically. To take an age, and treat it as an act, carry- 
 ing out Shakspeare's maxim : 
 
 " All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely play- 
 ers." 
 
 How differently would the actions of men then appear ! 
 With what greater tolerance should we regard the doers of 
 evil, while recognising the part played by each, and the neces- 
 sity for every word and deed ! The master-passion of an 
 age could be easily detected, and the vibration of the human 
 pendulum seen and accounted for. The life of the human 
 race treated in this manner would, however, require a man 
 of first-rate intellect. He must be the Shakspeare of facts. 
 A fact is nothing apart from its cause. It is a dead body. 
 Motive is the life of a fact. The largest collection of them 
 in the world would be but hieroglyphics, the key to which 
 is lost ; a jumble of conjurors' signs, without the magical 
 power. But when the skeleton is filled up with flesh and 
 muscles, a nervous system added, and the whole garbed in the 
 satiny robe of skin, we perceive the beauty of the living form. 
 
 We do not wish to be fanciful in a critical matter, but 
 we think we shall better explain our theory of history by 
 carrying out this metaphor, than by a lengthened analysis. 
 
 The skeleton of history is undoubtedly the facts themselves ; 
 the flesh is the common element which composes the masses of 
 mankind ; the muscles are the men of action ; the nervous 
 system is the sympathies and intelligence of the educated 
 classes ; the brain is composed of the thinking men ; the 
 
WILLIAM II. PRESCOTT. 
 
 187 
 
 heart is the philanthropist ; the skin is the decency of life ; and 
 the robes in which the form is clothed are the changing 
 fashions and popular impressions of the time. 
 
 With this rough view of the question, it is evident that 
 it requires a peculiar combination to faithfully anatomize this 
 curious and elaborate physique. 
 
 "We have before alluded to the besetting sins of the prin- 
 cipal writers of histoiy : the pomposity and infidelity of Gib- 
 bon ; the passionless, dry detailism of Hallam ; the local preju- 
 dice and half-philosophy of Robertson; the brilliant poetical 
 distortions of Michelet ; the artful undercurrent of Guizot ; the 
 Romanist bigotry of Lingard ; the brilliant special pleading 
 of Macaulay ; the metaphysical elaboration of Macintosh ; the 
 strong individuality of Carlyle ; the patient research of Sharon 
 Turner ; the want of earnestness, and scepticism of Hume. 
 This list comprises the principal men who have tried their 
 hands on this difficult branch of literature, and is a strong 
 evidence of the difficulty of success. 
 
 Now, the American writer has brought to his task pa- 
 tience — learning — an earnest desire to elicit the truth — a clear 
 and picturesque style — a wish to acquaint the reader with 
 all the prominent circumstances of the case — and a thorough 
 knowledge of the importance of throwing himself into the 
 prevailing opinions, feelings, and customs of the times de- 
 scribed. 
 
 These are strong points in his favor, and we feel assured 
 the verdict of posterity will be, that although he is inferior 
 to some of his fellow-laborers in that individual force which 
 
188 WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 
 
 constitutes genius, he is far more qualified to present to the 
 public the aggregate result of his various labors. 
 
 We shall not discuss his volume of "Biographical and 
 Critical Essays," as we here treat of him only as the greatest 
 historian America has produced, and one who is fully equal 
 to sustain an honorable comparison with his European breth- 
 ren. We predict that when he chooses a more extended 
 survey of the biography of the human family he will not 
 be found wanting. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 189 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BEYANT 
 
 There is a calm classical dignity about Mr. Bryant's 
 muse, which in the eyes of many is considered as - an equiva- 
 lent for that fire and energy which is so fascinating to the 
 lovers of poetry. The tone of his productions is elevated, 
 but not stirring. We assent to his reflections : we do not 
 feel with him. There is nothing rapid and breathless in 
 his flights : they are equable and sustained. There is an 
 air of Grecian elegance about his writings, which convinces 
 us he never abandons himself to the impulses of the Pytho- 
 ness. At times, this amounts to a severity which chills his 
 readers, and impresses them with the idea that he is moraliz- 
 ing in verse, and not throwing off the rushing thoughts 
 that crowd his brain in the first bold snatches of sound. 
 There is more of the cultivation of the poet than of the 
 nature or instinct ; indeed, occasionally, the determination to 
 compose is painfully apparent ; it seems the effort of his will, 
 and not a revelation of his hidden spirit. 
 
 It is not, however, for the reader or the critic to deter- 
 
190 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 mine in what shape or manner a poet is to write. We ought 
 to allow thankfully the gifted one to develope himself according 
 to his own taste. There would be an end to individuality 
 if we were to insist upon an author's putting himself into 
 this or that character. We cheerfully admit that the man 
 of mind ought to choose his own circle to discourse in ; never- 
 theless, there is implanted in every reader's breast, however 
 faintly, a predisposition for the more exciting kinds of com- 
 position, more especially in its poetical spirit. This constitutes 
 the cause of that popularity which ever and anon attends 
 an author who seizes vigorously on the most salient points 
 of human attention. This was pre-eminently the case with 
 Byron. Every being has a certain love of the romantic im- 
 planted in him, which at once responds to the poet's appeal. 
 It is the sound of a trumpet to the war-horse. Who ever 
 heard military music without feeling somewhat of the soldier's 
 spirit roused within, however apparently peacefully-disposed and 
 gentle in everyday life? 
 
 What Mr. Bryant gains as a philosopher, he loses as a poet. 
 Not that a poet should not be a philosopher, for indeed 
 he cannot be one without, but because he makes the secondary 
 the ascendant. Poetry includes philosophy, but it should be 
 hidden by the poetical glow, as the color of blooming health 
 hides the white skin of the fair maiden's cheek. This sub- 
 stitution of the lower for the higher faculty is very apparent 
 in the fine poem called the "Ages." This is the longest 
 and most ambitious of Mr. Bryant's attempts. The subject is 
 admirably fitted for the display of power. What can be 
 more susceptible of poetical thought and expression than a 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 191 
 
 rapid review of the history of the world ? The theme is 
 a half-inspiration of itself. Mr. Bryant, however, looks with 
 the eye of a philosopher on the varying phases of humanity, 
 and although we read with an attentive pleasure, we do 
 not feel that delight which we know the subject is so admirably 
 calculated to afford. We miss those vigorous, golden pas- 
 sages, which compel us to pause, and read again out of 
 the mere enthusiasm of admiration. 
 
 We quote a few stanzas as illustrations of the manner 
 in which our poet treats the scenes presented to his imagi- 
 nation. 
 
 The first we offer is a very striking one : 
 
 " Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth 
 In her fair page ; see, every season brings 
 New change, to her, of everlasting youth : 
 Still the green soil, with joyous living things, 
 Swarms, the wide air is full of joyous wings, 
 And myriads, still, are happy in the sleep 
 Of ocean's azure gulfs, and where he flings 
 The restless surge. Eternal Love doth keep 
 
 In his complacent arms, the earth, the ah, the deep." 
 
 The critic will observe a very awkward " doth keep." A 
 poet of Mr. Bryant's great powers of versification should not 
 have sat down under this verbal defect, small as it is. We 
 are more exacting from him, because he is one of the few 
 American poets who have attained a classical polish. 
 
 The opening to the panorama of the past is admirably 
 introduced : 
 
192 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 " Sit at the feet of history — through the night 
 Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace, 
 And show the earlier ages, where her sight 
 Can pierce the eternal shadows o'er the face ; — 
 When, from the genial cradle of our race, 
 Went forth the tribes of men, then pleasant lot 
 To choose, where palm-groves cooled their dwelling-place, 
 Or freshening rivers ran ; and there forgot 
 
 The truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that heard them not. 
 
 " Then waited not the murderer for the night, 
 But smote his brother down in the bright day, 
 And he who felt the wrong, and had the might, 
 His own avenger, girt himself to slay ; 
 Beside the path the unburied carcase lay ; 
 The shepherd, by the fountains of the glen, 
 Fled, while the robber swept his flock away, 
 And slew his babes. The sick, untended then, 
 Languished in the damp shade, and died afar from men." 
 
 The poet very felicitously alludes to the dark ages of 
 history, where so great a gap of annals exists — when even 
 tradition dies into silence — and oblivion would be complete 
 were it not for the mouldering ruins of unknown cities. 
 
 " Those ages have no memory — but they left 
 A record in the desert — columns strown 
 On the waste sands, and statues fallen and cleft, 
 Heaped like a host in battle overthrown ; 
 Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone 
 Were hewn into a city ; streets that spread 
 In the dark earth, where never breath has blown 
 Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread 
 
 The long and perilous ways — the Cities of the Dead : 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 193 
 
 " And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up-piled — 
 They perished — but the eternal tombs remain — 
 And the black precipice, abrupt and wild, 
 Pierced by long toil and hollowed to a fane; — 
 Huge piers and frowning forms of gods sustain 
 The everlasting arches, dark and wide, 
 Like the night-heaven, when clouds are black with rain. 
 But idly skill was tasked, and strength was plied, 
 All was the work of slaves to swell a despot's pride." 
 
 The poet's eye then rests on Greece, and in two stanzas 
 gives his impressions. 
 
 In the apostrophe to Rome we feel the philosophical cool- 
 ness of Mr. Bryant in its full force of negativing his poetry. 
 There is too much of the abstract. More can be gathered 
 often from a small event than from a dry balance-sheet of 
 the result. We may call these personal traits of a nation. 
 As an instance of the two styles of treating the subject, we 
 will compare Mr. Bryant with Byron. One, all philosopher ; 
 the other, all poet: we mean, of course, so far as these 
 views go. 
 
 " And Rome — thy sterner, younger sister, she 
 Who awed the world with her imperial frown — 
 Rome drew the spirit of her race from thee,— -> 
 The rival of thy shame and thy renown. 
 Yet her degenerate children sold the crown 
 Of earth's wide kingdoms to a line of slaves ; 
 Guilt reigned, and woe with guilt, and plagues came down, 
 Till the north broke its floodgates, and the waves 
 
 Whelmed the degraded race, and weltered o'er their graves." 
 
 The generalization here materially interferes with the clear- 
 
194 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 ness and vividness of the effect to be produced. Let us turn 
 to Byron, and see how he treats it. 
 
 " I see before me the Gladiator lie : 
 He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
 And his drooped head smks gradually low — 
 And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
 From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
 Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
 The arena swims around him— he is gone, 
 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. 
 
 " He heard it, but he heeded not — Ms eyes 
 Were with his heart, and that was far away ; 
 He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, 
 But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
 There were his young barbarians all at play, 
 There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
 Butchered to make a Roman holiday — 
 All this rushed with his blood— Shall he expire 
 And unavenged 1 — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire !" 
 
 We are willing to admit that it is scarcely just to select 
 a verse at random from the American, and compare it with 
 one of the most successful efforts of the great English poet. 
 We, however, only intend by this comparison to illustrate 
 that we think Mr. Bryant has injured a fine subject by 
 throwing over it too frigid a mantle of philosophy. 
 
 With respect to the origin of these celebrated verses to 
 the Gladiator, it is stated that Byron was indebted for them 
 to Shelley. It has been said by Leigh Hunt, that during 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRTANT. 19Y 
 
 And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade 
 Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze 
 That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm 
 To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here 
 Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men 
 And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse 
 » Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, 
 But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt 
 Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades 
 Are still the abodes of gladness ; the thick roof 
 Of green and stirring branches is alive 
 And musical with birds, that sing and sport 
 In wantonness of spirit ; while below 
 The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect, 
 Chirps merrily." * * * 
 
 Again, in his " Thanatopsis," there is too much ostentation 
 of purpose expressed in the opening. 
 
 " To him who in the love of Nature holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks • 
 A various language ; for his gayer hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
 Into his darker musings, with a mild 
 And healing sympathy, that steals away 
 Their sharpness, ere he is aware." * * 
 
 While we are on this trail we may as well quote a few 
 instances of this peculiarity, and then dismiss the subject alto- 
 gether. It seems as though Mr. Bryant could not begin a sub- 
 ject in blank verse, without a superfluity of explanation, which 
 materially destroys the pleasure of the perusal. It is very 
 
198 WILLIAM CDLLEN BRYANT. 
 
 much like impairing the unexpectedness of a plaj by unneces- 
 sarily announcing the denouement before it begins. All writing, 
 more especially poetry, is dramatic, and very much of all its 
 interest depends upon curiosity. In addition to this besetting 
 tendency, alike characteristic of Wordsworth and Bryant, is a 
 prolixity in the opening sentences in many of his poems. Few 
 poets can write simpler, closer English than Mr. Bryant, but 
 mark how feeble is the commencement of a very fine poem : 
 
 " The time has been that these wild solitudes, 
 Yet beautiful as wild, w T ere trod by me 
 Oftener than now ; and when the ills of life 
 Had chafed my spirit — when the unsteady pulse 
 Beat with strange fiutterings — I would wander forth 
 And seek the woods." 
 
 There is a homely phrase of " putting one's best leg fore- 
 most ;" but our poet seems to take a delight in putting his 
 dullest thought and feeblest verse at the porch of his otherwise 
 fine structures of verse. We should advise the man who 
 opened Bryant for the first time to plunge into the middle of 
 each poem at once, and read right through to the end ; it takes 
 him a dozen lines to get warmed sufficient to go on with his 
 theme. We now dismiss our objections on this score, and con- 
 sider the brighter side of his poetical world. 
 
 In the opening lines to that beautiful composition called "The 
 Burial Place," there is a piece of quiet painting very effective : 
 
 "Erewhile, on England's pleasant shores, our sires 
 Left not their churchyards unadorned with shades 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 199 
 
 Or blossoms ; and indulgent to the strong 
 
 And natural dread of man's last home, the grave, 
 
 Its frost and silence — they disposed around, 
 
 To soothe the melancholy spirit that dwelt 
 
 Too sadly on life's close, the forms and hues 
 
 Of vegetable beauty. There the yew, 
 
 Green even amid the snows of winter, told 
 
 Of immortality, and gracefully 
 
 The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped ; 
 
 And there the gadding woodbine crept about, 
 
 And there the ancient ivy. From the spot 
 
 Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming years 
 
 Cut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands 
 
 That trembled as they placed her there, the rose 
 
 Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spoke 
 
 Her graces, than the proudest monument. 
 
 There children set about their playmate's grave 
 
 The pansy. On the infant's little bed, 
 
 Wet at its planting with maternal tears, 
 
 Emblem of early sweetness, early death, 
 
 Nestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames 
 
 And maids that would not raise the reddened eye — 
 
 Orphans, from whose young lids the light of joy 
 
 Fled early, — silent lovers, who had given 
 
 All that they lived for to the arms of earth, 
 
 Came often, o'er the recent graves to strew 
 
 Their offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers." 
 
 We were somewhat jarred at one expression in these lines — 
 " of vegetable beauty" — it sounded strangely out of keeping. 
 
 As a diversion from these snatches of blank verse, let us 
 quote a song. 
 
200 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 " Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow 
 Reflects the day-dawn cold and clear, 
 The hunter of the west must go 
 In depth of woods to seek the deer. 
 
 "His rifle on his shoulder placed, 
 
 His stores of death arranged with skill, 
 His moccasins and snow-shoes laced, — 
 Why lingers he beside the hill % 
 
 "Far, in the dim and doubtful light, 
 Where woody slopes a valley leave, 
 He sees what none but lover might, 
 The dwelling of his Genevieve. 
 
 " And oft he turns his truant eye, 
 
 And pauses oft, and lingers near ; 
 
 But when he marks the reddening sky, 
 
 He bounds away to hunt the deer." 
 
 We merely point out, as a singular trait in the compositions 
 of so classical a writer as Mr. Bryant, the numerous expletive 
 epithets he indulges in ; he very often weakens the whole force 
 of a thought by one needless or uncharacteristic adjective. We 
 think this line an illustration of our remark: 
 
 " Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow." 
 
 The words " must go " also seem deficient in naturalness of 
 expression. 
 
 As a specimen of graceful and elaborate writing few exceed 
 " The Indian Girl's Lament." 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 201 
 
 "An Indian girl was sitting where 
 Her lover, slain in battle, slept ; 
 Her maiden veil, her own black hair, 
 
 Came down o'er eyes that wept ; 
 And wildly, in her woodland tongue, 
 This sad and simple lay she sung : 
 
 " ' I've pulled away the shrubs that grew 
 
 Too close above thy sleeping head, 
 And broke the forest boughs that threw 
 
 Their shadows o'er thy bed, 
 That, shining from the sweet south-west, 
 The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest. 
 
 " ' It was a weary, weary road 
 
 That led thee to the pleasant coast, 
 Where thou, in his serene abode, 
 
 Hast met thy father's ghost ; 
 Where everlasting autumn lies 
 On yellow woods and sunny skies. 
 
 ""Twas I the broidered mocsen made, 
 That shod thee for that distant land ; 
 'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid 
 
 Beside thy still cold hand ; 
 Thy bow in many a battle bent, 
 Thy arrows never vainly sent. 
 
 "'With wampum belts I crossed thy breast, 
 
 And wrapped thee in the bison's hide, 
 
 And laid the food that pleased thee best, 
 
 In plenty, by thy side, 
 And decked thee bravely, as became 
 A warrior of illustrious name. 
 
202 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 ' ' Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed 
 
 The long dark journey of the grave, 
 And in the land of light, at last, 
 
 Hast joined the good and brave ; 
 Amid the flushed and balmy air, 
 The bravest and the loveliest there. 
 
 "' Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid 
 
 Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray, — 
 
 To her who sits where thou wert laid, 
 And weeps the hours away, 
 
 Yet almost can her grief forget 
 
 To think that thou dost love her yet. 
 
 " ' And thou, by one of those still lakes 
 
 That in a shining cluster lie, 
 On which the south wind scarcely breaks 
 
 The image of the sky, 
 A bower for thee and me hast made 
 Beneath the many-colored shade. 
 
 "' And thou dost wait and watch to meet 
 
 My spirit sent to join the blessed, 
 And, wondering what detains my feet 
 
 From the bright land of rest, 
 Dost seem, in every sound, to hear 
 The rustling of my footsteps near." 
 
 In tbe " Old Man's Funeral " the moralizing mantle descends 
 upon the poet, and he thus similitudes : 
 
 " I saw an aged man upon his bier, 
 
 His hair was thin and white, and on his brow 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 203 
 
 A. record of the cares of many a year ; — 
 
 Cares that were ended and forgotten now. 
 And there was sadness round, and faces bowed, 
 And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud. 
 
 "Then rose another hoary man and said, 
 
 In faltering accents, to that weeping train, 
 'Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead? 
 
 Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain, 
 Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast, 
 Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened mast. 
 
 " ' Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled, 
 His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky, 
 In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled, 
 
 Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie, 
 And leaves the smile of his departure, spread, 
 O'er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain head.' " 
 
 After working out the metaphor very elaborately, step by 
 step, the aged mourner thus closes his homily over his dead 
 brother : 
 
 "' And I am glad that he has lived thus long, 
 
 And glad that he has gone to his reward ; 
 Nor can I deem that nature did him wrong, 
 
 Softly to disengage the vital cord. 
 For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye 
 Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die.' " 
 
 All this is very noble writing, but surely it is somewhat too 
 curiously considered, taking into account the scene ; the speaker 
 o'er-refines for nature. 
 
 There are times, however, when the moralizing mood is 
 
204 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 thrown aside, and a snatch of pure song comes out. The Song 
 of Wooing is gaily done ; it is a double pleasure to meet Mr. 
 Bryant in these moods : 
 
 "Dost thou idly ask to hear 
 
 At what gentle seasons 
 Nymphs relent, when lovers near, 
 
 Press the tenderest reasons] 
 Ah, they give their faith too oft 
 
 To the careless wooer ; 
 Maidens' hearts are always soft, 
 
 Would that men's were truer ! 
 
 "Woo the fair one, when around 
 
 Early birds are singing ; 
 When, o'er all the fragrant ground 
 
 Early herbs are springing : 
 When the brookside, bank, and grove, 
 
 All with blossoms laden, 
 Shine with beauty, breathe of love, — 
 
 Woo the timid maiden. 
 
 "Woo her when, with rosy blush, 
 
 Summer eve is sinking ; 
 When, on rills that softly gush, 
 
 Stars are softly winking ; 
 When, through boughs that knit the bower, 
 
 Moonlight gleams are stealing ; 
 Woo her, till the gentle hour 
 Wake a gentler feeling. 
 
 "Woo her, when autumnal dyes 
 Tinge the woody mountain ; 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 20 
 
 When the dropping foliage lies 
 
 In the weedy fountain ; 
 Let the scene, that tells how fast 
 
 Youth is passing over, 
 Warn her, ere her bloom is past, 
 
 To secure her lover. 
 
 "Woo her, when the north winds call 
 
 At the lattice nightly ; 
 When, within the cheerful hall, 
 
 Blaze the fagots brightly ; 
 While the wintry tempest round 
 
 Sweeps the landscape hoary, 
 Sweeter in her ear shall sound 
 
 Love's delightful story." 
 
 We feel sure no better plan can be laid for testing the 
 powers of a poet than by comparing him with some brother 
 bard. Let our readers study Bryant's "Address to a Cloud," 
 commencing 
 
 " Beautiful cloud ! with folds so soft and fair, 
 
 Swimming in the pure quiet air ! 
 Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below 
 
 Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow ; 
 Where, midst their labor, pause the reaper train 
 
 As cool it comes along the grain. 
 Beautiful cloud ! I would I were with thee 
 
 In thy calm way o'er land and sea : 
 To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look 
 
 On Earth as on an open book ; 
 On streams that tie her realms with silver bands, 
 
 And the long ways that seam her lands ; 
 9* 
 
206 WILLIAM CtJLLEN BRYANT. 
 
 And hear her humming cities and the sound 
 
 Of the great ocean breaking round. 
 Ay — I would sail upon thy air-borne car 
 
 To blooming regions distant far, 
 To where the sun of Andalusia shines 
 
 On his own olive-groves and vines, 
 Or the soft lights of Italy's bright sky 
 
 In smiles upon her ruins lie." 
 
 From this cloud let them step to Shelley's poem beginning 
 " I bring fresh showers to the fainting flowers." 
 
 This is, however, too well known to require quotation. Let our 
 readers turn to it and judge for themselves. Let it, however, 
 be fully borne in mind, once for all, that we never institute a com- 
 parison with any poet with an invidious intention ; we despise 
 that method of detraction. We merely do it to call out the 
 idiosyncrasy of one poet by contrasting him with another. 
 Indeed, they are intended as contrasts, and not as comparisons, 
 in the strict sense of the word. Nature remains the same 
 great and unchangeable being, while every poet is a mirror 
 which flashes a different light upon this grand object. 
 
 The arrogant assumption of the world ignores or despises the 
 existence of a single human being. We read the birth of this, 
 and the death of that, with a composure perfectly icy. But the 
 man of thought or feeling regards it in a very different light. 
 With every babe born is its accompanying universe ; to every 
 man dead the universe as it seemed to him has passed away 
 like a forgotten dream. We defy the veriest fool to overrate a 
 birth or a death. The disappearance of a star or the advent 01 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 207 
 
 a comet is considered as an object of special wonder ; what 
 would be said if we were told that all the stars of heaven had 
 flashed their last, and that one peculiar aspect of creation had 
 perished ! In no two men has nature had the same voice, and 
 the same look. She has a tone and a glance exclusive to every 
 one, from Adam to the last of his birth ; like a fascinating 
 beauty she has her crowd of lovers ; each is received into her 
 secret bower — each is deluded she is his own, and under this 
 delusion the poet, philosopher, peer, ploughboy, and felon dies. 
 All know that she smiles on all. Yet to every one is given the 
 belief that she prizes him as her own beloved one. This is the 
 egotism of man. On that consoling pillow he gathers strength 
 in the dark night of the world's reproach, to baffle his enemies 
 on the morrow. 
 
 The veriest tyro in logic will at once perceive that our esti- 
 mate of a poet is somewhat analogous to the old idea of a 
 prophet, for if we place so great a numeral value on a man, it 
 is evident our reverence for the sublimation of a man is great 
 in proportion. 
 
 To Mr. Bryant, therefore, we assign the position of a mirror 
 in which all history and humanity, as well as physical nature, 
 are reflected as they appear to him. Thus we claim for every 
 man as important a vocation in time, as we are taught by 
 Christ to demand for him in Eternity. That divine teacher has 
 said, " What shall it profit a man though he gain the whole 
 world, and lose his own soul ?" And then he confirms all by 
 saying, " What shall a man give in exchange for his soul V As 
 the soul of every one includes the whole universe, the impor- 
 tance is at once self-evident. 
 
208 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 In * The Lapse of Time," Bryant seems to take for granted 
 part of our theory, for he says : 
 
 " Lament who will, in fruitless tears, 
 
 The speed with which our moments fly : 
 I sigh not over vanished years, 
 
 But watch the years that hasten hy. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " The future ! — cruel were the power, 
 
 Whose doom would tear thee from my heart. 
 Thou sweetener of the present hour ! 
 
 We cannot — no — we will not part !" 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Immediately after comes a natural reflection. 
 
 " Thou fliest and bearest away our woe, 
 And as thy shadowy train depart, 
 The memory of sorrow grows 
 A lighter burden on the heart." 
 
 In the "Forest Hymn," we see a better system at work. 
 Instead of a needless introduction, the poet at once opens 
 boldly and truly into the subject. 
 
 " The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned 
 To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 
 And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed 
 The lofty vault to gather and roll back 
 The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, 
 Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, 
 And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
 And supplication. For his simple heart 
 Might not resist the sacred influences 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 209 
 
 Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 
 
 And from the grey old trunks that high in heaven 
 
 Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 
 
 Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 
 
 All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 
 
 His spirit with the thought of boundless power 
 
 And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
 
 Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 
 
 God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
 
 Only among the crowd, and under roofs 
 
 That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at least, 
 
 Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 
 
 Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find 
 
 Acceptance in His ear." 
 
 Then, however, comes the supererogation we so often have 
 complained of: 
 
 " Father, thy hand 
 Hath reared these venerable columns, thou 
 Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down 
 Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
 All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, 
 Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, 
 And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, 
 Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
 Among their branches, till, at last, they stood, 
 As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 
 Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
 Communion with his Maker." 
 
 All this was surely implied in the foregoing, and had 
 already passed through the reader's mind. 
 
210 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 In the later poems we do not see much advance on his 
 earlier effusions. The same calm spirit looking on men, not as 
 one of them fighting in the throng of battle, giving and 
 receiving blows, but on an eminence, where, above the smoke 
 of the conflict and the tumult of the conflict, he can see 
 as a spectator : removed from the turmoil, he can draw his 
 conclusions. 
 
 In his verses " To the Apennines," he combines the ideal of 
 paradise with the locale of Peru. 
 
 " Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines ! 
 
 In the soft light of these serenest skies ; 
 From the broad highland region, black with pines, 
 
 Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise, 
 Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold 
 In rosy flushes on the virgin gold." 
 
 This is another proof how much some poets feel with the 
 brain. Reflection here has yoked the dissimilar. We must 
 confess that we had hoped for a more personal, humanizing 
 conclusion, than the frigid summing up of — 
 
 " In you the heart that sighs for freedom seeks 
 Her image ; there the winds no barrier know, 
 
 Clouds come and rest and leave your fairy peaks ; 
 While even the immaterial Mind, below, 
 
 And Thought, her winged offspring, chained by power, 
 
 Pine silently for the redeeming hour." 
 
 Mr. Bryant very seldom originates his subject ; he generally 
 selects some well-known fact, and after amplifying it, he then 
 closes his poem by drawing a moral. That there is a moral in 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 211 
 
 everything we need no instructor to assure us ; but as this pro- 
 pensity to point it out seems part of our poet's nature, we must 
 not blame him for it. We may, however, be permitted to 
 express our opinion, that it very greatly interferes with his 
 immortality as a master of song. In his " Death of Schiller," 
 we have his method of teaching by verse very fairly set down. 
 
 " Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh, 
 The wish possessed his mighty mind 
 To wander forth wherever lie 
 
 The homes and haunts of human-kind. 
 
 "Then strayed the poet, in his dreams, 
 By Rome and Egypt's ancient graves ; 
 Went up the New World's forest streams, 
 Stood in the Hindoo's temple-caves ; 
 
 "Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark, 
 The sallow Tartar, midst his herds, 
 The peering Chinese, and the dark 
 False Malay uttering gentle words. 
 
 " How could he rest 1 even then he trod 
 The threshold of the world unknown ; 
 Already, from the seat of God, 
 A ray upon his garments shone ; 
 
 "Shone and awoke the strong desire, 
 
 For love and knowledge reached not here, 
 Till, freed by death, his soul of fire 
 Sprang to a fairer, ampler sphere. 
 
212 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 " Then — who shall tell how deep, how bright 
 The abyss of glory opened round % 
 How thought and feeling flowed like light, 
 Through ranks of bemg without bound?" 
 
 In his lines to the memory of William Leggett, we have a 
 verse which gives a felicitous acconnt of the manner in which 
 impulsive poetry should be written. 
 
 "The words of fire that from his pen 
 Were flung upon the fervent page, 
 Still move, still shake the hearts of men, 
 Amid a cold and coward age." 
 
 And his power of personification at times comes out in bold 
 and broad relief. 
 
 " Oh Freedom ! thou art not, as poets dream, 
 A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, 
 And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 
 With which the Roman master crowned his slave 
 When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, 
 Armed to the teeth, art thou ; one mailed hand 
 Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow, 
 Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 
 With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs 
 Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched 
 His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee ; 
 They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven. 
 Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, 
 And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, 
 Have forged thy chain ; yet, while he deems thee bound, 
 The links are shivered, and the prison walls 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 213 
 
 Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth, 
 As springs the flame above a burning pile, 
 And shoutest to the nations, who return 
 Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies." 
 
 In the piece entitled " Seventy-Six " there is a force of dic- 
 tion which rings out loud and clear. 
 
 " What heroes from the woodland sprung, 
 When, through the fresh awakened land, 
 
 The thrilling cry of freedom rang, 
 
 And to the work of warfare strung 
 The yeoman's iron hand. 
 
 "Hills flung the cry to hills around, 
 And ocean-mart replied to mart, 
 And streams, whose springs were yet unfound, 
 Pealed far away the startling sound 
 Into the forest's heart. 
 
 "Then marched the brave from rocky steep, 
 
 From mountain river swift and cold ; 
 The borders of the stormy deep, 
 The vales where gathered waters sleep, 
 
 Sent up the strong and bold, — 
 
 As if the very earth again 
 
 Grew quick with God's creating breath, 
 
 And, from the sods of grove and glen, 
 
 Rose ranks of lion-hearted men 
 To battle to the death. 
 
 "The wife, whose babe first smiled that day, 
 The fair fond bride of yestereve, 
 And aged sire and matron grey, 
 
214 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 Saw the loved warriors haste away, 
 And deemed it sin to grieve. 
 
 " Already had the strife begun ; 
 
 Already blood on Concord's plain 
 Along the springing grass had run. 
 And blood had flowed at Lexington, 
 Like brooks of April rain. 
 
 " That death-stain on the vernal sward 
 Hallowed to freedom all the shore; 
 In fragments fell the yoke abhorred — 
 The footstep of a foreign lord 
 Profaned the soil no more." 
 
 Mr. Bryant has certainly the rare merit of having written 
 a stanza which will bear comparison with any four lines in our 
 recollection. The thought is complete, the expression perfect. 
 A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, 
 each above a king's ransom. A sermon could be preached 
 from such a text as the following. Let every reader commit 
 it to heart, and when battered down by the sudden blow of a 
 deliberate falsehood, let him repeat it to himself, and live on 
 with unabated heart. 
 
 " Truth crushed to earth shall rise again : 
 The Eternal years of God are hers ; 
 But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 
 And dies among his worshippers." 
 
 This verse has always read to us as one of the noblest in the 
 English language. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 215 
 
 " The Disinterred Warrior" is probably his best poem, consi- 
 dering its length. 
 
 " Gather him to his grave again, 
 And solemnly and softly lay, 
 Beneath the verdure of the plain, 
 The warrior's scattered bones away." 
 
 As we regard Mr. Bryant as infinitely the most classical poet 
 of the western world, he must pardon our objecting to the need- 
 less epithet of " softly" in the second line of this otherwise fine 
 verse. There is a mincing step in its sound which spoils the 
 effect of the previous one of " solemnly." " Solemn and soft " 
 do not harmonize well, either in poetry or in prose. The idea is 
 complete without. The next stanza is confirmatory of our 
 opinion. 
 
 " Pay the deep reverence taught of old, 
 The homage of man's heart to Death ! 
 Nor dare to trifle with the mould 
 
 Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath. 
 
 " The soul hath quickened every part, — 
 That remnant of a martial brow, — 
 Those ribs, that held the mighty heart, 
 That strong arm — strong no longer now !" 
 
 The last verse is only a dilution of the two preceding lines. 
 It is another proof of how frequently Bryant weakens a noble 
 metaphor by a needless elaboration. Not content, however, 
 with the bold, graphic force of his first expression, he elongates 
 it till the force is considerably impaired. 
 
216 WILLIAM CtJLLEN BRYANT. 
 
 " Spare them — each mouldering relic spare, 
 Of God's own image : let them rest, 
 Till not a trace shall speak of where 
 The awful likeness was impressed." 
 
 There is more of curious thought than truth or simplicity in 
 the following, although it has been highly praised by some 
 critics. 
 
 " For he was fresher from the hand 
 
 That formed of earth the human face, 
 And to the elements did stand 
 In nearer kindred than our race." 
 
 We repeat, that there is more of " fancy" than " truth " in 
 this stanza. We do not see the natural force of Mr Bryant 
 saying that, being born a century ago, brings us nearly related 
 to either fire, air, earth, or water. This is, in our humble 
 opinion, a very false species of poetry, 
 
 " In many a flood to madness tost, 
 In many a storm has been his path, 
 He hid him not from heat or frost, 
 But met them, and defied their wrath." 
 ****** 
 
 But we must forgive this probable error when we remember 
 these lines. 
 
 " The stars looked forth to teach his way, 
 The still earth warned him of the foe." 
 
 To those who know the nature of a Red Indian these two lines 
 are perfect in their portraiture. Even to us, an Englishman, we 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 217 
 
 feel the force and beauty of the description, but then we con- 
 fess to a long and careful study of Cooper, the best substitute 
 for nature. While these sheets have been passing through the 
 press, we have observed how inadequately we have expressed 
 our admiration of this great novelist's scenes from nature. We 
 lately met one who had been a dweller in the woods, and a 
 roamer over the prairies of this magnificent country, and he 
 declared that next to having been in those scenes was the study 
 of Cooper. He concluded by declaring that Mr. Irving's de- 
 scription of the prairie was a mere "pic-nic" account of an 
 amateur visit ; if we are wrong here, the American public will 
 very properly correct us. 
 
 To return to Mr. Bryant. How gloriously the poet recovers 
 himself, and throws his whole force into the concluding verse. 
 
 " A noble race, but they are gone, 
 
 With their old forests wide and deep, 
 And we have built our homes upon 
 
 Fields where their generations sleep. 
 Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, 
 
 Upon their fields our harvest waves, 
 Our lovers woo beneath their moon — 
 
 Ah! let us spare at least their graves!" 
 
 We cannot resist the temptation of quoting two stanzas from 
 " The Lapse of Time," merely to avow our firm conviction in 
 the truth of the prophecy. 
 
 " The years, that o'er each sister land, 
 Shall lift the country of my birth 
 And nurse her strength — till she shall stand 
 The pride and pattern of the earth ! 
 
218 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 " Till younger commonwealths for aid 
 Shall cling about her ample robe, 
 And from her frown shall shrink afraid 
 The crowned oppressors of the globe !" 
 
 It may be safely predicated, by any one accustomed to look 
 philosophically at the movements of time, that it is reserved for 
 the American republic to shield her great parent, England her- 
 self, from the assaults of the old despotisms. 
 
 From this historical glance into the future, let us turn to a 
 pleasant page in Mr. Bryant's present. It is a short description 
 of an American nymph. 
 
 " Oh ! fairest of the rural maids ! 
 Thy birth was in the forest shades ; 
 Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, 
 Were all that met thy infant eye. 
 Thy sports — thy wanderings — when a child, 
 Were ever in the sylvan wild : 
 And all the beauty of the place 
 Is in thy heart, and in thy face. 
 The twilight of the trees and rocks 
 Is in the light shade of thy locks ; 
 Thy step is in the wind that weaves 
 Its playful way among the leaves ; 
 Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene 
 And silent waters heaven is seen ; 
 Their lashes are the herbs that look 
 On their young figures in the brook." 
 
 We cannot help breaking off, in this otherwise beautiful 
 poem, to remark that unfortunate taste which compelled Mr. 
 
WILLIAM CITLLEN BRYANT. 219 
 
 Bryant to spoil the fine natural effect of his entire poem, by 
 comparing a lady's eyelashes into herbs hanging down Narcis- 
 sus-like, and admiring themselves in the " gutta serena " of her 
 own eyes. As usual, however, he rallies, and winds up the 
 whole poem nobly and appropriately. 
 
 " The forest depths, by foot unprest, 
 Are not more sinless than thy breast : 
 The holy peace that fills the air 
 Of those calm solitudes is there." 
 
 The companion picture to the American maiden of Bryant 
 is Wordsworth's beautiful verses to the English wife. A 
 poet seldom succeeds when he praises one of his own family, 
 but here Mrs. Wordsworth has inspired the poet of Bydal. 
 These are well known to be addressed to his wife. 
 
 " SHE WAS A PHANTOM. 
 
 " She was a phantom of delight 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
 Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 
 A dancing shape, an image gay, 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 "I saw her upon nearer view, 
 A spirit, yet a woman too ! 
 Her household motions light and free 
 
220 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 And steps of virgin-liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food ; 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 " And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveller between life and death ; 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
 To warn, to comfort, and command : 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright 
 With something of angelic light." 
 
 In our foregoing extracts we have endeavored to illustrate 
 every opinion and observation we have made by characteristic 
 extracts from the poet's writing. It is impossible to rise from 
 the study of Mr. Bryant's poems without feeling more in har- 
 mony with nature and man than the spirit generally feels. We 
 know that we have been calmly, kindly reasoned with by a 
 good, calm, sad, Christian man, who, having no turbulence in 
 himself, endeavors to throw the quiet mantle of his own 
 reflective spirit over his companions. 
 
 He looks upon nature with the platonic admiration of a sage, 
 and not with the disturbing passion of a lover ; he feels towards 
 all visible beauty more as a friend than as a wooer, and in this 
 spirit realizes the thought of Shakspeare : 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 221 
 
 "Happy is your grace 
 That can translate the stubbornness of fortune 
 Into so quiet and so sweet a style !" 
 
 He looks uj)on the physical world as a storehouse of moral 
 reflection, calculated to make us wiser and better men, and con- 
 siders his fellow-creatures more as creatures to be reasoned into 
 virtue and submission, than to be roused into exertion against evil, 
 or to be tamed into the recognition of a supreme good. In a 
 word, he finds 
 
 " Books in the running brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in everything !" 
 
 10 
 
222 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 FITZ-GEEENE HALLECK. 
 
 The author of " Fanny " possesses many qualities calculated 
 to make him a popular poet ; he also has one or two which 
 may, as time rolls on, peril his existence as part of the enduring 
 national literature of America. 
 
 He has fancy, versification, a keen eye for the incongruous, 
 and a taste for the beautiful ; but against these gifts must be 
 set off his want of earnestness. We are never certain he feels 
 his subject ; he writes about it well and wittily ; and in some 
 of his poems he displays a truthfulness and depth worthy of 
 any poet, but the mood seems to pass away, and he becomes 
 the Mephistophilean jester at the various passions and pursuits of 
 the world. This is a mind which is not calculated to produce 
 a solid impression on the public ; they require a breadth and 
 depth in the treatment of a subject which are incompatible with 
 its nature. It requires a poet of great and varied powers, like 
 Byron, to achieve a permanent reputation without this truth- 
 fulness of intellect ; it may be said that even the author of 
 " Childe Harold " has not stood the critical test. Many poets 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 223 
 
 have been famous in their time, and even in the generation 
 after them, and yet have been negatived by posterity. 
 
 The secret of Byron's success in " Don Juan " lies in that 
 love of unexpectedness which is so constituent a part of human 
 nature. However absurd and dangerous a practical joke may 
 be, it invariably draws forth a laugh from the majority. In 
 this mixed style of poetry there is a kind of intellectual contra- 
 diction, which in some shape approximates to the same habit 
 of mind. 
 
 In addition to this feature in the human character, Byron 
 made an appeal to the beautiful and the heroic. " Don Juan " 
 not only abounds with passages which apparently ignore the 
 existence of all love, truth, devotion, and the better parts of our 
 nature, but also with the finest appeals to these very elements. 
 These are too numerous to need enumeration ; a rapid glance 
 at the poem will convince the most sceptical. There is also 
 another attraction in this kind of writing, and it consists in the 
 easiness with which some piquant lines are remembered by rea- 
 son of the double and generally felicitous rhymes. 
 
 We shall, however, commence with Mr. Halleck's shorter 
 poems, and close our notice with a short analysis of his chief 
 production called "Fanny." As he has written very little 
 verse, we shall try him by a more careful standard than that ap- 
 plied to men of more extensive productions. Nor is this unjust 
 on other grounds. There is an evident polish about his lines ; 
 the first glance shows the elaborate care with which every 
 thought has been expressed ; there is not much of that " aban- 
 don " which characterizes some poets. 
 
 We are not quite sure whether Mr. Halleck intends the 
 
224 FITZ-GREBHE HALLECK. 
 
 verses in " Red Jacket " to be complimentary to Mr. Cooper or 
 not; some suppose there is a gentle sarcasm on the great 
 novelist's national egotism. 
 
 " Cooper, whose name is with his country's woven, 
 First in her files her Pioneer of mind, 
 A wanderer now in other climes, has proven 
 His love for the young land he left behind. 
 * * % * * 
 
 " And faithful to the act of Congress quoted 
 As law authority — it passed * nem. con. ;' 
 He writes that we are, as ourselves have voted, 
 The most enlightened people ever known. 
 
 " That all our week is happy as a Sunday 
 
 In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugh, 
 And that from Orleans to the Bay of Fundy, 
 There's not a bailiff or an epitaph. 
 
 And furthermore, in fifty years or sooner, 
 
 We shall export our poetry and wine, 
 And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner, 
 
 Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the line." 
 
 There are somewhere about half-a-dozen more verses, but 
 they are not written with the poet's usual felicity. 
 
 This inconsistency of mood betrays itself in most of Mr. 
 Halleck's productions. Byron had the power to check this 
 feeling. When he wrote a Mephistophilean poem he openly 
 worked it out ; in his serious productions he never suffered this 
 disturbing, inharmonious spirit, to appear. He was too much 
 of an artist to do this. But his American brother in verse 
 seems to be governed by this mood, and not to rule it. 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 225 
 
 In the verses to " Alnwick Castle " we have an instance 
 of this besetting sin. To be sure, the author may turn round 
 and say that he meant it should assume this bantering tone, but 
 there is an instinct in every reader which tells him how far 
 such a purpose is legitimate. In " Beppo " and " Don Juan " 
 we feel the whole work is in keeping, but in " Alnwick Castle " 
 we only observe the poet's infirmity of purpose. We feel 
 pretty well convinced that Mr. Halleck intended to write a 
 serious heroic poem, when he commenced the lines in question, 
 but finding his impulse or inspiration dying, he resuscitated it 
 by calling upon the Genius of Banter. Notwithstanding this 
 centaur-like appearance, it possesses some fine stanzas. 
 
 " Home of the Percies' high-born race, 
 Home of their beautiful and brave, 
 Alike their birth and burial-place, 
 Their cradle and their grave. 
 
 " Still sternly o'er the castle-gate 
 Their house's lion stands in state, 
 
 As in his proud departed hours : 
 And warriors frown in stone on high, 
 And feudal banners flout the sky 
 
 Above his princely towers. 
 
 " A gentle hill its side inclines, 
 
 Lovely in England's fadeless green, 
 To meet one quiet stream which winds 
 Through this romantic scene. 
 
 " As silently and sweetly still 
 As when at evening on that hill, 
 
 While summer's winds blow soft and low, 
 
226 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 Seated at gallant Hotspur's side, 
 His Katharine was a happy bride, 
 A thousand years ago. 
 
 " Gaze on the abbey's ruined pile ; 
 
 Does not the succoring Ivy, keeping 
 Her watch around it seem to smile, 
 
 As o'er a loved one sleeping. 
 One solitary turret grey 
 
 Still tells, in melancholy glory, 
 The legend of the Cheviot day, 
 
 The Percy's proudest border story. 
 
 " That day its roof was triumph's arch ; 
 
 Then rang from aisle to pictured dome 
 The light step of the soldier's march, 
 
 The music of the trump and drum. 
 And babe and sire, the old and young, 
 
 And the manly hymn and minstrel's song, 
 And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long, 
 
 Welcomed her warrior home. 
 
 After two or three more stanzas, written in the same spirit, 
 the jeering fiend comes over Mr. Halieck, and he breaks off 
 thus : 
 
 " I wandered through the lofty halls, 
 
 Trod by the Percies of old fame, 
 And traced upon the chapel's walls 
 
 Each high, heroic name. 
 From him who once his standard set, 
 Where now o'er mosque or minaret 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 227 
 
 Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons, 
 To him who when a younger son 
 Fought for King George at Lexington, 
 
 A major of dragoons !" 
 
 Was the temptation of rhyming " dragoons " to " moons " 
 too strong for the poet, or did his American indignation, to find 
 a Percy against the cause of freedom, in the old war, dissipate 
 the chivalric vision? 
 
 When we read this for the first time, we were under the 
 momentary impression that we had got hold of, by mistake, 
 "The Rejected Addresses," so like a parody on Sir Walter Scott 
 did the verses sound : 
 
 To proceed, however, with Mr, Halleck's own account of the 
 matter, he says : 
 
 " The last half stanza : it has dashed 
 
 From my warm lips the sparkling cup, 
 The light that o'er my eye-beam flashed, 
 
 The power that bore my spirit up, 
 Above this bank-note world is gone, 
 And Alnwick's but a market town, 
 And this, alas ! its market day, 
 And beasts and borderers throng the way, 
 
 Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, 
 
 Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, 
 Men in the coal and cattle line, 
 
 From Teviot's bard and hero land, 
 
 From royal Berwick's beach of sand, 
 
 From Wo oiler, Morpeth, Hexam, and 
 Newcastle upon Tyne." 
 
228 FITZ-GREENE HALLBCK. 
 
 The poet concludes this address to the Home of the Percies : 
 
 " You'll ask if yet the Percy lives 
 
 In the armed pomp of feudal state ? 
 The present representatives 
 
 Of Hotspur and the gentle Kate, 
 Are some half-dozen serving men, 
 In the drab coat of William Penn ; 
 
 A chambermaid whose lip, and eye, 
 And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, 
 
 Spoke nature's aristocracy, 
 And one, half-groom, half-seneschal, 
 Who bowed me through the court, bower, hall, 
 From donjon-keep to turret wall, 
 
 For ten and six pence sterling.'* 
 
 As a proof of the fire with which Halleck treats a congenial 
 theme, we quote some verses from his Marco Bozzaris. This 
 brave warrior fell in an attack on the Turkish camp, during the 
 Grecian war for independence, in 1823. The opening is full of 
 spirit and beauty. 
 
 " At midnight in his guarded tent, 
 
 The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
 When Greece her knee in suppliance bent 
 
 Should tremble at his power. 
 In dreams through camp and court he bore 
 
 The trophies of a conqueror. 
 
 In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
 Then wore his monarch's signet ring ! 
 Then prest that monarch's throne — a king ! 
 As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 
 
 As Eden's garden bird." 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 229 
 
 As a contrast to this supine security, the following stanza is 
 artistically brought in. It introduces the hero with fine effect : 
 
 " At midnight, in the forest shades, 
 
 Bozzaris ranged his Suliote hand, 
 True as the steel of their tried blades, 
 
 Heroes in heart and hand. 
 There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
 There had the glad earth drank their blood 
 
 On old Platsea's day : 
 And now they breathed that haunted air, 
 The sons of sires who conquered there, 
 With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 
 
 As quick, as far as they. 
 
 " An hour past on : the Turk awoke, 
 
 That bright dream was his last. 
 He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
 ' To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !' 
 He woke — to die midst flame and smoke, 
 And shot, and groan, and sabre stroke, 
 And death-shots falling thick and fast. 
 As lightnings from the mountain-cloud, 
 And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 
 
 Bozzaris cheer his band : 
 Strike ! till the last armed foe expires ; 
 Strike ! for your altars and your fires ; 
 Strike ! for the green graves of your sires, 
 
 God, and your native land ! 
 They fought, like brave men, long and well ; 
 They filled the ground with Moslem slain ; 
 They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 
 
 Bleeding at every vein. 
 10* 
 
230 FITZ-GREENE HAILECI. 
 
 His few surviving comrades saw 
 
 His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 
 
 And the red field was won : 
 Then saw in death his eyelids close, 
 Calmly, as to a night's repose, 
 
 Like flowers at set of sun. 
 Bozzaris ! with the storied brave, 
 
 Greece mustered in her glory's time, 
 Rest thee ; there is no prouder grave, 
 
 Even in her own proud clime. 
 She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 
 
 Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
 Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, 
 In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 
 
 The heartless luxury of the tomb I 
 But she remembers thee as one 
 Long-loved and for a season gone. 
 For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed — 
 Her marble wrought — her music breathed — 
 For thee she rings the birthday bells, 
 Of thee her babes first lisping tells ; 
 For thine her evening prayer is said, 
 At palace-couch and cottage-bed : 
 Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
 Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow. 
 Her plighted maiden when she fears 
 For him, the joy of her young. years, 
 Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. 
 
 And she the mother of thy boys, 
 Though in her eye and faded cheek 
 Is read the grief she will not speak, 
 
 The memory of her hundred joys, 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 231 
 
 And even she who gave thee birth, 
 Will by their pilgrim circled hearth, 
 
 Talk of thy doom without a sigh : 
 For thou art Freedom's now and Fame's, 
 One of the few, the immortal names, 
 
 That were not born to die." 
 
 The close of this fine poem is worthy of Collins. There is a 
 slight want of arrangement in the images, but they are well 
 wrought up. The idea of his personal influence reaching 
 through the various channels of action by way of retribution, is 
 poetically conceived and beautifully executed. 
 
 The poem in which Mr. Halleck shines most brightly is fiat 
 "To Burns." It is not unworthy to stand by the side of 
 Wordsworth's on the same subject. There is a condensation of 
 thought, and a vigorous simplicity of style in this production, 
 which is not often reached by a modern poet. They are too fond 
 of elaboration and carrying out their idea. When this is done, 
 the author has two risks * — One is that he over-refines and 
 wearies the reader, or presses him to deny his aptness of selection. 
 
 In sentimental and moralizing poetry, we do not think Mr. 
 Halleck very successful. There is a feebleness of idea and 
 diction, which contrasts strongly with his poems on "Burns" 
 and "Marco Bozzaris." 
 
 Twilight has been a favorite subject with most bards, and 
 many have produced on the mind that particular sensation 
 which may be presumed to rest upon nature at that calm hour. 
 There is a charm in the very sound of the word, which throws 
 an atmosphere around us. Gray has produced a corresponding 
 effect on the reader's mind at the commencement of his far- 
 
232 riTZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 famed Elegy. Collins, also, in his matchless ode to " Evening " 
 has been equally successful. It is a pleasant study to select 
 some of the best poems of these fine writers, and examine 
 how appropriate and suggestive is every epithet they employ. 
 Collins is wonderfully pure and exact. We are aware that 
 many object to Gray's adjectives on account of some ap- 
 pearing as mere expletives. "We have never perceived this; 
 but, while admitting an occasional pedantry in a phrase or two, 
 we have always admired his nicety of taste. Indeed, the im- 
 pression left on our mind is a fastidiousness which is carried to 
 an ultra point. 
 
 Wordsworth, in like manner, has, by a few lines, thrown the 
 spell of poetic power over the reader's attention. 
 
 Mr. Halleck is, in our opinion, deficient in this faculty. There 
 is a feeling of artificiality about most of his sentimental verses, 
 having reference to the outward aspect of nature. Many of 
 his epithets seem placed in after the verse was written. They 
 do not seem natural, nor born on the spot : they are emigrants 
 from some foreign thought, and not natives. 
 
 We will quote a part of his " Twilight." 
 
 " There is an evening twilight of the heart, 
 
 When its wild passion waves are lulled to rest, 
 And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart, 
 As fades the day-beam in the rosy west ! 
 
 " ' Tis with a nameless feeling of regret 
 We gaze upon them as they melt away, 
 And fondly would we bid them linger yet, 
 But Hope is round us with her angel lay 
 
FI1IZ-OREENE HALLECK. 233 
 
 Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour, 
 
 Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power." 
 
 " In youth her cheek was crimsoned with her glow ; 
 Her smile was loveliest then ; her matin song 
 Was heaven's own music, and the note of woe 
 Was all unheard her sunny bowers among." 
 
 This line is an evidence of the poet's suffering the necessity 
 of a rhyme to spoil a fine line. How much better would it 
 have read thus : 
 
 " Was all unheard among her sunny bowers !" 
 
 A finished poet should not suffer himself to be conquered 
 even in the minutiae of his art. 
 
 " Life's little world of bliss was newly born ; 
 
 We knew not — cared not — it was born to die ; 
 Flushed with the cool breeze, and the dews of morn, 
 
 With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, 
 And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue, 
 Like our own sorrows then, as fleeting and as few." 
 
 It is difficult to realize that these were written by the author 
 of the former quotations. 
 
 As a proof of what may be done by a few simple lines, we 
 quote a passage from Wordsworth's " Hartleap Well." 
 
 " The trees were grey with neither arms nor head ; 
 Half wasted the square mound of tawny green; 
 So that you just might say, as then I said, 
 ' Here in old time the hand of man hath been.' 
 
 " I looked upon the hill both far and near, 
 More doleful place did never eye survey, 
 
234 FITZ-&REENE HALLECK. 
 
 It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, 
 
 And nature here were willing to decay. 
 * # * * * 
 
 " The pleasure house is dust ; — behind, before, 
 This is no common waste — no common gloom ; 
 But nature in due course of time once more 
 Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 
 
 " She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 
 
 That what we are, and have been, may be known ; 
 But at the coming of the milder day, 
 
 These monuments shall all be overgrown. 
 
 " One lesson, shepherd, let us two divide, 
 
 Taught both by what she shows and what conceals, 
 Never to blend our pleasure or our pride, 
 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 
 
 The grown man and the child must alike admire the simple 
 dignity of these verses. There are a simplicity and power about 
 them which convince all of the presence of the true poet. Mr. 
 Halleck would do well to study a simpler style in his moralizing 
 poems. We have been disappointed that he has not attempted 
 the lighter, gayer kind of lyric, the song. From one or two 
 parodies in " Fanny," and from the spirit of most of his poetry, 
 we feel assured he would have been eminently successful in this 
 charming department of the Muses. While we are on the 
 subject of songs, we cannot help paying a tribute of admiration 
 to the compositions of General Morris. They are the most 
 delightful of modern chansons. As we shall treat of him more 
 at length in our next volume, we hope to confirm our hasty 
 eulogium here expressed by appropriate passages. 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 235 
 
 Having alluded to the poem on Burns, we offer a few verses 
 to illustrate the peculiarities of Mr. Halleck's style of compo- 
 sition. 
 
 We shall select a few stanzas written with a vigor worthy of 
 the great Scotchman. 
 
 " The memory of Burns — a name 
 
 That calls — when brimmed her festal cup, 
 A nation's glory and her shame 
 In silent sadness up. 
 
 " A nation's glory — be the rest 
 
 Forgot ; she's canonized his mind : 
 And it is joy to speak the best 
 We may of human kind. 
 
 * % * * * 
 
 " His is that language of the heart, 
 
 In which the answering heart would speak, 
 Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, 
 Or the smile light the cheek. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, 
 What wild vows falter on the tongue, 
 When ' Scots wha hae with Wallace bled,' 
 
 Or * Auld Lang Syne' is sung ! 
 
 * * ' * * * 
 
 " And when he breathes his master lay, 
 Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, 
 All passions in our frames of clay, 
 Come thronging at his call. 
 
 " Imagination's world of air, 
 
 And our own world, its gloom and glee, 
 
236 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 Wit, pathos, poetry are there, 
 And death's sublimity." 
 
 It is cheering to find a poet speak boldly of a fellow bard, 
 even though he was not the pattern of a man " after a bishop's 
 own heart." 
 
 " And Burns — though brief the race he ran, 
 Though rough and dark the path he trod, 
 Lived — died — in form and soul a man, 
 The image of his God ! 
 * * * # # 
 
 " Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 
 A hate of tyrant and of knave, 
 A love of right, a scorn of wrong, 
 Of coward and of slave. 
 ***** 
 
 " Praise to the bard-! his words are driven, 
 Like flower seeds by the far winds sown, 
 Where'er beneath the sky of heaven, 
 The birds of fame have flown. 
 
 " Praise to the man ! — a nation stood 
 Beside his coffin with wet eyes, 
 Her brave — her beautiful — her good, 
 As when a loved one dies. 
 
 ^T* ^r^ <T* ^r* rT* 
 
 " Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines, 
 Shrines to no creed or code confined, 
 The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
 The Mecca's of the mind." 
 
 We are afraid that the pharisees of this republic, like their 
 fellow hypocrites of the Old Country, have no more faVh in 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 237 
 
 truth, or reverence for poets or prophets, than had their Jewish 
 forefathers, who cried out, " Crucify him," — " Release unto us 
 Barabbas," — more especially if the modem Barabbas were a 
 millionaire. 
 
 It is seldom that a modern touches the Latin harp with any 
 degree of success. We were therefore agreeably surprised with 
 Halleck's verses to the Field of Grounded Arms. 
 
 " Strangers ! your eyes are on that valley fixed 
 iDtently, as we gaze on vacancy, 
 
 When the mind's wings o'erspread 
 The spirit world of dreams ! 
 
 " True, 'tis a scene of loveliness ; the bright 
 Green dwelling of the summer's first-born hours, 
 Whose wakened leaf and bud 
 Are welcoming the morn.'' 
 
 The next verse is very sweet, notwithstanding a kind of halt 
 in the first fine. 
 
 " The song of the wild bird is on the wind, 
 The hum of the wild bee — the music wild 
 Of waves upon the bank, 
 Of leaves upon the bough." 
 
 Such is the prejudice of custom that a critic of some classical 
 taste refused to allow any merit to this poem, and quoted with 
 great energy Horace's ode : 
 
 " Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa, 
 Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus 
 
 Grata Pyrrha sub antro ? 
 
 Cui flavam religas comam 
 Simplex munditiis ! — " 
 
238 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 The author of " Paracelsus " had a favorite theory to account 
 for the slowness with which contemporaries acknowledge the 
 merit of any superior mind. He declared his firm conviction, 
 that it partly rose from envy and partly from the meanness of 
 the masses, who could not realize the fact of a schoolfellow or 
 companion rising so much above themselves. When, however, 
 the man is too great for any doubt, then the acquaintances 
 applaud the decision to the very echo, in order to elevate 
 themselves into a spurious vain-glory, as they to a certain 
 extent share his fame, being his intimates. These self-satisfied 
 toadies are to a man of genius most terrible and deadly ene- 
 mies : they deal in dark inuendoes, and spit their venom on all 
 who are above titiem. 
 
 To return to Halieck. 
 
 " But all is song and beauty in the land, 
 Beneath her skies of June; then journey on, 
 A thousand scenes like this 
 Will greet you ere the eve." 
 * * * 
 
 These lines are mil of force and pith : 
 
 " Land where he learned to lisp a mother's name, 
 The first beloved in life, the last forgot ; 
 
 Land of his frolic youth ; 
 
 Land of his bridal eve ; 
 Land of his children — vain your columned strength, 
 Invaders ! — vain your battle's steel and fire, 
 
 Choose ye the morrow's doom — 
 
 A prison or a grave !" 
 
 As an instance of Mr. Halleck's incongruities, we quote a 
 characteristic stanza from another of his poems : 
 
FITZ-GREENB HALLECK. 239 
 
 " Youth's coffin ! hush, the tale it tells, 
 Be silent, memory's funeral bells ! 
 Lone in one heart, her home, it dwells 
 
 Untold till death, 
 And where the grave mound greenly swells 
 
 O'er buried faith." 
 
 After two more verses, alluding to the revolutions in em- 
 pires, we come to this finale : 
 
 " Empires to-day are upside down, 
 The castle kneels before the town, 
 The monarch fears a printer's frown, 
 
 A brickbat's range : 
 Give me, in preference to a crown, 
 
 Five shillings change !" 
 
 Surely, it is unworthy to mar a fine "subject by such an old 
 joke. It scarcely seems credible that so poor a verse could 
 have slipped in even by accident. 
 
 These are sweetly said : 
 
 " A poet's daughter — dearer word 
 Lip hath not spoke, nor listener heard ; 
 Fit theme for song of bee and bird, 
 
 From morn till even, 
 And wind harp by the breathing stirred 
 
 Of star-lit heaven. 
 
 " My spirit's wings are weak — the fire 
 Poetic comes but to expire ; 
 Her name needs not my humble lyre 
 
 To bid it live : 
 She hath already from her sire 
 All bard can give." 
 
240 FITZ-GREENl HALLECK. 
 
 The whole of the poem from which we have quoted these 
 lines is very peculiar, and shows how very small a temptation it 
 takes to lead our poet astray. 
 
 We shall give a few specimens from his longest poem, but 
 by no means his most successful. It is certainly a light and 
 graceful collection of pleasantly expressed odds and ends of 
 thought, but its entire want of story is fatal. 
 
 " I've felt full many a heartache in my day, 
 At the mere rustling of a muslin gown, 
 And caught some dreadful colds, I blush to say, 
 
 While shivering in the shade of beauty's frown, 
 They say her smiles are sunbeams — it may be- 
 But never a sunbeam would she throw on me. 
 ***** 
 
 " Her father kept, some fifteen years ago, 
 A retail dry good shop in Chatham street, 
 And nursed his little earnings, sure though slow, 
 
 Till having mustered wherewithal to meet 
 The gaze of the great world — he breathed the air 
 Of Pearl street, and set up in Hanover square. 
 
 " Money is power — 't is said — I never tried ; 
 
 I 'm but a poet — and bank-notes to me 
 Are curiosities, as closely eyed, 
 
 Whene'er I get them, as a stone would be 
 Passed from the moon, on Dr. Mitchell's table, 
 Or classic brickbat from the tower of Babel !" 
 
 The sudden investment of wit which the crowd discover in a 
 wealthy man is well described. 
 
 " — brilliant traits of mind, 
 And genius, clear and countless as the dies 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 241 
 
 Upon the peacock's plumage ; taste refined, 
 Wisdom and wit were his — perhaps much more. 
 'T was strange they had not found it out before !" 
 
 There is always, however, something to be said on the wrong 
 as well as on the right side of the question, and there is a 
 foundation of truth for every prejudice, nay, for even every 
 error. The world is a shrewd beast, and knows well that a 
 poor man who raises himself to wealth has some faculties in 
 him superior to them. It is not because the man is rich that 
 they listen, it is because they feel he knows more than they do. 
 Before he achieved his wealth they knew not his power. He 
 rises to a loftier station, and consequently has earned the right 
 to speak, and to be listened to with attention. 
 
 We do not make this defence out of any affection for the 
 opinion of a rich man per se, but out of a desire that every 
 question should be fairly tested. 
 
 It may, certainly, on the other hand be argued, that the pos- 
 session of the wealth had no real influence on the man's intel- 
 lect, and that his remarks must have been as brilliant before his 
 money-making as after ; but even here it may be said, " that 
 nothing gives one so much confidence as gold, and nothing 
 allows a freer play for the mind than confidence." We will 
 illustrate this by an anecdote we were told the other evening, 
 by a clergyman whose knowledge of human nature is more ex- 
 tensive than generally falls to that class. 
 
 A poor parson was in the habit every Saturday of borrowing 
 of a friend a five dollar note ; this was invariably returned, with 
 wonderful punctuality, early every Monday morning. What 
 astonished the lender more than all, was, the singular fact, that 
 
242 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 he was always repaid in the very same bill he lent. Being a 
 very curious man, this puzzled him amazingly. He felt sure 
 that the parson could not want the money for household ex- 
 penses, because the note was never changed. x\fter a time, he 
 resolved to seize the first opportunity of begging for an expla- 
 nation of so unaccountable a proceeding.. Shortly after, the 
 parson himself came on Saturday evening, and asked for the 
 loan of a ten dollar note. His friend seized the opportunity of 
 demanding the solution of the mystery. After a pause, the 
 borrower said : " You must know, my dear Smith, that my in- 
 come is so small that I never have at the end of the week one 
 cent I can call my own. Now, some cannot preach or pray on 
 an empty stomach : I am one who cannot do so on an empty 
 pocket. "When I have nothing in them I feel a poor, miserable 
 devil, and afraid to look my congregation in the face, much less 
 to denounce their wickedness ; but with a five dollar bill in my 
 pocket, I feel a man and a Christian, and I preach with great 
 eloquence and force. Now, as the President is coming to 
 hear me to-morrow, I intend to try the effect of the double 
 money power, and I shall feel obliged by your lending me a 
 ten dollar bill to put in my pocket for this grand occasion !" 
 
 Absurd as this sounds when reduced to a confession, it is the 
 undoubted truth, and is the foundation of every rich man's 
 arrogance, and every poor man's despondency. 
 
 Despite the desultory writing of this poem, there are scat- 
 tered here and there some beautiful thoughts, tenderly ex- 
 pressed. 
 
 " There are some happy moments in this lone 
 And desolate world of ours, that well repay 
 
FITZ -GREENE HALLEOK. 243 
 
 The toil of struggling through it — and atone 
 
 For many a long, sad night, and weary day. 
 They come upon the mind like some wild air 
 Of distant music, when we know not where, 
 
 " Or whence, the sounds are brought from, and their power, 
 Though brief, is boundless. That far, future home, 
 
 Oft dreamed of, beckons near — its rose-wreathed bower, 
 And cloudless skies before us. We become 
 
 Changed in an instant — all gold leaf and gilding. 
 
 This is, in vulgar phrase, called ' castle building.' " 
 
 Now and then be has a sly bit at a brother author : 
 
 " Dear to the exile is his native land, 
 
 In memory's twilight beauty seen afar : 
 Dear to the broker is a note of hand 
 
 Collaterally secured — the polar star 
 Is dear at midnight to the sailor's eyes, 
 And dear are Bristed's volumes at half price. 
 ***** 
 
 " Brokers of all grades — stock and farm — and Jews 
 Of all religions, who at noonday form 
 On 'Change, that brotherhood the moral muse 
 
 Delights in, when the heart is pure and warm, 
 And each exerts his intellectual force 
 To cheat his neighbor — legally of course. 
 ^ * * * * * 
 
 — for many bosom friends, it seems, 
 Did borrow of him, and sometimes forget 
 To pay — indeed, they have not paid him yet. 
 
 " But these he deemed as trifles — when each mouth 
 Was open in his praise, and plaudits rose 
 
244 FITZ-GREENE HAILECK. 
 
 Upon his willing ear, like the sweet south 
 
 Upon a bank of violets, from those 
 Who knew his talent, riches, and so forth ; 
 That is, knew how much money he was worth !" 
 
 Moore himself must smile at the parody on his well known 
 song of 
 
 " There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, 
 
 but the American poet's 
 
 " There's a barrel of porter at Tammany Hall," 
 
 is too well known to need quoting. It is certainly a capital 
 specimen of that species of verse. Mr. Halleck sometimes 
 makes tbe same sound rhyme a couplet. In the course of 
 a few stanzas we meet with these : 
 
 xcrv. 
 " And never has a summer morning smiled 
 Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye 
 Of the enthusiast revels on — when high, &c. 
 
 xcv. 
 " He can hear 
 The low dash of the wave with startled ear, &c. 
 
 xcvm. 
 " When life is old 
 And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold" &c. 
 
 The poem concludes with the failure of Fanny's father. 
 The following stanza is one of the last. 
 
 " Some evenings since he took a lonely stroll 
 
 Along Broadway, scene of past joys and evils, 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 24j 
 
 He felt that withering bitterness of soul 
 
 Quaintly denominated the 'blue devils/ 
 And thought of Bonaparte and Belisarius, 
 Pompey, and Colonel Burr, and Caius Marius." 
 
 So ends Halleck's longest production. There is much fine 
 poetical thought in it, elegant versification, and an occasional 
 unexpectedness of " rhyme and reason," but the author lacks 
 that range of the pathetic and the humorous which rendered 
 Byron the most characteristic poet of the present age. Don 
 Juan is the undoubted modern epic. The want of earnestness 
 of the times is admirably mirrored in that wonderful poem. 
 Half jest, half superstition, the world's face is there seen in all 
 its incongruous phases. The mixed and uncertain state of the 
 human mind had its epitome in Byron. Capable of the 
 mightiest and the meanest actions, and often performing them 
 well nigh together, the gloomy, infidel, devotional poet was the 
 perfect representative of his age. It is this wonderful mobility 
 of character which has made him the most popular writer 
 since Shakspeare. He has an aspect for all classes of men. In 
 his earlier efforts we behold the boy imitating his favorite 
 authors. An insult roused him, and he rushed, under the inspi- 
 ration of rage, into a field where he felt his strength. He then 
 knew his power, and worked out, as caprice or accident prompted, 
 his mighty poetical nature. The chivalric and romantic, the 
 pathetic, the humorous, the satirical and supernatural, the 
 gloomy pastoral and the historical or traditional, all were suc- 
 cessfully thrown before the public, in different poems. At last, 
 
 11 
 
246 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 by a singular effort, his last poem combined all these elements, 
 and therefore Don Juan will always be the completest repre- 
 sentation of a poet's idiosyncrasy ever revealed to his fellow men. 
 In this many-sidedness Byron holds supreme dominion over his 
 contemporaries. Wordsworth surpasses him in the intensity of 
 his worship of nature. Moore, in his playful elaboration of 
 metaphors, conventional elegances, and finely-edged wit. Scott, 
 in the range of human character ; although the objectivity of the 
 novelist, and the subjectivity of the poet, render them perhaps 
 unfit parallels. But in adaptability to the masses, as existing 
 in the nineteenth century, no poet has so completely taken their 
 nature upon him as the author of Don Juan. Even " Childe 
 Harold," gloomy and subjective as it is, becomes a phase of 
 the human mind, as shadowed in the present age, and has its 
 root as much in the world as in the poet's heart. "We make 
 these remarks to show why we do not think that Mr. Halleck 
 is the Byron of America. One half of his poetical labors is an 
 imitation of the noble poet's greatest work. Materials for a 
 poem of this description are not to be found in a young repub- 
 lic; the magazine is in ancient monarchies. Time is a vast 
 storehouse of absurdity, solemnities, sorrows, and jests. This is 
 the gamut of human nature, and it requires centuries to learn 
 its science of harmony. 
 
 We conclude our notice of Halleck by assuring him that the 
 Anglo-Saxons will expect finer poems than he has yet produced ; 
 it is in him, we know, for has he not revealed some of his 
 powers by such lines as these ? They come forth to the outer 
 world just as a strain of melody bursts from a banquet hall, 
 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 24*7 
 
 where high revel is held, when the door is opened to admit 
 some favored guest. 
 
 " Strike — till the last armed foe expires : 
 Strike — for your altars, and your fires; 
 Strike — for the green graves of your sires, 
 God, and your native land !" 
 
248 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 EICHAED HENKY DANA. 
 
 There are a simplicity and individuality about Dana's writ- 
 ings, which give hirn the decided impress of being a man of 
 more originality than he really possesses. 
 
 There is less reliance upon foreign sources for his subjects ; 
 he likewise treats them in a manner of his own, which compels 
 the reader to respect him for his intention, if he cannot applaud 
 him for the successful result of his experiment. 
 
 We shall treat of his poems first, and then consider him as a 
 lecturer and essayist. 
 
 He is well known to the public as the author of the " Buc- 
 caneer," a poem of great merit, and full of fine thoughts, simply 
 and forcibly described. 
 
 His portrait of the freebooter himself is drawn with a vigor- 
 ous pencil. There is a total absence of all tawdry or adven- 
 titious embellishments in this old poet's verse, which stands out 
 in bold relief to the artificial elegances and cuckoo-note tracks of 
 many modern and fashionable authors. 
 
 " Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee 
 Held in this isle unquestioned sway ; 
 
JIICHARD HENRY DANA. 249 
 
 A dark, low, brawny man was he ; 
 His law, — ' It is my way !' 
 Beneath his thickset brows a sharp light broke 
 From small grey eyes : his laugh a triumph spoke." 
 
 This is a bold Roman kind of verse, which at once tells upon 
 the reader. It somewhere or other strongly reminds us of 
 Wordsworth's opening stanza of " Rob Roy :" 
 
 " A famous man was Robin Hood, 
 The English ballad-singer's joy ; 
 But Scotland boasts a man as good, 
 It is her bold Rob Roy." 
 * * * 
 
 And shortly after come these lines : 
 
 " The good old rule, the simple plan, 
 
 That they shall take who have the power, 
 And they shall keep who can." 
 
 These coincidences are, however, unavoidable in poetry when 
 they partake of the same peculiar nature, and many of Dana's 
 simple, manly productions, remind us of the poet-laureate's. 
 
 The American writer dashes off with a few vigorous touches 
 a graphic picture of the old Buccaneer. 
 
 " Cruel of heart, and strong of arm ; 
 Loud in his sport, and keen for spoil, 
 He little recked of good or harm, — 
 Fierce both in mirth and toil. 
 Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there were ; 
 Speak mildly when he would, or look in fear !" 
 
 Of another order in poetry, we quote some verses which 
 
250 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 show the old poet's strength of hand in painting the sea ; it is 
 very suggestive to remark how the nature of the writer comes 
 out in describing the same object. Byron, Cooper, and Dana, 
 of moderns, have been successful in interesting the reader in the 
 glorious old ocean. How differently, yet the same ! The quiet 
 simplicity of Dana is shown in these lines : 
 
 " But when the light winds lie at rest, 
 And on the glassy heaving sea, 
 The black duck, with her glossy breast, 
 Sits swinging silently. 
 How beautiful ! no ripples break the reach, 
 
 And strong waves go noiseless up the beach." 
 ***** 
 
 Observe how little the subjective part of imagination is called 
 into play here ; only one incidental allusion of a remote kind in 
 the ejaculation, " how beautiful !" All is pure outside descrip- 
 tion, simply and faithfully rendered. 
 
 " 'T is fearful ! on the broad-backed waves, 
 To feel them shake, and hear them roar, 
 Beneath, unsounded, dreadful caves, 
 Around, no cheerful shore. 
 
 Yet 'mid this solemn world what deeds are done ! 
 
 The curse goes up, the deadly sea-fight's won. 
 ***** 
 
 The ship works hard ; the sea runs high ; 
 
 Their white tops flashing through the night, 
 Give to the eager straining eye, 
 
 A wild and shifting light. 
 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 251 
 
 On pale dead men, on burning cheek, 
 On quick, fierce eyes, brows hot and damp, 
 
 On hands that with the warm blood reek, 
 Shines the dim cabin lamp ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 As swung the sea with heavy beat, 
 
 Below, and hear it break 
 
 With savage roar, then pause and gather strength, 
 
 And then come tumbling in its swollen length." 
 
 All this is lrteral, external painting. The two last lines are 
 powerful; for, although the word "tumbling" is not very 
 heroic, yet it is to a certain extent appropriately used in 
 describing the mammoth rolling of the billows ; nevertheless, 
 there is a clumsiness about the word we do not like in con- 
 nexion with the mighty ocean. There is a Titan march in the 
 sea's movements which demands a word for itself. 
 
 " A sound is in the Pyrenees ! 
 
 Whirling and dark comes roaring down 
 A tide as of a thousand seas, 
 Sweeping both cowl and crown : 
 A field and vineyard, thick and red it stood, 
 Spain's streets and palaces are wet with blood I" 
 
 There is a sternness about this poem, indeed about all his 
 poetry, which deducts materially from the delights we gene- 
 rally feel in reading strong bold verse. To a certain extent, 
 Dana reminds us of Crabbe. He, however, as certainly excels 
 the English poet in dignity of treatment, as he falls below him 
 in those minute descriptions which so frequently give to Crabbe's 
 poems the air of condensed prose placed in lines of equal 
 
252 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 length, the two last syllables of which are forced to 
 rhyme. 
 
 Occasionally there are touches of great beauty and tender- 
 ness, which show that the poet can bring the tear as well as 
 move respect. 
 
 " Too late for thee, thou young fair bride, 
 The lips are cold, the brow is pale, 
 That thou didst kiss in love and pride ; 
 He cannot hear thy wail, 
 Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmure<J sound, 
 His couch is cold and lonely in the ground. 
 
 " He fell for Spain — her Spain no more, 
 For he was gone who made it dear ; 
 And she would seek some distant shore, 
 Away from strife and fear ; 
 And wait amid her sorrows till the day 
 His voice of love should call her thence away." 
 
 i The Buccaneer persuades her to embark on board his vessel. 
 
 " With wealth and servants she is soon aboard, 
 And that white steed she rode beside her lord. 
 
 " The sun goes down upon the sea, 
 
 The shadows gather round her home ; 
 How like a pall are ye to me, 
 My home how like a tomb ! 
 O blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head, 
 Ye will not blow o'er me when I am dead." 
 
 We are perpetually reminded, by every quotation, how 
 ill-adapted for a sustained narrative is the stanza employed by 
 Dana for this, the longest of his poems. 
 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 253 
 
 A similar error in judgment has been shown by Halleck in 
 his "Fanny." 
 
 " Sleep — sleep, thou sad one of the sea ! 
 The wash of waters tells thee now 
 His arm will no more pillow thee, 
 Thy fingers on his brow. 
 He is not near to hush thee or to save, 
 The ground is his, the sea must be thy grave." 
 
 The author thus violates the great rule of narrative compo- 
 sition, by here anticipating her fate. 
 
 The pirates' intention of murdering the helpless lady is 
 graphically portrayed. 
 
 " Mourn for the living ; mourn our sins, 
 
 The wrath of man more fierce than thine ; 
 Hark — still thy waves — the work begins, 
 Lee makes the deadly sign ; 
 The crew glide down like shadows, eye and hand 
 Speak fearful meanings through the silent band." 
 
 The fate of the fair lady is told admirably. A rapid sketch, 
 and the whole is palpably presented, as a lightning flash bares 
 the scenery for an instant, and then all is dark again. 
 
 " A crash ! they force the door, and then 
 
 One long — long shrill and piercing scream 
 Comes thrilling 'bove the growl of men. 
 'Tis hers ! O God, redeem 
 
 From worse than death thy suffering helpless child ! 
 
 That dreadful shriek again, sharp, sharp, and wild. 
 
 " It ceased, with speed o' th' lightning's flash, 
 A loose robed form, with streaming hair, 
 11* 
 
254 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 Shoots by. A leap — a quick, short splash ! 
 'Tis gone — and nothing there. 
 The waves have swept away the bubbling tide, 
 Bright, crested waves, how calmly on they ride. 
 
 " Her home of love 
 She soon has reached ; fair, unpolluted thing, 
 They harmed her not ; was dying suffering 1" 
 
 This poem is, however, spoilt by its improbable catastrophe. 
 There is a mixture of the terrible and the absurd, which pro- 
 duces an equivocal result altogether destructive of the true pur- 
 pose of poetry. 
 
 The drowned horse rises from the sea and seeks the bucca- 
 neers at the anniversary revel of their murderous exploit. 
 Compelled by a supernatural power, the wretched pirate, 
 Matthew Lee, is forced to stride the spectre horse. 
 
 " Borne by an unseen power right on he rides, 
 Yet touches not the shadow beast he strides. 
 
 " He goes with speed, he goes with dread ! 
 And now they're on the hanging steep ! 
 And now the living and the dead, 
 They'll make the horrid leap. 
 The horse stops short — his feet are on the verge : 
 He stands like marble high above the surge." 
 
 With a true poet's soul, in the midst of this human agony, 
 Dana brings in the contradictory, yet consoling beauty of 
 nature, to relieve the horror. 
 
 " Thou mild — sad mother — silent moon, 
 Thy last, low melancholy ray, 
 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 255 
 
 Shines towards him : quit him not so soon ! 
 Mother, in mercy stay ! 
 Despair and death are with him, and canst thou, 
 With that kind earthward look, go leave him now ! 
 
 " O ! thou wast born for worlds of love ; 
 Making more lovely in thy shine 
 Whate'er thou lookest on ; hosts above 
 In that soft light of thine 
 Burn softer ; earth, in silvery veil seems heaven. 
 Thou'st going down — hast left him unforgiven !" 
 
 There is a similar instance of throwing the accent from the 
 man to the moon, if we may be allowed such an expression, in 
 a poem of Byron's. We think it is in the " Siege of Corinth," 
 when the renegade is compelled to decide on a momentous 
 question, before a thin filmy cloud has reached the moon. 
 
 " There is a light cloud by the moon, 
 'T is passing, and will pass full soon," &c. 
 
 Dana has shown great power in this recognition of a 
 wretch's mute appeal to creation for sympathy and support. 
 We were told by a man of great imagination, who had been 
 confined in a lunatic asylum against his will, that he often 
 gazed on the moon, and endeavored to throw his whole soul 
 into the look he gave it, that it might produce a sympathetic 
 effect upon his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached, and 
 who was ignorant of his durance. It has been well said by a 
 modern writer, that physical assassinations have gone out of 
 fashion, and that lunatic asylums have been substituted. Our 
 experience is able to confirm this opinion. Let us turn from 
 lunacy to poetry. 
 
2§6 RICHARD HENRY DANA, 
 
 " The spectre steed now slowly pales, 
 
 Now changes like the moon-lit cloud ; 
 That cold, thin light, now slowly fails 
 
 Which wrapt them like a shroud. 
 Both ship and shore are fading into air, 
 Lost, mazed, alone, see, Lee is standing there. 
 
 * % * * * 
 
 " For he's accursed from all that's good ; 
 
 He ne'er must know its healing power. 
 The sinner on his sin shall brood, 
 
 And wait alone his hour. 
 A stranger to earth's beauty, human love — 
 No rest for him below — no hope above I" 
 
 The rest of the story is told with equal power : the effect of 
 the whole being somewhat spoiled by the supernatural nature 
 of the denouement. In one sense, we may conclude it is 
 merely a mental power, under which the guilty hero passes, 
 and which leaves him despoiled of reason. If this be the poet's 
 intention, he has not achieved his object with any skill. 
 
 These verses have a sweet musical effect : 
 
 " And now the mist seems taking shape, 
 Forming a dim, gigantic ghost, — 
 Enormous thing ! There's no escape, 
 'T is close upon the coast. 
 Lee kneels, but cannot pray — why mock him so ? 
 The ship has cleared the fog — Lee, let her go ! 
 
 " A sweet, low voice, in starry nights, 
 Chants to his ear a plaining song ; 
 Its tones come winding up the heights, 
 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 257 
 
 Telling of woe and wrong : 
 And he must listen till the stars grow dim, 
 The song that gentle voice doth sing to him. 
 
 " O, it is sad that aught so mild 
 
 Should bind the soul with bands of fear ; 
 That strains to soothe a little child, 
 The man should dread to hear ! 
 But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace — unstrung 
 The harmonious chords to which the angels sung. 
 
 As we said before, the defect in this poem is the mixed feel- 
 ings roused by the perusal. If the events described as being 
 the consequences of the murder are physical actions, the story 
 is so improbable and out of nature as to do away with it alto- 
 gether as a work of art. If the agonies endured by Lee are 
 mental processes, by a diseased imagination worked on by 
 remorse, then we feel bound to say that the poet has lament- 
 ably failed in the execution of his design. Taking it, however, 
 as it now stands, it is a collection of verses powerfully sketched, 
 but deficient in that probability of story which alone can lend 
 a truthfulness to it. 
 
 In the " Changes of Home " we recognise a greater consist- 
 ency of purpose, while the execution is less vivid ; the lines are 
 musical and clear, though displaying little imagination. This 
 poem has, however, more tenderness than any of his works. 
 
 " Yet there was one true heart — that heart was thine, 
 Fond Emmeline ! and every beat was mine. 
 It stopt. That stillness ! Up it rose and spread 
 Above me, awing, vast, strange, living — dead ! 
 No feeble grief that sobs itself to rest, — 
 
258 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 Benumbing grief, and sorrows filled my breast : 
 
 Dark death, and sorrow dark, and terror blind, — 
 
 They made my soul to quail, they shook my mind, 
 
 Wild rushings passed me as of driving wind. 
 ***** 
 
 There stands my home — no more my home ; and they 
 
 Who loved me so — they too have passed away. 
 
 The sun lies on the door sill, where my book 
 
 I daily read, and fitted line and hook, 
 
 And shaped my bow ; or dreamed myself a knight 
 
 By lady loved, by champion feared in fight." 
 ***** 
 
 The following reminds us strongly of Crabbe : 
 
 " But he, their son 1 — They had a son, you said ? 
 
 " A rich relation saw the boy had mind, 
 Such minds a market in the world must find, 
 So said he — and the boy must learning have, 
 For learning, power, and wealth, and honors gave. 
 Mind and a market ! Will he sell the child, 
 As slaves are sold ? they ask. The uncle smiled. ] 
 And does not Nathan teach to read and write, 
 To spell and cipher ? letters to indite ? 
 What's learning, then, that he must needs go seek 
 So far from home ? They call it Latin, Greek. 
 Wisely all further question they forbore, 
 And looked profound, though puzzled as before." 
 
 The next quotation seems like a page from Goldsmith's 
 " Deserted Village." 
 
 " Low were the words at our repast, and few ; 
 Each felt the silence to the other due. 
 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 259 
 
 At length upon our thoughtful minds there stole 
 
 Converse that gently won the saddened soul." 
 ***** 
 
 " We reached a shop : no lettered sign displayed 
 The owner's name, or told the world his trade. 
 But on its door, cracked, rusty hinges swung, 
 And there a hook, and well-worn horseshoe hung. 
 The trough was dry ; the bellows gave no blast ; 
 The hearth was cold, nor sparks flew red and fast : 
 Labor's strong arm had rested — where was he, 
 
 Brawny and bare, who toiled and sang so free 1" 
 ***** 
 
 The following scene is beautifully told. 
 
 " The village passed, we came where stood aloof, 
 An aged cot with low and broken roof. 
 The sun upon its walls in quiet slept ; 
 Close by the door the stream in silence crept ; 
 No rustling birds were heard among the trees, 
 That high and silent stood, as slept the breeze. 
 The cot wide open ; yet there came no sound 
 Of busy steps ; 't was all in stillness bound. 
 Solemn, yet lovely stillness, as a spell 
 On this sweet rest and mellow sunshine fell /" 
 
 If we were to quote all we admire in this fine poem we 
 should scarcely leave a line out ; we therefore only select those 
 parts which please us most. Who does not feel the truth of 
 this? 
 
 " Ah ! sweet it is to gaze upon the face, 
 Long seen but by the mind, — to fondly trace, 
 
260 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 Each look and smile again : 't is life renewed, — - 
 How fresh ! — how dim was that by memory moved ! 
 And oh, how pines the soul ! how doth it crave 
 Only a moment's look ! 'T is in the grave, 
 That lovely face, no more to bless thine eyes. 
 Nay, wait, thou 'It meet it soon in yonder skies." 
 
 Wordsworth has, in the first book of his " Excursion," drawn 
 an elaborate picture of a sore heart-wasting in the "Tale of 
 Margaret." There the poet reaches the supreme eminence of a 
 broken heart, dying out of a resigned despair, by one of the 
 most wonderful ascents ever achieved by a poet. It could, no 
 doubt, be done in half the number of lines, but then we should 
 miss that slow approach, which, like a beleaguering army, 
 draws closer round every day till the captive is destroyed. 
 Dana paints the same effect, in a few lines, with great force and 
 skill. 
 
 " A year went by. Another came and passed. 
 This third, her friends would say, must be the last. 
 Spake of his coming then, and how he'd look. 
 She turned more pale : her head she slowly shook, 
 And something muttered, as in talk with one 
 Whom no one saw — then said, * It must be done !' " 
 
 But our space warns us that we must quote no more from 
 this fine poem ; though not the longest, we consider it infi- 
 nitely the finest the old poet has written; there is a quiet 
 power in it which shows the real spirit. 
 
 In " Factitious Life " there is a vein of quiet humor we did 
 not give the poet credit for. 
 
 In another mood, the sea is thus addressed : 
 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 261 
 
 " Now stretch your eye off shore, o'er waters made 
 To cleanse the air, and bear the world's great trade, 
 To rise, and wet the mountains near the sun, 
 Then back into themselves in rivers run, 
 Fulfilling mighty uses far and wide, 
 Through earth, in air, or here, as ocean tide." 
 
 This is certainly as completely utilitarian as though Jeremy 
 Bentham himself had written it. 
 
 " Ho ! how the giant heaves himself, and strains, 
 And flings, to break his strong and viewless chains ; 
 Foams in his wrath ; and at his prison doors, — 
 Hark ! hear him, how he beats, and tugs, and roars — 
 As if he would break forth again and sweep 
 Each living thing within his lowest deep. 
 
 Type of the Infinite ! I look away 
 Over thy billows, and I cannot stay 
 My thought upon a resting-place, or make 
 A shore beyond my vision, where they break : — 
 But on my spirit stretches, till it 's pain 
 To think : — then rests, and then puts forth again. 
 Thou hold'st me by a spell : and on thy beach 
 I feel all soul ; and thoughts unmeasured reach 
 Far back beyond all date : and O ! how old 
 Thou art to me ! for countless years thou hast rolled ; 
 Before an ear did hear thee, thou didst mourn, 
 Prophet of sorrows, o'er a race unborn : — 
 Waiting, thou mighty minister of death, 
 Lonely thy work, ere man had drawn his breath." 
 
 The four last lines embody a bold thought, well expressed ; 
 
262 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 tlie preceding lines, however, are very tame ; and the lines we 
 have italicized are remarkably prosaic. 
 
 " And last thou didst it well ! The dread command 
 Came, and thou swepst to death the breathing land : 
 And then once more, unto the silent heaven 
 Thy lone and melancholy voice was given. 
 And though the land is thronged again, O sea ! 
 Strange sadness touches all that goes with thee. 
 The small bud's plaining note, the wild, sharp call, 
 Share thy own spirit : it is sadness all ! 
 How dark and stern upon thy waves looks down 
 Yonder tall cliff — he with the iron crown ! 
 And see, those sable pines along the steep 
 Are come to join thy requiem, gloomy deep ! 
 Like stoled monks they stand and chant the dirge 
 Over the dead, with thy low beating surge !" 
 
 There is a simplicity in these lines amounting to a bareness ; 
 such as, " And see 1" " Hark, hear him !" 
 
 In the " Dying Raven " Mr. Dana shows many of the pecu- 
 liarities of his nature. It is a fine subject, and treated with 
 considerable force and pathos ; it has, however, the unfortunate 
 defect of being too long ; a grave fault in a poem, as well as in 
 a sermon. It is reported of a lively novelist that he was so 
 much pleased with the first part of a discourse that he resolved 
 to bestow a dollar upon the charity in whose behalf it was 
 delivered, but owing to the prolixity of the clergyman he was 
 preached down into a sixpenny state of mind ! 
 
 We shall now turn to Mr. Dana's prose writings, after a few 
 remarks, which seem necessary as a sort of explanation, for the 
 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 greater degree of attention we have given to the poets in this x 
 volume than to the prose writers of America. 
 
 Some readers may think that we give an undue influence to 
 poetry, but we cannot forget that Lord Byron himself has 
 acknowledged that it is above history and above philosophy — 
 more divine in its origin, and more immediately salutary in 
 its use. 
 
 "With this sentiment on his lips, how singular is it that the 
 great philosopher has never named the greatest poet the world 
 has ever produced ! A German writer says that Shakspeare is 
 as far above man, as God is above Shakspeare. Without 
 upholding this singular dogma, we may be permitted to say 
 that all men have now agreed upon considering the author of 
 " Hamlet " as the first intellect of the human race. While we 
 are on the point of Shakspeare and Bacon, we may name that 
 the great poet has quoted part of one of Bacon's essays, in 
 Maria's letter to Malvolio, and an ill-natured critic has been 
 malicious enough to suppose that the great dramatist meant to 
 satirize the chancellor, under the name of Malvolio ; and that 
 Lady Olivia was intended to represent Queen Elizabeth, and 
 Sebastian, Lord Essex. Contemporary historians certainly al- 
 lude to Bacon's egotism and love of display ; if so, the cross- 
 gartering of Malvolio becomes almost too ludicrous to be taken 
 as an allusion to Bacon's splendid costume. 
 
 The chancellor is certainly a steward, but there, we take it, 
 the likeness ends : to insist longer upon this point would be to 
 realize the logic of the man who declared that Csesar and Pom- 
 pey were very much alike, especially Pompey ! 
 
 But we must return to poetry. There is a greater resem- 
 
264 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 blance between the prophets and the poets, than there is 
 between the lord-chancellor of Queen Elizabeth and the Mal- 
 volio of Lady Olivia. 
 
 Prophecy was of a divine instinct; poetry is of the same 
 nature. There may be in the former more of faith ; there is 
 in the latter more of imagination. The lingering voice of God 
 in the Garden of Eden was the poetry of Adam ; the echo of 
 that voice is the poetry of the fallen race. 
 
 If we glance for a minute at the history of the world we 
 shall find that the ancients are chiefly renowned for their poets, 
 such as Homer, Hesiod, JEschylus, Anacreon, and others that 
 naturally suggest themselves to the reader's mind. 
 
 Coleridge defined prose to be proper words in their proper 
 places, and poetry to be the best words in the best places. 
 Some have objected to this definition as being too mechanical, 
 but it must be borne in mind that Coleridge always included 
 the mechanical in his definitions, otherwise it would only realize 
 the poets of whom Wordsworth and Byron have spoken, such 
 as those " who want the faculty of verse," and " many are poets 
 who have never penned a single stanza, and perchance the 
 best !" 
 
 Mr. Dana's chief prose work is " The Idle Man," a collection 
 of papers much in the style of the " Sketch Book," but display- 
 ing infinitely more vigor of thought and force of style. 
 
 The critique on Kean is very just, and shows a greater 
 knowledge of the requisites of a great actor than so secluded a 
 man could be expected to exhibit. 
 
 Mr. Dana's prose is remarkably clear. It is of a far stronger 
 order of writing than Irving's or Willis's, but we miss in it the 
 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 265 
 
 sly humor of the one and the piquant liveliness of the other : 
 the whole is made in a firmer mould. There is nothing very- 
 original either in thought or expression, but in lieu, we have 
 sound, earnest feeling, in good strong English. The chief fault 
 is an amplitude of execution, which borders on the tedious; 
 there is an absence of those flashes of imagination which light 
 up a page, and illuminate the whole subject. In short, Mr. 
 Dana is one of the old school, and abominates the new fashions 
 of composition. 
 
 His prejudice in favor of his own school of writing is amu- 
 singly exemplified in his essay on " Hazlitt ;" as a proof we 
 select a few specimens from that paper. 
 
 He thus commences with his energetic protest against the 
 sketchy illustration of the English critic : 
 
 " Here is a book of large and stately type, and fair and ample 
 margin, which, with eighty pages of extracts, and a good stretch of 
 blank at the beginnings and endings of chapters, leaves, after the 
 deduction of a general introductory chapter, a little more than 
 two hundred pages in which to treat upon the English Poets, com- 
 mencing with old Chaucer, and closing with criticisms upon those of 
 the present day." 
 
 Mr. Dana should bear in mind the intention of the volume 
 thus denounced. It was not to make an elaborate exposition 
 of every line the poets treated of, but to point out their pecu- 
 liarities, which can be as well done in a dozen pages as in a 
 volume. These voluminous critiques always defeat themselves. 
 There would be no end to such minute examination. 
 
 We remember, some years ago, Mr. Home, in the " Monthly 
 Chronicle," commenced a series of papers called the " Unde- 
 
206 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 veloped Characters of Shakspeare." He carried them on for 
 some time, and grew eloquent when he introduced us to the 
 mother of Desdemona, the father of Othello, and the grand- 
 father of Lady Macbeth. Even the Egyptian who gave the 
 handkerchief to Othello's mother was not forgotten. 
 
 A critic in the " Morning Herald " brought the series to a 
 precipitate end, by reminding the curious critic that he must 
 not omit, when he came to Macbeth, to give the birth, parentage, 
 and education of the " farrow of nine," as well as a history 
 of their esteemed parent. Mr. Dana seems to be of Mr. Home's 
 researching nature. 
 
 "We were not prepared for this unkind appreciation of 
 Goldsmith : 
 
 "What Gray says of Addison's versification, we are sorry to 
 add, too well applies to Goldsmith's also, which scarcely has 
 above three or four notes, in poetry, sweet enough, indeed, like 
 those of a German flute, but such as soon tire and satiate the ear 
 with their frequent return." 
 
 To this Mr. Dae a ill-naturedly adds : 
 
 " Goldsmith played this very instrument ; it was significant." 
 
 We are sorry he does not like the flute, as it is the entire 
 orchestra of the amiable author of the " Behemoth, or the last 
 of the Mastodons," who, we understand, performs the " Hallelujah 
 Chorus," " Hail Columbia," and " Yankee Doodle " on it with 
 the surprising effect of clearing the street where he resides in a 
 very few minutes. Mr. Dana's criticism is sometimes inge- 
 niously amusing. For instance, he defends the undoubted 
 foibles of his favorites in this manner : 
 
RICnARD HENRY DANA. 267 
 
 " For the most part, we should be content with them as we find 
 them, lest, with that obstinacy so common to such minds, they run 
 more into the fault, or lest, in the endeavor to remove it, they tear 
 away some beauty which was more closely connected with it than 
 we are aware. 
 
 " Some have complained of Milton's inversions, and perhaps 
 they are now and then overstrained. Had he begun to correct 
 them, who can tell where he would have stopped % Had he lis- 
 tened, some pedant critic might have spoiled the loftiest and most 
 varied harmony of English verse. In the same way, Cowper's 
 rhyme might have lost all its spirit. And had Wordsworth, in the 
 Excursion, given more compactness to his thoughts, where they are 
 sometimes languidly drawn out, he might have lost something of that 
 calm moral sentiment, of that pure shedding of the soul over his world 
 of beauties, which lie upon them like gentle and thoughtful sunset 
 upon the earth." 
 
 With all deference for so experienced a critic as Mr. Dana, 
 we cannot agree to this piece of special pleading for Words- 
 worth's prosiness. " Calm, moral sentiment " is dignified and 
 concise, and not wire-drawn verbosity, which constitutes so 
 large a portion of " The Excursion." 
 
 There is an occasional shrewdness about his remarks which 
 throws more light upon his subject than a dozen pages of his 
 usual style. Critics complain of an author's dulness, and " out- 
 Herod Herod " by their own examples. Like Diogenes, they 
 tread upon the pride of Plato with greater pride. This Satan- 
 rebuking sin was one day very amusingly exemplified by that 
 prince of rare fellows, Elliston. He was informed that one of 
 his first ladies of the ballet was so indignant at some dissatis- 
 faction expressed by the audience one evening, that she declared 
 
268 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 she would not finish her " pas de seul." The manager was horror- 
 struck at her pride, and sent for her to lecture her on such a 
 preposterous self-conceit. The indignant danseuse was ushered 
 into the presence of Robert William, the great autocrat of the 
 theatrical world. He received her with these words : " Madame, 
 I hope you will allow me to say that an audience has a right to 
 hiss as well as to applaud. Your pride is dreadful to con- 
 template. Are you aware that i~ myself have actually been 
 hissed ?" 
 
 The lady's reply was, " Indeed, sir, and I hope you liked it." 
 To return to Dana's critique, he says very happily: 
 
 " The French tied up their writers, with the little inspiration they 
 had, as if they were madmen, till well might Madame de Stael ask, 
 4 Why all this reining of dull steeds V At the same time they 
 taught the world to hold as uncouth the movements natural to 
 man, and to admire sudden, sharp, angular shootings of the limbs 
 as the only true lines of beauty, yet the polite world not long ago 
 read and talked nothing but French, and ' went to church in a gal- 
 liard, and came home in a levanto.' " 
 
 It is pleasant to meet with an American writer who has the 
 courage to speak what he thinks right out, and this rare virtue 
 belongs essentially to Dana. We hope the American public 
 will receive patiently the expression of our firm belief that there 
 is less freedom of opinion in the greatest of republics than in 
 many of the greatest of despotisms. 
 
 Mr. Dana says : 
 
 " We must not forget, however, to make one exception from our 
 general neglect of American authors, for therein is our boast — our 
 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 269 
 
 very liberal" patronage of the compilers of geographies, in great and 
 little, reading-books, spelling-books, and arithmetics. It is encou- 
 raging to our literary adventurers, that, should they fail to please 
 the public in works of invention, they have at least this resort; 
 and the consolation, that if they are not to rank with the poets and 
 novel writers of the day, they may be studied and admired till Pike 
 and Webster are forgotten." 
 
 All this, no doubt, is very encouraging to men of imagina- 
 tion, such as the author of " Kaloolah" and others of his genius 
 for romance, but it is a very hard thing to be said of a great 
 nation, who speak the language that Shakspeare spoke, and 
 hold the faith and morals of Milton, to use the thought of 
 Wordsworth — but it is undoubtedly true even at this minute to 
 a certain extent, although we fancy we discern signs of a clear- 
 ing up of this Boethian night of American literature. 
 
 A great portion of this crying injustice to native authors is 
 founded in either the timidity or malice of some of the reviews. 
 We are told that the editors of one of the leading critical 
 papers in New York have not the courage to mention the name 
 of a well-known American writer in their columns, although he 
 is their personal friend, and a contributor to their paper. To 
 make this the more startling, we are justified in adding that 
 privately they esteem him as a writer of great and sterling 
 merit. What a state ! when men of independent fortune dare 
 not in their own review honestly avow their own opinions ! 
 This " suppressio veri" has a name in the logic of Bacon, which 
 would apply here very strongly. Dana is a gratifying contrast 
 to the Adelphi above alluded to ; he says very innocently : 
 
 12 
 
270 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 " Mr. Irving's immediate success does not rest, perhaps, wholly 
 upon his merit, however great. ' Salmagundi' came out in num- 
 bers, and a little at a time. With a few exceptions, it treated of 
 the city, and what was seen and felt, and easy to be understood by 
 those in society. It had to do with the present and real, not the 
 distant and ideal. It was pleasant morning or after-dinner reading, 
 never taking up too much of a gentleman's time from his business 
 and pleasures, nor so exalted and spiritualized as to seem mystical 
 to his far-reaching vision. It was an excellent thing to speak of in 
 the rests between cotillon, and pauses between games at cards, and 
 answered a further convenient purpose, inasmuch as it furnished 
 those who had none of their own with wit enough, for sixpence, to 
 talk out the sitting of an evening party. In the end, it took fast 
 hold of people, through their vanity ; for frequent use had made 
 them so familiar with it as to look upon it as their own : and hav- 
 ing retailed its good things so long, they began to run of the 
 notion that they were all of their own making." 
 
 This is a very fair brick of the Dana architecture, and 
 exhibits how painstaking and candid a critic he is; it also 
 shows up that elongation rather than that elaboration of criti 
 cism, which so frequently wearies the reader, and spoils the 
 effect of his own simple, earnest thought. He is, too, afraid 
 of its not being understood in all its bearings. We are happy 
 to be able to agree with Mr. Dana in praising Mr. Irving's 
 " Salmagundi ;" it was one of the favorite books of our child- 
 hood, and it will, with the " History of New York," probably 
 be his chief passport to fame. 
 
 Notwithstanding Mr. Dana's manliness of sentiment, he is a 
 little bitten with the classical Addisonian mania. An admi- 
 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 271 
 
 ration of that agreeable writer seems to be a sort of literary 
 measles, which most English and American writers are obliged 
 to have once in their life, and then afterwards to be safe from 
 further attacks. 
 
 In another essay, written many years ago, Mr. Dana shows a 
 great advance upon the system of education then in vogue. 
 
 " We have become too officious in our helps to children ; we 
 leave not enough to the workings of nature, and to impressions 
 and tints too exquisite and delicate for any hands but hers ; but 
 with a vain and vulgar ignorance disturb the character she was 
 silently and slowly moulding into beauty, till it is formed to our 
 narrow and false taste. Anxious lest the clearness of their reason 
 should be dimmed, their minds are never left to work their own 
 way through the obscure: but ever-burning lights are held up 
 before them. They are not indulged in the conjectural, but all is 
 anticipated and overdone. We do not enough consider that often- 
 times the very errors into which they fall, through a want of 
 thorough knowledge of what they see or read, bring the invention 
 into action, and thus give a life to the mind, which will survive 
 when these errors are removed and forgotten. Children may rea- 
 son well, as far as their knowledge carries them along, and their 
 reason may still preside over what then* imagination supplies. 
 
 " An over-anxiety to make of babies little matter-of-fact men 
 and unbreeched philosophers, will not add much to their sum 
 of knowledge in after life, and nothing to that faculty which 
 teaches them to consider and determine for themselves, and begets 
 that independent wisdom without which their heaped up knowledge 
 is but an incumbrance. A child now learns by heart how a shoe 
 is made, from the flaying of an ox for the leather to the punching 
 
272 
 
 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 the last hole, and can give the best of reasons for its being so made, 
 when it had much better be chasing a rainbow. Such a system 
 may make inquisitive, but not wide-ranging minds. It kills the 
 poetry of our character, without enlarging our philosophy, and will 
 hardly make us worthier members of society, or give us the hum- 
 ble compensation of turning out better mechanics." 
 
 All this is admirable, and shows that the truest practical wis- 
 dom is in the most poetical minds. The old system of educa- 
 tion has many fine traits in it — we mean the old chivalric 
 theory. Now utility is the Juggernaut before whose wheels 
 everything noble or romantic is thrown down and crushed. 
 The loftiest minds are those most required in the busy world ; 
 they are the salt that sweetens the earth, the yeast that leavens 
 the whole. A poet should be encouraged to come out into 
 the crowded haunts, and mingle familiarly with his fellow-men, 
 and not, as is often the case, driven into his own solitary cham- 
 ber, to turn his face to the wall and die. The great, the fatal 
 evil of the present day is want of imagination. There is not 
 enough to bring the human masses to that average idealism 
 absolutely necessary to carry on the Christian government of 
 the world. The New Testament is rapidly becoming practically 
 obsolete, but, like all hypocrites, the respectable classes preach 
 more in proportion as they practise less. Our Saviour would 
 stand a poor chance in modern cities ; destitution or a jail 
 would be his fate, while possibly some benevolent men might 
 suggest a lunatic asylum as a humane compromise. 
 
 Tested by the world, the Sermon on the Mount is an absur- 
 dity, and the actions of Christ those of a maniac. Hard as it 
 may appear, the majority of respectable men are practical 
 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 273 
 
 atheists. It is reported that an English millionaire, in a dis- 
 cussion once with an enthusiast, who was arguing that money 
 was a very secondary matter, and that our Saviour had a great 
 contempt for riches, astonished the worthy Christian by boldly 
 declaring " that he could not deny but that Christ had held 
 those opinions, but," said he, " it always seemed to me that our 
 Saviour was not sufficiently aware of the value of money." 
 This setting Omniscience right is done by the great bulk of 
 mankind. Every merchant does it every hour of his life. The 
 money-changers of Threadneedle street and Wall street utter 
 cutting sarcasms in reply to " What shall a man receive in 
 exchange for his soul ?" Dollars or pounds sterling, of course ! 
 
 We do not wish to undervalue the practical faculties and the 
 useful part of man's nature. We should as soon think of 
 neglecting the body merely because the soul was of so much 
 more importance. One is necessary to the other, to complete 
 the human being, and in like manner poetry is as needful to 
 the well-being of man as religion and morals are to society. 
 
 Dana well observes : 
 
 " Society should be like the earth about us, where the beautiful, 
 the grand, the humble, the useful, lie spread out, and running into 
 each other; where, indeed, for the most part, so beautiful is the use- 
 ful that we almost forget its uses in its beauty." 
 
 There is a general yet dignified tolerance running throughout 
 our author's writings, which shows the liberal mind as well as 
 poetical heart. The following is another proof of that careful 
 working up of his modes of illustration, which shows how com- 
 pletely he has studied his subject. Still we miss in this well 
 
274 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 ordered prose those touches of light which reveal more than 
 words : 
 
 " We are filling our hot-houses and gardens with plants of the 
 tropics, and of the earth. We decompose air, and water, and 
 earths. Find the dip of rocks, and mark their strata; voyage into 
 regions of thick -ribbed ice ; travel up to the sources of strange 
 rivers ; betake ourselves to the mountain tops, and are bustling and 
 busy in this great huddling and overturning of everything within 
 our reach, while the delightful mystery within us lives on unex- 
 amined and unobserved. But if the pursuit of this mystery has 
 been neglected for objects more gainful, or of cheaper fame, it has 
 inward satisfyings and healthful moral uses, which are found 
 only here. We can scarcely look into the hearts of other men 
 without seeing the workings of our own, and. learning to know our- 
 selves in studying them. This brings us nearly to each other, and 
 in opening out like weaknesses and like virtues, teaches us forgive- 
 ness and love." 
 
 There is a sustained power of reasoning in most of Dana's 
 prose works which insensibly produces on the reader's mind that 
 respectful assent, which is the highest tribute a second-rate 
 writer can receive. To the chief bards of prose composition, 
 such as Milton, Jeremy Taylor, and their compeers, alone 
 belongs that enthusiastic reverence which carries us along in a 
 glow of delight. 
 
 Who can forget the first study of the Areopagitica of the 
 former, or the Sermons of the latter ? They are epochs in the 
 life of the mind ! We take leave of Mr. Dana with a sincere 
 respect for his talents. Both in prose and verse he has earned 
 a right to be considered as one of the most genuine writers of 
 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 275 
 
 America. We prefer his poetry to his prose for several 
 reasons, but chiefly on account of its comprising the qualities 
 of that species of composition with a higher faculty. His 
 verse is carefully finished, and displays occasionally a vein of 
 imagination, which, if more sustained, would place him very 
 high in the rank of even English poets. He has less unmean- 
 ing epithets than any American poet, except Emerson, we have 
 met with, and some of his illustrations are remarkably happy. 
 There is, however, a want of constructiveness in his mind which 
 impairs his power as a narrative poet. 
 
 His prose writings are full of sound thought in sound 
 English, and evince in every page, if not the man of an 
 original genius or a wide range of mind, at all events one who 
 has the sagacity to think for himself, and the honesty to write 
 what he thinks. 
 
2*76 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 
 
 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 
 
 It is very seldom that a woman of any real genius has so 
 great a facility of throwing her fancies into shape as Mrs. Osgood. 
 Had her utterance been more difficult she would have writ- 
 ten better. Mrs. Hemans was an example of how much fine 
 poetry is weakened by that elegant clothing of satin which she 
 could so easily throw over her children. The very opening 
 poem of the American poetess is a striking instance. It reminds 
 us of a weak translation of some of Anacreon's odes by 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 " Love, no more with that soul of fire 
 Sweep the strings and sound the lyre ; 
 All too wild the sad refrain, 
 When thy touch awakes the strain. 
 Thou henceforth must veil thy face, 
 With its blush of childish grace, 
 Still thy sweet entrancing tone, 
 Fold thy wings and weep alone !" 
 
 The idea is here positively so weakened by amplification that 
 we can hardly be said to recognise one in the whole eight lines. 
 
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 277 
 
 What can be done in that number of verses every reader of 
 Goldsmith can tell — 
 
 " When lovely woman stoops to folly." 
 
 The lady whom we thus criticise tells us what she can per- 
 form in a small compass, when she pleases — 
 
 " Lyre ! amid whose chords my soul, 
 Lulled, enchanted, proudly stole, 
 Folly, vanity, and mirth, 
 Long have turned thy tones to earth, 
 I will take thee hushed and holy, 
 Changed in heart, and sad and lowly, 
 Into Nature's mother's heart, 
 There I'll lay thee down to rest." 
 
 This species of verse is very captivating. It seems as though 
 it were the same that Pope said — " Lord, Fanny spins a thou- 
 sand such a day." To be closely written it is perhaps more 
 difficult than any in the language. Lord Byron was one of 
 the few that could wield the Anacreontic rhythm with much 
 effect. 
 
 In her " Spirit of Poetry" there is a great tenderness and a 
 deep yearning after the undefined. 
 
 " Leave me not yet ! leave me not cold and lonely, 
 
 Thou dear ideal of my pining heart ! 
 Thou art the friend — the beautiful — the only 
 
 Whom I would keep, though all the world depart ! 
 Thou that dost veil the frailest flower with glory, 
 
 Spirit of light, and loveliness, and truth, 
 
 Thou that didst tell me a sweet fairy story, 
 
 Of the dim future, in my wistful youth." 
 12* 
 
278 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 
 
 There are, however, far too many lines in this poem ; never- 
 theless there is a fine vein of impassioned feeling throughout. 
 
 In " Ermengard.es Awakening " there are many stanzas of 
 great beauty. 
 
 " And the proud woman thrilled to its false glory, 
 And when the murmur of her own true soul 
 Told in low lute tones love's impassioned story 
 
 She dreamed that music from the statue stole. 
 And knelt adoring at the silent shrine, 
 Her own divinity had made divine. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Like Egypt's queen in her imperial play, 
 
 She in abandonment more wildly sweet 
 Melted the pearl of her pure life away, 
 
 And poured the rich libation at its feet ; 
 And in exulting rapture dreamed the smile 
 That should have answered in its eye the while." 
 
 This stanza is full of woman's best thouo-ht : 
 
 " And in her desolate agony she east 
 
 Her form beside love's shivered treasure there, 
 And cried, ' Oh, God ! my life of life is past, 
 
 And I am left alone with my despair !' 
 Hark, from the lute one low, melodious sigh, 
 Thrilled to her heart a sad yet sweet reply !" 
 
 In her " Eurydice " there are lines so full of passionate feel- 
 ing that we seem to be sharing the thought of something 
 between man and woman : 
 
 " Now soft and low a prelude sweet uprings, 
 As if a prisoned angel, pleading there 
 
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 279 
 
 For life and love, were fettered 'neath the strings, 
 
 And poured his passionate soul upon the air. 
 Anon it clangs with wild, exultant swell, 
 Till the full paean peals triumphantly through hell." 
 
 In the verses to Queen Victoria on her way to Guildhall, we 
 noticed that yearning after the glitter of the old despotism which 
 is so marked a feature in the upper classes of American society. 
 Turkey carpets, brilliant furniture, and crowded balls, insensibly 
 undermine that republican independence so indispensable to 
 the welfare of the American people. 
 
 Sometimes she endeavors to mix up instruction with song, as 
 in "Laborare est Orare," but she is not successful in these 
 attempts. 
 
 " ' Labor is worship,' — the robin is singing : 
 ' Labor is worship,' — the wild bee is singing : 
 Listen that eloquent whisper upspringing, 
 Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart." 
 
 The greatest attempt Mrs. Osgood has made is in her 
 " Fragments of an Unfinished Story." Here we have a poem 
 of nearly four hundred lines in blank verse, which we have 
 been told by the authoresses themselves is the most difficult of 
 all for a lady to write. One can easily comprehend this ; the 
 delicate feminine nature is carried along by her musical sympa- 
 thies, and there is something too independent in a verse which 
 leans not on rhyme for support. 
 
 The commencement contains a very startling creed, which we 
 suppose few are ready to give faith to. 
 
280 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 
 
 " A friend ! are you a friend % No, by my soul, 
 Since you dare breathe the shadow of a doubt 
 That I am true as truth. Since you give not 
 Unto my briefest look — my gayest word, 
 My faintest change of cheek, my softest touch, 
 Most sportive, causeless smile, or low-breathed sigh- 
 Nay, to my voice's lightest modulation, 
 Though imperceptible to all but you ; 
 If you give not to these, unquestioning, 
 A limitless faith, the faith you give to heaven — 
 I will not call you friend." 
 
 It is a pity the fair writer had not put this idea into half the 
 space. She has wiredrawn the sentiment till we lose its form 
 altogether. Every line obliterates a part of the image instead 
 of completing it. 
 
 " Deny me faith — that poor yet priceless boon, 
 And you deny the very soul of love !" 
 
 Here we have the whole summed up in a concise manner, 
 which we wish she would more frequently employ. She well 
 
 " What though a thousand seeming proofs condemn me ? 
 If my calm image smile not dear through all, 
 Serene and without shadow on your heart ! 
 Nay, if the very vapors that would visit it. 
 Part not illumined by its presence pure, 
 As round night's tranquil queen the clouds divide, 
 Then rend it from that heart !" 
 
 We recognise in every page that tendency to sacrifice sense 
 to sound — the thought to the melody. This, we are aware, is a 
 
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 281 
 
 lady-like quality, but not the invariable accompaniment of the 
 female muse. In Elizabeth Barrett we have a rare instance of 
 more solicitude for the idea than the words. Miss Fuller like- 
 wise treats the melody of her verses as a secondary object ; but 
 we fear Mrs. Osgood considers it of primary importance. Music 
 resembles poetry, all admit, and in nothing is the resemblance 
 more complete than in this ; that the thought should be in 
 poetry what the melody is in music, and that the versification 
 of the one answers to the bass accompaniment of the other ; 
 the thought and the air should of course be the controlling 
 power. 
 
 Some of her poems are exceedingly graceful. We take 
 this as an instance : 
 
 Rose a graceful cylantine ; 
 And within the window near 
 Hung a prism cold and clear, 
 Where a spirit dwelt apart, 
 With a proud but pining heart, 
 
 Like a weary, 
 
 Languid Peri, 
 Captive in a diamond palace, 
 Catching sunbeams in a chalice." 
 
 There is a great mechanical fancy in Mrs. Osgood's poerns ; 
 some are, indeed, too ingenious to please us. There is a deter- 
 mination to work up comparisons and fables. In many we 
 have the old style of putting " sermons in stones," and " breath 
 to the brook !" 
 
282 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 
 
 " The brook tripped by, with smile and sigh, 
 And soft in music murmurs sung, 
 While all the flowers that blossomed nigh, 
 Were hushed to hear that silver tongue. 
 
 " ' Ah, virgin violet, breathed the brook, 
 
 Whose blue eye shuns the light, the air, 
 I love you ! in this true heart look, 
 
 And see your own sweet image there."' 
 
 This is very well for little children, but one who has pre- 
 tensions to so high a station in poetry as Mrs. Osgood should 
 not publish, them for grown people. 
 
 But in the " Dying Rosebud's Lament" she has carried this 
 prettiness to the verge of affectation. We are willing to allow 
 a great margin to a lady's sympathy, but we cannot go the 
 Ultima Thule of Mrs. Osgood. 
 
 " Ah me ! ah woe is me ! 
 
 That I should perish now, 
 With the dear sunlight just let in 
 Upon my balmy brow. 
 
 " My leaves, instinct with glowing life, 
 Were quivering to unclose, 
 My happy heart with love was rife, 
 I was almost a Rose !" 
 
 We cannot forget that Keats has said all that can be said of 
 a rose-bud or a rose. 
 
 " As though a rose could shut and be a bud again." 
 In the " Ashes of Roses " we have a more solemn subject for 
 
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 283 
 
 reflection. It is supposed to be written by a mother on the 
 death of her child, and is certainly a triumph of its kind. It 
 is, however, a painful poem to read, if we believe it is founded 
 on fact. Dryden observes, " great grief is dumb," and we can 
 hardly realize a mother making a song out of a dead child. 
 But when we say this we make every concession the poet's 
 nature may demand, and we know that " the ways of genius 
 are not our ways, nor their thoughts our thoughts." Still, 
 human nature is the same in the poet as in the ploughboy ; 
 nay, even in the editor, that sublimation of humanity soaring 
 above the weakness of virtue or the enormity of affection. 
 
 In years after, when some casual occurrence reminds the 
 living of the departed, the chords of emotion may thrill at the 
 touch, but even then the music will be fragmentary, and par- 
 take more of the accidental than the deliberate design. 
 
 It seems almost like digging the dead up from the solemn 
 peace of the sepulchre to gaze once more on that form which 
 should be transfigured in heaven. Nevertheless, with all these 
 considerations, time may soften the grief, and render it suscep- 
 tible of a poetical apotheosis. 
 
 " Truly the memory of the just 
 Smells sweet and blossoms in the dust !" 
 
 The poem which has provoked these remarks is full of truth- 
 ful, vigorous painting, and if written out of the ideality of the 
 sorrow, and not its reality, secures for its fair anthoress much 
 praise. With this proviso the whole demands unqualified 
 admiration. 
 
284 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 
 
 She faded, faded in my arms, and with a faint slow sigh 
 Her fair, young spirit went away. Ah ! God, I felt her die, 
 
 ******* 
 A little flower might so have died — so tranquilly she closed 
 Her lovely mouth, and on my heart her helpless head reposed." 
 
 ******* 
 
 The sense of security against all ills which a child feels in the 
 presence of a mother is touchingly told. 
 
 " For oh ! it seemed the darling dreamed that while she clung to 
 me, 
 Safe from all harm of death or pain she could not help but be, 
 That I who watched in helpless grief my flower fade away, 
 That I — oh, heaven! had life and strength to keep her from 
 decay !" 
 
 This line contains more thought and truth than are generally 
 found in verses of this description. 
 
 " The soul that here must hide its face, 
 There lives serene in right /" 
 And ever in thy lovely path, some new, great truth divine, 
 Like a dear star that dawns in heaven, undyingly doth shine." 
 
 Mrs. Osgood has always a superior reference to the affections 
 in everything she writes. In her " Deaf Girl Restored " are 
 some charming verses." 
 
 " A world of melody wakes around, 
 
 Each leaf of the tree has its tremulous tone, 
 And the rippling rivulet's lullaby sound, 
 
 And the wood bird's warble are all mine own. 
 
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 285 
 
 But nothing — oh ! nothing that I have heard, 
 Not the lay of the lark nor the coo of the dove, 
 
 Can match, with its music, one fond, sweet word, 
 That thrills to my soul from the lips I love." 
 
 Mrs. Osgood is somewhat too profuse of her "ah's" and 
 " oh's ;" thay mar the harmony and repose of some of her 
 finest verses. Sparingly used and placed in their right posi- 
 tion, they are very effective, like a cordial administered to a 
 sick patient ; but Avhen indulged in habitually, they defeat their 
 own purpose, and, in fact, become positively injurious. 
 
 "We all know how guarded the greatest masters of composi- 
 tion have been in the use of exclamations, and how carefully 
 they have selected the fitting spot for their insertion. Sheridan's 
 MS. of a famous speech shows that it took him some time to 
 hit upon the most appropriate place for "Good God, Mr. 
 Speaker." 
 
 As Mrs. Osgood has not thought fit to include her drama of 
 " Elfrida" in the new edition of her poems, we shall not con- 
 sider it critically, but pass over it with the remark that we con- 
 sider it altogether a very creditable composition, more especially 
 when the age at which she wrote it is taken into consideration, 
 It is not fitted to the stage, being deficient in action and pas- 
 sion. It. is more a story told by dialogues, artificially connected, 
 but admirably written. 
 
 The chief merits of our fair writer are tenderness of feeling 
 and grace of expression. As we observed before, she too fre- 
 quently sacrifices the strength of the thought to the beauty of 
 the words ; and even here she often fails, from her diffuseness, 
 and wish to say all that can be said on the theme she has in 
 
286 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 
 
 hand. She has a lively fancy, but little imagination ; and her 
 fancy is sometimes displayed so artificially as to induce the 
 reader to put it down altogether to the score of mere pretti- 
 ness of thought and conceit of expression. Still, there are a 
 feminine power, pathos, and tenderness about the writings of 
 Mrs. Osgood, which will always render her one of the most 
 pleasing poets of the New World. 
 
8. MARGARET FULLER. 287 
 
 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 At this present time there are three women who greatly re- 
 semble each other in their intellectual nature : and they belong 
 to the three greatest nations in the world. France has her 
 Madame Dudevant, or better known by the name of George 
 Sand ; England, her Elizabeth Barrett ; and America, her Mar- 
 garet Fuller. Singular to add, they are all now within a 
 short distance of each other, two being in Italy, and the other 
 in Paris. The personal meeting of these, the first women of 
 the age, must be of extraordinary interest, and we would cheer- 
 fully barter away a year of our own existence to listen to their 
 communings for one day. 
 
 An American author of great eminence, some time since, de- 
 nominated Margaret Fuller the George Sand of America ; 
 and, much as we dislike that hackneyed fashion of making the 
 great intellect of one nation a kind of duplicate of another, yet 
 there is more justness in this comparison than generally falls to 
 the lot of that absurd method of getting at facts, or something 
 like them. 
 
 It must of course be understood that we mean here only an 
 
288 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 intellectual parallel. We name this to guard against the possi- 
 bility of any misconception, as we know there is a prejudice 
 against the French authoress on account of sundry freaks she is 
 supposed to indulge in, such as assuming male attire, roaming 
 the streets, and smoking cigars. With all these drawbacks, she 
 is a woman of great and undoubted genius, and as such she 
 has been acknowledged by the first intellects of the age. 
 
 We may as well mention here as a justification for our admi- 
 ration of George Sand, that Elizabeth Barrett, wife to the poet 
 Browning, has, in one of the finest sonnets of the time, warmly 
 acknowledged her claim to the respect and sympathy of wo- 
 mankind. The praise of Elizabeth Barrett Browning out- 
 weighs a host of mongrel carpers. 
 
 It is a common method to attack every woman who en- 
 deavors to earn for her sex a loftier and more appreciatory po- 
 sition in the government of the world, or in the constitution of 
 society. It certainly has happened with a few female reformers 
 that they have carried their theories somewhat too wildly into 
 practice, and overproved their case : like vaulting ambition, 
 they have overleaped themselves. But while the world con- 
 demns the personal conduct of Mary Wolstoncroffc, Mrs. 
 Shelley, and some others, it should at least be just to those who 
 avoid these errors. Were Christianity to be judged by the 
 Simeon Stylites and other fanatics, who would profess them- 
 selves Christians ? But it is the cunning of falsehood to con- 
 found an abuse with the use, and so make the truth itself hate- 
 ful, or at all events doubtful. 
 
 It is a singular fact that man should have this enmity to 
 women who endeavor the most to render woman more helpful 
 
S. MARGARET FULLER. 289 
 
 to him ; and no less strange that woman herself should join in 
 this crusade against the recovery of her long-lost birthright. 
 
 It seems almost absurd to say so, but it appears to us to be 
 the truth (and confirmed by the experience of others) that 
 there is great jealousy shown by men of all classes to women of 
 great intellect. 
 
 This may, perhaps, account for the unpopularity of female 
 writers, more especially if they happen to tread upon forbidden 
 subjects, such as the equality of the sexes. In many men 
 there is a great appearance of deference to the gentler part of 
 creation, but we take it this proceeds from a lower feeling than 
 that of respect. It is seldom that man shows a deference to 
 anything except wealth or beauty : his instinct is against 
 woman's intellect. 
 
 It is not, however, our intention to discuss this question ; we 
 merely give it as the opinion of many of the wisest men we 
 have conversed with, and we content ourselves with merely 
 making the assertion. 
 
 We have been led chiefly to this statement by the tone 
 which many have adopted towards the eminent authoress at 
 the head of this article. 
 
 We have carefully read, and at first with a prejudiced eye, 
 all her writings, and we see no ground for the objections which 
 have been made against her doctrines. 
 
 We hope to show that she is not alone one of the first 
 of the daughters of America, but that she is one of the wisest 
 of women. 
 
 We shall consider her prose writings first, and then "illumi- 
 
290 
 
 MARGARET FULLER 
 
 nate our pages" with some of the most genuine poetry the 
 female pen of the New World has produced. 
 
 We commence with the volume which first roused our atten- 
 tion and excited our admiration. 
 
 In 1843 she published her " Summer on the Lakes," and 
 seldom has so small a volume contained so much fine thought 
 and been so full of suggestiveness. 
 
 There is a total absence of the old notions. We here find 
 one who has a freshness of nature which can think and feel for 
 herself. How unlike the stale common-place rhapsodies on 
 Niagara is the following : 
 
 " We have been here eight days, and I am quite willing to go 
 away. So great a sight soon satisfies, making us content with 
 itself, and with what is less than itself. Our desires once realized, 
 haunt us again less readily: having 'lived one day' we would de- 
 part, and become worthy to live another. 
 
 " We have not been fortunate in weather, for there cannot be 
 too much or too warm sunlight for this scene, and the skies have 
 been lowering with cold, unkind winds. My nerves, too much 
 braced up by such an atmosphere, do not well bear the continual 
 stress of sight and sound. For here there is no escape from the 
 weight of a perpetual creation; all other forms and motions come 
 and go, the tide rises and recedes, the wind at its mightiest, moves 
 in gales and gusts, but here is really an incessant, an indefatigable 
 motion. 
 
 " Awake or asleep there is no escape ; still this rushing round you 
 and through you. It is in this way I have most felt the gran- 
 deur, — somewhat eternal, if not infinite. 
 
 " At times a secondary music rises ; the cataract seems to seize 
 
8. MARGARET FULLER. 291 
 
 its own rhythm, and sing it over again, so that the ear and soul are 
 roused by a double vibration. This is some effect of the wind, 
 causing echoes to the thundering anthem. It is very sublime, giv- 
 ing the effect of a spiritual repetition through all the spheres." 
 
 Although we have never seen Niagara, nor listened to its 
 deafening anthem, we feel the truth of this description ; and 
 that is the gift of genius, to enable us to feel the presence of a 
 great man, a stirring heroic event, or sublimity of nature, by 
 means of the poet's soul. 
 
 How vigorously she portrays the sentiment which all have 
 felt in the presence of beautiful or sublime scenery ! 
 
 " But all great expression, which, on a superficial survey, seems 
 so easy as well as so simple, fnrnishes, after a while, to the faith- 
 ful observer its own standard by which to appreciate it. Daily 
 these proportions widened and towered more and more upon my 
 sight, and I got at last a proper foreground for these sublime dis- 
 tances. Before coming away, I think I really saw the full wonder 
 of the scene. After awhile it so drew me into itself as to inspire 
 an undefined dread, such as I never knew before, such as may be 
 felt when death is about to usher us into a new existence." 
 
 Miss Fuller, in her desire to dip the plummet down to the 
 very depths of human nature, has, with her usual boldness, 
 seized upon a presentiment which, no doubt, at particular 
 seasons, has impressed every mind. We pause over her 
 remark in italics, as it affords us an opportunity of noticing that 
 love of psychological illustration which seems to be so natural 
 to her. 
 
292 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 This is hardly a place to discuss the mysteries of life and 
 death, but we may perhaps be allowed to remark that this allu- 
 sion to the vague intimation of a future state is a favorite illus- 
 tration with our fair writer. 
 
 How far these presentiments are based on truth, it is not 
 permitted for the intellect, in its present state, to ascertain. It 
 may be that every birth is a death, and every death a birth ; 
 and that, as year succeeds to year, carrying the human race 
 forward in its progress towards its ultimate destiny, so may 
 what we call birth and death be only a process of each indi- 
 vidual mind in its journey to perfection. One would think that 
 curiosity alone would enable us to welcome death, seeing that it 
 is the portal to a greater sphere of existence. 
 
 While Miss Fuller has a spirit capable of feeling the vastness 
 of her subject, she has also an eye ready to detect the minuter 
 traits of character. After her speculations on the metaphysical 
 parts of our nature, the following, coming immediately after it, 
 reads somewhat outre : 
 
 " Once, just as I had seated myself there, a man came to take 
 his first look. He walked close up to the fall, and after looking at 
 it a moment, with an air as if thinking how he could best appro- 
 priate it to his own use, he spat into it" 
 
 This spitting into a cataract is no mean illustration of the 
 insults occasionally offered to men of genius by the low-minded. 
 The latter act is more frequently indulged in, but it is quite as 
 contemptible an act in one case as the other, and covers the 
 spitter, and not the cataract, with contempt. 
 
S. MARGARET FULLER. 293 
 
 This insensibility to grandeur is a common defect, or perhaps 
 we ought to say that the susceptibility to beauty and sublimity 
 is the gift of only the superior nature. 
 
 It is related that an English merchant travelling to Mount 
 Vesuvius was so indignant at its not vomiting forth torrents of 
 flame, as he had seen it in pictures, that he snapped his fingers 
 at it, crying, " Vesuvius, you're a humbug !" We prefer the 
 Utilitarian who declared that Etna was a famous place to light 
 a cigar at. It was a similar want of the power of appreciation 
 that induced a Londoner to pronounce that Humboldt was an 
 overrated man, and when asked for evidence to support this 
 novel opinion, he said, with the self-satisfied air of a man who 
 fancies he is settling a disputed point — " Why, you must know, 
 that I dined with him at a friend's the other day, and so long- 
 as he was allowed to talk about the Andes, the Himalaya, and 
 places nobody had ever heard of, and in whose existence I 
 don't believe, of course Humboldt had it all his own way ; but 
 I settled him. I asked him if he knew where Turnham Green 
 was, and, would you believe it — he didn't know — he was 
 dumbfoundered. I never saw a man look like such a fool before. 
 He is a pretty traveller, to be sure !" 
 
 We fear this is the way with the world. They select their 
 own confined local knowledge, or rather ignorance, to test the 
 intellect of a man whose mind grasps a world. 
 
 This confounding the squabbling gossip of their own parish 
 with the enlarged politics of the world is a common case with 
 too many. 
 
 We need hardly say that to the men who recognise Niagara 
 as only a great water power for turning mills, or as the tailor 
 
 13 
 
294 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 did, as a first-rate place for sponging a coat, the writings of 
 Miss Fuller are so much Greek ; her mind is of a far different 
 order. She flies higher and dives deeper than those who float 
 upon the surface. There is likewise a gTeat power of association 
 in her nature ; she generally brings together one fact to throw 
 light upon another, or to fix it more firmly on the mind by the 
 force of contrast : 
 
 " No less strange is the fact that in this neighborhood (of 
 Niagara) an Eagle should be chained for a plaything. When a 
 child, I used often to stand at a window from which I could see an 
 eagle chained in the balcony of a museum. The people used to 
 poke at it with sticks, and my childish heart would ehoke with indig- 
 nation as I saw their insults, and the mien with which they were 
 borne by the monarch bird. Its eye was dull, and its plumage 
 soiled and shabby, yet in its form and attitude all the king was visi- 
 ble, though sorrowful and dethroned I I never saw another of the 
 family till when passing through the Notch of the White Moun- 
 tains. At that moment, striving before us in all the panoply of 
 sunset, the driver shouted, ' Look there !' and following with our 
 eyes his upward pointing finger, we saw, soaring slow in majestic 
 poise above the highest summitf the Bird of Jove! It was a 
 glorious sight, yet I know not that I felt more in seeing the bird in 
 all its natural freedom and royalty, than when imprisoned and 
 insulted, he had filled my early thoughts with the Byronie ' silent 
 rays' of misanthropy ! Now again I saw him a captive, and 
 addressed by the vulgar with the language they seem to find most 
 appropriate to such occasions — that of thrusts and blows. Silently, 
 his head averted, he ignored their existence, as Plotinus and 
 Sophocles might that of a modern reviewer. Probably he listened 
 to the voice of the cataract, and felt that congenial powers flowed 
 free, and was consoled, though his own wing was broken." 
 
S. MARGARET FULLER. 295 
 
 We once heard of a tradesman who had lived to a moderate 
 age without having seen the ocean. He had read about it in 
 the papers, as though it had been an advertisement, and his 
 curiosity was roused to see it, just as he had a desire to know 
 how far Warren's blacking came up to the description of its 
 wonderful powers. A glowing account of a tempest on the 
 coast determined him to judge of the sea by his own senses. 
 Being a cheesemonger, he was accustomed to test everything by 
 the taste. On his arrival at Brighton he wrapt himself up care- 
 fully, and proceeded to the beach. By degrees he ventured to 
 approach as near to the foam-crested waves as was prudent, and 
 after running after, and then receding from the billows, he 
 cautiously dipped his finger into a wave, and tasted it. Making 
 a wry face, as he would over a dose of physic, he returned to 
 his inn, and departed next day for London, with a complete 
 knowledge of the world of waters. 
 
 There is also a quiet power about some of Miss Fuller's comic 
 descriptions, which are as effective as any of the absurd distor- 
 tions of Dickens. The former reaches her object by the quiet 
 force of her humor, the other attempts to succeed by the unex- 
 pected blow of gross caricature ! The true comedian is one 
 who delights his audience with the comic expression of his 
 countenance ; it is the clown who raises a laugh with the chalk 
 and red ochre, depending chiefly on an enormous nose, highly 
 painted, and with a fictitious mouth, stretching apparently from 
 ear to ear. We are glad, however, to perceive that this false 
 taste is rapidly declining on both sides the Atlantic. We quote 
 a description of Miss Fuller's evening adventure. 
 
 " With us was a young lady who showed herself to have been 
 
296 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 bathed in the Britannic fluid wittily described by a late French 
 writer, by the impossibility she experienced of accommodating her- 
 self to the indecorums of the scene. We ladies were to sleep in 
 the bar-room, from which its drinking visitors could be ejected only 
 at a late hour. The outer door had no fastening to prevent their 
 return. However, our host kindly requested we would call him, if 
 they did, as he had ' conquered them for us,' and would do so 
 again. We had also rather hard couches (mine was the supper table), 
 but we Yankees, born to rove, were altogether too much fatigued to 
 stand upon trifles, and slept as sweetly as we would in the ' bigly 
 bower' of any baroness. But I think England sat up all night, 
 wrapped in her blanket shawl, and with a neat lace cap upon her 
 head ; so that she would have looked perfectly the lady if any one 
 had come in ; shuddering and listening. I know that she was very 
 ill next day, in requital. She watched, as her parent country 
 watches the seas, that nobody may do wrong in any case, and de- 
 served to have met some interruption, she was so well prepared. 
 However, there was none, other than from the nearness of some 
 twenty sets of powerful lungs, which would not leave the night to 
 a deadly stillness." 
 
 To a poetical mind the commonest occurrence has a meaning 
 which the many never see : there is all the difference in the 
 world between the Hamlets and the Horatios of human nature. 
 
 Few men so thoroughly understood the heart as Cervantes 
 and Shakspeare. How singular a coincidence that both these 
 great spirits should leave earth the same day ! It seems as 
 though they had been asked to meet, no other men being 
 equal to the task of entertaining each other. 
 
 Never did poet so wonderfully condense into two individuals 
 the great classes of mankind as Cervantes has done in Sancho 
 
S. MARGARET FULLER. 29? 
 
 Panza and his master. While the former represents the com- 
 mon-place of the human family, the other is the sublime em- 
 bodiment of the chivalrous and the imaginative. Don Quixote 
 is truly of imagination all compact ! And how wonderfully 
 does an indulgence in then- own natures lower the one down to 
 a greater sensualism, the other intensed and heightened into 
 madness ! While the Squire is the representative of worldly 
 wisdom, cunning, and that interested fidelity so prevalent in 
 the world, the knight is a perfect type of the generous, the 
 noble, and the brave-hearted gentleman. In a word, Sancho 
 Panza is the prose, and Don Quixote is the poetry of human 
 nature. 
 
 And how wonderfully true to experience is the result of 
 many of the woful knight's philanthropic endeavors ! Witness 
 his humane interference in favor of the idle sheep-boy, whom 
 his master thrashed twice as much when Don Quixote had 
 turned his back. No bad illustration of the effect produced on 
 the slave-trade by the " humanity men " of England and Ame- 
 rica. Notice also the "shaping power of his fancy" when he 
 mistakes windmills for men-at-arms. This is only the imagina- 
 tive powers carried one step beyond their natural scope. As 
 the poet says : 
 
 " Great genius, sure, to madness is allied, 
 And thin partitions do the bounds divide." 
 
 And a modern's illustration of beauty may be applied to the 
 mind: 
 
 " One shade the more — one shade the less, 
 Had half impaired that nameless grace !" 
 
298 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 How subtly the imagination works on itself, none can tell. 
 But that every poet has a madness slumbering in his nature is 
 clear to every self-reflective man. 
 
 An appreciation of the beautiful is the first sensation of the 
 poetical mind : that belongs to many. The power of giving 
 that faculty an utterance is the gift of the few : those few are 
 the poets. To Miss Fuller the flight of a flock of pigeons is a 
 music. 
 
 "One beautiful feature was the return of the pigeons every 
 afternoon to their home. Every afternoon they came sweeping 
 across the lawn, positively in clouds, and with a swiftness and soft- 
 ness of winged motion, more beautiful than anything of the kind I 
 ever knew. Had I been a musician, such as Mendelssohn, I felt 
 that I could have improvised a music quite peculiar, from the 
 sound they made, which should have indicated all the beauty over 
 which their wings bore them." 
 
 To the imagination, 
 
 " The meanest flower that blows, can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." 
 
 How often does the very loftiness of a man's nature lead to 
 the odium of the world, as from an eminence he beholds things 
 the crowd denies, because they cannot see so far on account of 
 their low stature. Much of the objection that has been raised 
 to Miss Fuller's writings has proceeded from this defect in the 
 eyesight of the world. Occasionally that fine woman's instinct, 
 which is a half-revelation, lets us into more of the heart 
 than a volume of man's preaching. 
 
S. MARGARET FULLER. 299 
 
 " Oh ! it is a curse to woman to love first, or most. 
 In so doing she reverses the natural relations, 
 And her heart can never, never be satisfied 
 With what ensues." 
 
 But we refer the reader to the story of Mariana, as related in 
 this little volume ; it is one of the most touching and power- 
 fully drawn narrations we have ever met with. 
 
 Many half-truth commentators have misrepresented Miss 
 Fuller's theory of the position of woman. We hope it is their 
 ignorance, and not their malice, which has led to this injustice. 
 For our own part, we cordially echo her sentiments, convinced 
 that every day brings us nearer to the realization of her system. 
 After some observations upon Philip Van Artevelde, she 
 says: 
 
 " When will this country have such a man ? It is what she 
 needs ; no thin Idealist, no coarse Realist, but a man whose eye 
 reads the heavens while his feet step firmly on the ground, and 
 his hands are strong and dexterous for the use of human imple- 
 ments. A man religious, virtuous, and — sagacious ; a man of uni- 
 versal sympathies, but self-possessed; a man who knows the 
 region of emotion, though he is not its slave ; a man to whom this 
 world is no mere spectacle, or fleeting shadow, but a great solemn 
 game to be played with good heed, for its stakes are of eternal 
 value, yet who, if his own play be true, heeds not what he loses by 
 the falsehood of others. A man who hives from the past, yet 
 knows that its honey can but moderately avail him ; whose com- 
 prehensive eye scans the present, neither infatuated by its golden 
 lures nor chilled by its many ventures ; who possesses prescience, 
 as the wise man must, but not so far as to be driven mad to-day by 
 
300 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 the gift which discerns to-morrow. When there is such a man for 
 America, the thought which urges her on will be expressed." 
 
 Who can deny the following ? 
 
 " It marks the defect in the position of woman that one like 
 Mariana should have found reason to write thus. To a man of 
 equal power, equal sincerity, no more ! — many resources would 
 have presented themselves. He would not have needed to seek, 
 he would have been called by life, and not permitted to be quite 
 wrecked through the affections only. But such women as Mariana 
 are often lost, unless they meet some man of sufficiently great soul 
 to prize them." 
 
 And where is the political economist who contradicts this ? 
 
 " Might the simple maxim, that honesty is the best policy, be laid 
 to heart ! Might a sense of the true aims of life elevate the tone 
 of politics and trade, till public and private honor become identical ! 
 Might the western man, in that crowded and exciting life which de- 
 velopes his faculties so fully for to-day, not forget that better part 
 which could not be taken from him ! Might the western woman 
 take that interest and acquire that light for the education of the 
 children, for which she alone has leisure ! 
 
 " This is indeed the great problem of the place and time. If the 
 next generation be well prepared for their work, ambitious of good 
 and skilful to achieve it, the children of the present settlers may be 
 leaven enough for the mass constantly increasing by emigration. 
 And how much is this needed where those rude foreigners can so 
 little understand the best interests of the land they seek for bread 
 and shelter ! It would be a happiness to aid in this good work, 
 and interweave the white and golden threads into the fate of Illi- 
 nois. It would be a work worthy the devotion of any mind." 
 
S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 Whatever be the subject she thinks for herself, and boldly 
 gives her opinion, without reference to the popular feeling. 
 We were glad to read this : 
 
 " At Detroit we stopped for half a day. This place is famous in 
 our history, and the unjust anger at its surrender is still expressed 
 by almost every one who passes there. I had always shared the 
 common feelings on this subject ; for the indignation at a disgrace 
 to our arms that seemed so unnecessary, has been handed down 
 from father to child, and few of us have taken the pains to ascer- 
 tain where the blame lay. But now, upon the spot, having read 
 all the testimony, I felt convinced that it should rest solely with 
 the government, which, by neglecting to sustain General Hull, as 
 he had a right to expect they would, compelled him to take this 
 step, or sacrifice many lives, and of the defenceless inhabitants, not 
 of soldiers, to the cruelty of a savage foe, for the sake of his repu- 
 tation. 
 
 "lama woman, and unlearned in such affairs ; but, to a person 
 with common sense and good eyesight, it is clear, when viewing 
 the location, that, under the circumstances, he had no prospect of 
 successful defence, and that to attempt it would have been an act 
 of vanity, not valor. 
 
 " I feel that I am not biased in this judgment by my personal 
 relations, for I have always heard both sides, and, though my feel- 
 ings had been moved by the picture of the old man sitting down, 
 in the midst of his children, to a retired and despoiled old age 
 after a life of honor and happy intercourse with the public, yet 
 tranquil, always secure that justice must be done at last, I sup- 
 posed, like others, that he deceived himself, and deserved to pay 
 the penalty for failure to the responsibility he had undertaken. 
 Now on the spot, I change, and believe the country at large must, 
 
 13* 
 
302 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 ere long, change from this opinion. And I wish to add my testi- 
 mony, however trifling its weight, before it be drowned in the 
 voice of general assent, that I may do some justice to the feelings 
 which possessed me here and now." 
 
 In Miss Fuller's essay on " Milton " we recognise that clear 
 bold spirit, which smiles at the timidity, too frequent, when 
 treating on the most original men of the past. 
 
 "Mr. Griswold justly and wisely observes: — 'Milton is more 
 emphatically American than any author who has lived in the Uni- 
 ted States.' He is so because in him is expressed so much of the 
 primitive vitality of that thought from which America is born, 
 though at present disposed to forswear her lineage in so many 
 ways. He is the purity of Puritanism. He understood the nature 
 of liberty, of justice — what is required for the unimpeded action of 
 conscience — what constitutes true marriage, and the scope of a 
 manly education. He is one of the Fathers of this Age, of that 
 new Idea which agitates the sleep of Europe, and of which America, 
 if awake to the design of Heaven and her own duty, would become 
 the principal exponent. But the Father is still far beyond the un- 
 derstanding of his child. 
 
 " His ideas of marriage, as expressed in the treatises on Divorce, 
 are high and pure. He aims at a marriage of souls. If he incline 
 too much to the prerogative of his own sex, it was from that man- 
 nishness, almost the same with boorishness, that is evident in men 
 of the greatest and richest natures, who have never known the re- 
 fining influence of happy, mutual love, as the best women evince 
 narrowness and poverty under the same privation. In every line 
 we see how much Milton required the benefit of ' the thousand de- 
 cencies that daily flow ' from such a relation, and how greatly he 
 
S. MARGARET FULLER. 303 
 
 would have been a gainer by it, both as man and as genius. In 
 his mind lay originally the fairest ideal of woman ; to see it real- 
 ized would have 'finished his education.' His commonwealth 
 could only have grown from the perfecting of individual men. 
 The private means to such an end he rather hints than states in the 
 short essay to Education. They are such as we are gradually 
 learning to prize. Healthful diet, varied bodily exercises, to which 
 we no longer need give the martial aim he proposed, fit the mind 
 for studies which are by him arranged in a large, plastic, and natu- 
 ral method." 
 
 Milton's doctrine of marriage has too often been confounded 
 with the special pleading of his " Treatise on Divorce :" not but 
 in time there is little doubt that all the world will have come 
 to his conclusions even on that subject. 
 
 We have the highest authority for believing that "man was 
 not made for the Sabbath, but the Sabbath for man ;" and even 
 do we believe that marriage was instituted to conduce to 
 human happiness, and not to prove a principle, or an abstract 
 right. 
 
 It has been said that the laws regulating the union of the sexes 
 are the result of six thousand years' experience, and should not 
 be lightly tampered with. This argument can be made to 
 answer every effort to improve the condition of the human 
 family. 
 
 After all, these questions must be decided by fresh discoveries, 
 which are constantly breaking upon us, just as our physical 
 nature is being regulated by new facts in surgery and chemis- 
 try. There is a science in one case as indisputable as in the 
 other, and the ethics of a hundred years ago is now obsolete. 
 
304 S. MAEGASET FULLER. 
 
 The more mankind is venerated, the less will be the respect 
 shown to the " outworn creeds" of the dark ages. The masses 
 respect a venerable blunder more than they do the most bril- 
 liant discovery of modern times. 
 
 That Miss Fuller has Ml faith in the future is very evident 
 from every page of her writings ; she is not a mere echo of the 
 prevalent opinion, but has a bold independent voice of her own, 
 filled with her own thought. 
 
 "What she says of Coleridge is very true, and expresses the 
 opinion of many of the deepest thinkers of England. 
 
 " Give Coleridge a canvas, and he will paint a single mood as if 
 his colors were made of the mind's own atoms. Here he is very 
 unlike Southey. There is nothing of the spectator about Cole- 
 ridge ; he is all life ; not impassioned, not vehement, but searching, 
 intellectual life, which seems * listening through the frame ' to its 
 own pulses. 
 
 " I have little more to say at present except to express a great, 
 though not fanatical veneration for Coleridge, and a conviction that 
 the benefits conferred by him on this and future ages are as yet 
 incalculable. Every mind will praise him for what it can best 
 receive from him. He can suggest to an infinite degree ; he can 
 inform, but he cannot reform and renovate. To the unprepared he 
 is nothing ; to the prepared, everything. Of him may be said what 
 he said of nature : 
 
 ' We receive but what we give, 
 In kind though not in measure.' 
 
 "I was once requested, by a very sensible and excellent personage, 
 to explain what is meant by 'Christabel' and 'The Ancient 
 Mariner.' I declined the task. I had not then seen Coleridge's 
 
S. MARGARET FULLER. 305 
 
 answer to a question of similar tenor from Mrs. Barbauld, or I 
 should have referred to that as an expression, not altogether unin- 
 telligible, of the discrepancy which must exist between those minds 
 which are commonly styled rational (as the received definition of 
 common sense is insensibility to uncommon sense), and that of 
 Coleridge. As to myself, if I understand nothing beyond the 
 execution of those 'singularly wild and original poems,' I could 
 not tell my gratitude for the degree of refinement which Taste has 
 received from them. To those who cannot understand the voice 
 of Nature or Poetry, unless it speak in apothegms, and tag each 
 story with a moral, I have nothing to say. My own greatest obli- 
 gation to Coleridge I have already mentioned. It is for his sug- 
 gestive power that I thank him." 
 
 We are glad to have so true-hearted a woman as Margaret 
 Fuller confirming the opinion on the drama we have expressed 
 in both this volume and our previous one on the " Living 
 Authors of England. 1 ' 
 
 " The drama cannot die out : it is too naturally born of certain 
 periods of national development. It is a stream that will sink in 
 one place, only to rise to light in another. As it has appeared suc- 
 cessively in Hindostan, Greece (Rome we cannot count), England, 
 Spain, France, Italy, Germany, so has it yet to appear in New Hol- 
 land, New Zealand, among ourselves, when we too shall be made 
 new by a sunrise of our own, when our population shall have set- 
 tled into a homogeneous, national life, and we have attained vigor 
 to walk in our own way, make our own world, and leave off copy- 
 ing Europe. 
 
 "At present our attempts are, for the most part, feebler than 
 those of the British 'After Muse,' for our play-wrights are not 
 from youth so fancy-fed by the crumbs that fall from the tables of 
 
306 
 
 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 the lords of literature, and having no relish for the berries of our 
 own woods, the roots of our own fields, they are meagre, and their 
 works bodiless ; yet, as they are pupils of the British school, their 
 works need not be classed apart, and I shall mention one or two of 
 the most note-worthy by-and-by." 
 
 But it is not alone in a critical light that she shows her 
 clear instinct ; it is also in matters of feeling. How noble and 
 how womanly is her breaking out into the following eulogium 
 on Browning's female creations ! 
 
 " We bless the poet for these pictures of women, which, however 
 the common tone of society, by the grossness and levity of the 
 remarks bandied from tongue to tongue, would seem to say the 
 contrary, declare there is still in the breasts of men a capacity for 
 pure and exalting passion, — for immortal tenderness." 
 
 And how true is her reference to the old crime of "Hero- 
 Murder." 
 
 " But the shrewd, worldly spy, the supplanted rival, the woman 
 who was guilty of that lowest baseness of wishing to make of a 
 lover the tool of her purposes, all grow better by seeing the action 
 of this noble creature under the crucifixion they have prepared for 
 him; especially the feelings of the rival, who learns from his 
 remorse to understand genius and magnanimity, are admirably de- 
 picted. Such repentance always comes too late for one injured ; 
 men kill him first, then grow wiser and mourn ; this dreadful and 
 frequent tragedy is shown in Luria's case with its full weight of 
 dark significance, spanned by the rainbow beauty that springs from 
 the perception of truth and nobleness in the victim." 
 
 In her remarks on American Literature we heartily coincide, 
 
S. MARGARET FULLER. 307 
 
 so fur as they are general ; with respect to her estimate of some 
 of its authors we very much differ. 
 
 " For it does not follow because many books are written by per- 
 sons born in America that there exists an American literature. 
 Books which imitate or represent the thoughts and life of Europe, 
 do not constitute an American literature. Before such can exist, an 
 original idea must animate this nation, and fresh currents of life 
 must call into life fresh thoughts along its shores." 
 
 The first step towards the cure of a disease is to be aware of 
 its existence. In like manner the want is known, let the public 
 encourage those who can supply it. 
 
 The injurious tendency of any nation depending upon another 
 for its reading is evident, more especially when the reading 
 nation is a republic, and the author nation a monarchy. 
 
 " Yet there is, often, between child and parent, a reaction from 
 excessive influence having been exerted, and such an one we have 
 experienced, in behalf of our country, against England. We use 
 her language, and receive, in torrents, the influence of her thought, 
 yet it is, in many respects, uncongenial and injurious to our consti- 
 tution. What suits Great Britain, with her insular position and 
 consequent need to concentrate and intensify her life, her limited 
 monarchy, and spirit of trade, does not suit a mixed race, continually 
 enriched with new blood from other stocks the most unlike that of 
 our first descent, with ample field and verge enough to range in 
 and leave every impulse free, and abundant opportunity to develope 
 a genius, wide and full as our rivers, flowery, luxuriant, and impas- 
 sioned as our vast prairies, rooted in strength as the rocks on which 
 the Puritan fathers landed." 
 
 We have been much struck with the manner in which Miss 
 
308 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 Fuller, in a few lines, throws off a sketch of an author. They 
 have all some prominent features which speak a likeness. 
 
 How seldom does a critic write so justly of a contemporary as 
 we have here before us. 
 
 " R. W. Emerson, in melody, in subtle beauty of thought and 
 expression, takes the highest rank upon this list. But his poems 
 are mostly philosophical, which is not the truest kind of poetry. 
 They want the simple force of nature and passion, and, while they 
 charm the ear and interest the mind, fail to wake far-off echoes in 
 the heart. The imagery wears a symbolical air, and serves rather 
 as illustration, than to delight us by fresh and glowing forms of 
 life." 
 
 We regret that our fair critic was not more generous in her 
 estimation of Lowell. We hope to be able in our next volume, 
 the second series of American authors, to give a reason for our 
 faith as regards Mr. Lowell, which is totally at variance with 
 Miss Fuller. 
 
 We dismiss these desultory remarks on American literature 
 with the following passage from her writings : 
 
 " That day will not rise till the fusion of races among us is more 
 complete. It will not rise till this nation shall attain sufficient 
 moral and intellectual dignity to prize moral and intellectual, no 
 less highly than political freedom ; not till the physical resources of 
 the country being explored, all its regions studded with towns, 
 broken by the plough, netted together by railways and telegraph 
 lines, talent shall be left at leisure to turn its energies upon the 
 higher department of man's existence. Nor then shall it be seen, 
 till from the leisurely and yearning soul of that riper time national 
 
8. MARGARET FULLER. 309 
 
 ideas shall take birth, ideas craving to be clothed in a thousand 
 fresh and original forms. 
 
 " Without such ideas all attempts to construct a national litera- 
 ture must end in abortions like the monster of Frankenstein, 
 things with forms, and the instincts of forms, but soulless, and 
 therefore revolting. We cannot have expression till there is 
 something to be expressed. 
 
 " The symptoms of such a birth may be seen in a longing felt 
 here and there for the sustenance of such ideas. At present, it 
 shows itself, where felt, in sympathy with the prevalent tone of so- 
 ciety, by attempts at external action, such as are classed under the 
 head of social reform. But it needs to go deeper, before we can 
 have poets ; needs to penetrate beneath the springs of action, to stir 
 and remake the soil as by the action of fire. 
 
 "Another symptom is the need felt by individuals of being even 
 sternly sincere. This is the one great means by which alone pro- 
 gress can be essentially furthered. This is the nursing mother of 
 genius. No man can be absolutely true to himself, eschewing 
 cant, compromise, servile imitation, and complaisance, without be- 
 coming original, for there is in every creature a fountain of life 
 which, if not choked back by stones and other dead rubbish, will 
 create a fresh atmosphere, and bring to life fresh beauty. And it 
 is the same with the nation as with the individual man." 
 
 Our readers cannot fail noticing the clearness of our fair 
 critic's style : there is no useless ornament ; it is transparent 
 prose, which deveiopes the subject clearly in all its proportions. 
 
 We have, however, seen in her " Summer on the Lakes " 
 that when her subject demands a more glowing style she is 
 fully equal to the occasion. 
 
 One of the most charming compositions we have read for a 
 
310 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 long time is that entitled " The Two Herberts." It is, however, 
 of a kind which demands the justice of a full perusal ; we 
 therefore offer only one extract, affording proof of Miss Fuller's 
 interest in the old country and its noble cavaliers. 
 
 " The two forms were faithful expressions of their several lives. 
 There was a family likeness between them, for they shared in that 
 beauty of the noble English blood, of which, in these days, few 
 types remain : the Norman tempered by the Saxon, the fire of con- 
 quest by integrity, and a self-contained, inflexible habit of mind. 
 In the time of the Sydneys and Russell s, the English body was a 
 strong and nobly-proportioned vase, in which shone a steady and 
 powerful, if not brilliant light. 
 
 " The chains of convention, an external life grown out of propor- 
 tion with that of the heart and mind, have destroyed, for the most 
 part, this dignified beauty. There is no longer, in fact, an aristo- 
 cracy in England, because the saplings are too puny to represent 
 the old oak. But that it once existed, and did stand for what is 
 best in that nation, any collection of portraits from the sixteenth 
 century will show." 
 
 We must venture to differ from her decision when she gives 
 to Walter Scott a " strong imagination." We are inclined to 
 consider his characteristics as great invention, constructiveness, 
 and objectivity of dialogues. Invention is the mechanical part 
 of imagination. Imagination includes invention, just as the 
 idea of a living man takes in the physical as the vehicle of the 
 spiritual. We feel inclined to say that invention is to imagi- 
 nation what prose is to poetry. We are almost ashamed to 
 quote one author so often to help out our own short-comings of 
 description, but Shakspeare is the most perfect type of imagina- 
 
S. MARGARET DULLER. 311 
 
 tion, and Scott of invention. The one is the king of the first 
 class of intellect ; the other the indisputable head of the second 
 class. We venture to say, the more this position is examined 
 the more it will be acknowledged. 
 
 In Shakspeare's writings it will be seen that his characters, 
 whether they be Hamlet, Bottom, Macbeth, or Slender, are 
 always the very head of their class, the very poetry of their na- 
 ture, viz. the highest individualization possible to reach. This 
 intensity, without an overstraining or even apparent effort, is 
 undoubtedly the reason why every day spreads wider the 
 renown of the great dramatist : it is like a circle ever extend- 
 ing. It is also a singular coincidence with nature herself, 
 whose productions, whether a star, a flower, a drop of water, or 
 an animalcule, challenge the most elaborate and microscopical 
 examination. 
 
 We do not, however, quarrel with Miss Fuller for her con- 
 founding invention with imagination ; we merely point it out as 
 a simple difference of opinion, and leave the public to decide 
 the point. 
 
 Miss Fuller's poetry partakes of her independent nature, and 
 offers a remarkable contrast to that sickly and insipid verse which 
 has of late years inundated the reading world. 
 
 In the following specimen we have an earnest of that clear- 
 ness of thought and justness of diction so rare in poetry, and 
 more especially in the productions of female writers. 
 
 " Farewell, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes ! 
 Ye fairy distances, ye lordly woods, 
 Haunted by paths like those that Poussin knew, 
 When after his all gazers' eyes he drew : 
 
312 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 I go, — and if I never more may steep 
 
 An eager heart in your enchantments deep, 
 
 Yet ever to itself that heart may say, 
 
 Be not exacting ; thou hast lived one day ; 
 
 Hast looked on that which matches with thy mood, 
 
 Impassioned sweetness of full being's flood, 
 
 Where nothing checked the bold yet gentle wave, 
 
 Where naught repelled the lavish love that gave. 
 
 A tender blessing lingers o'er the scene, 
 
 Like some young mother's thought, fond, yet serene, 
 
 And through its life new-born our lives have been. 
 
 Once more farewell, — a sad, a sweet farewell ; 
 
 And, if I never must behold you more, 
 
 In other worlds I will not cease to tell 
 
 The rosary I here have numbered o'er ; 
 
 And bright-haired Hope will lend a gladdened ear, 
 
 And love will free him from the grasp of Fear, 
 
 And Gorgon critics, while the tale they hear, 
 
 Shall dew their stony glances with a tear, 
 
 If I but catch one echo from your spell ; — 
 
 And so farewell, — a grateful, sad farewell !" 
 
 There is no attempt at grandiloquence in these verses ; most of 
 those we have read on the same theme are written too much in the 
 " Ercles vein." Poets produce greater effect by simplicity than 
 by those turgid words which are too frequently mistaken for 
 fine poetry. 
 
 For a great author Coleridge has sinned most against this 
 law in his " religious musings," and even in that magnificent 
 anthem to Chamouni, beginning 
 
 " Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star, 
 So long thou seemest to pause," &c. 
 
S. MARGARET FULLER. 3.13 
 
 There are many phrases which trench upon good taste, and 
 overstep the modesty of Nature. It is easy to perceive when a 
 poet's heart is not in his subject, by the number of gaudy 
 epithets and elaborate metaphors ; the effect of one is a certain 
 proof of the absence of the other. 
 
 Great effects are frequently produced by the simplest words. 
 Who can refrain from admiring the vividness of this image 
 from Watts's Hymns ? 
 
 " For Satan trembles when he sees 
 The weakest sinner on his knees !" 
 
 This has always appeared to us as suggestive as any two lines 
 ever written. The cowering of the grand monarch of abstract evil 
 before a penitent is a noble image. The very attitude of humilia- 
 tion to God being the overtowering defiance of the great enemy ! 
 
 Of a similar class of condensed suggestiveness is the line in 
 Green's Poem of the Spleen. Alluding to the efficacy to exer- 
 cise in that complaint, the Poet says, 
 
 " Throw but a stone the Giant dies !" 
 
 A finer allusion to the combat between David and Goliah has 
 never been made. Our recollection suggests another piece of 
 the bold sculpture of Thought, by a few dashes of the chisel. 
 It is from Collins's " Ode to Fear." 
 
 " Danger, whose limbs of giant mould, 
 
 What mortal eye can fixed behold % 
 
 Who stalks his round, a hideous form, 
 
 Howling amidst the midnight storm, 
 
 Or throws him on the ridgy steep 
 I Of some loose hanging rock to sleep /'* 
 
814 S. MARGARET FULLER, 
 
 It is needless to comment on the two last lines ; there is a 
 world of fear in the simple attitude. 
 
 We must give one more instance of the felicitous power of a 
 few words, naturally placed, to produce a great idea. Alluding 
 to the fate of Richard the Second, who was starved to death, 
 Gray says : — 
 
 " Close hy the regal chair 
 Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 
 A baleful smile upon their baffled guest." 
 
 Our space will not allow us to analyse " The Women of the 
 Nineteenth Century." It is the less necessary, as it displays the 
 same characteristics as Miss Fuller's other writings. 
 
 It is an additional evidence of her freshness of mind, and 
 fearlessness of testifying to the truth, as it appears to her. 
 However unpalatable and strange the opinions she advocates 
 now appear, we feel pretty certain every year will bring the 
 world nearer to their recognition, and the wonder then will be 
 how any rational being could have doubted them. 
 
 We should not be giving a complete portrait of Miss Fuller 
 if we were to omit noticing her capabilities as a traveller, and 
 an observant visitor of foreign lands ; in this respect her letters 
 to the " Tribune" are admirable specimens of observation. We 
 were much amused at the humorous hints she occasionally 
 throws out on the distribution of labor between the sexes. 
 Lamb had the same notion that mankind never could pretend 
 to any " gallantry," so long as they allowed the housemaids to 
 do all the work. Miss fuller seems inclined to turn the lords 
 of creation into washerwomen. 
 
S. MARGARET FULLER. 315 
 
 " The Reform Club was the only one of those splendid estab- 
 lishments that I visited. Certainly the force of comfort can no 
 further go, nor can anything be better contrived to make dressing, 
 eating, news-getting, and even sleeping (for there are bed-rooms as 
 well as dressing-rooms for those who will), be got through with as 
 glibly as possible. Yet to me this palace of so many ' single gen- 
 tlemen rolled into one,' seemed stupidly comfortable in the absence 
 of that elegant arrangement and vivacious atmosphere which only 
 Women can inspire. In the kitchen, indeed, I met them, and on 
 that account it seemed the pleasantest part of the building — though, 
 even there they are but the servants of servants. There reigned 
 supreme a genius in his way, who has published a work on Cookery, 
 and around him his pupils — young men who pay a handsome yearly 
 fee for novitiate under his instruction. I am not sorry, however, to 
 see men predominant in the cooking department, as I hope to see 
 that and washing transferred to their care in the progress of things, 
 since they are ' the stronger sex.' 
 
 " The arrangements of this kitchen were very fine, combining 
 great convenience with neatness, and even elegance. Fourier him- 
 self might have taken pleasure in them. Thence we passed into 
 the private apartments of the artist, and found them full of pictures 
 by his wife, an artist in another walk. One or two of them had 
 been engraved. She was an Englishwoman. 
 
 " We also get a glimpse, returning from a John Gilpin pilgrimage 
 to Edmonton, of the residence of the German poet Freiligrath. 
 
 " ' Returning, we passed the house where Freiligrath finds a 
 temporary home, earning the bread of himself and his family in a 
 commercial house. England houses the exile, but not without 
 house-tax, window-tax, and head-tax. Where is the Arcadia that 
 dares invite all genius to her arms, and change her golden wheat 
 for their green laurels and immortal flowers ? Arcadia — would the 
 name were America !' " 
 
316 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 Whenever a man of genius speaks to the public, in propor- 
 tion as he is true to his own nature he must offend theirs. It 
 is not possible to serve God and mammon : equally impossible 
 is it to preach against the prevalence of error, and not to rouse 
 the priests of Baal, and their crowds of believers. This has 
 been the history of the human mind. As the poet says : 
 
 " The truth for which some great-souled martyr died 
 In the past age, burned and crucified, 
 Becomes in time the bigot's sacred creed, 
 And bids in turn the future doubter bleed !" 
 
 Any book that rouses no discussion is needless ; it is in fact 
 an impertinence. Why stop the public in Broadway to tell 
 them what they know, or echo some old opinion ? 
 
 It is evidently the wish of Miss Fuller to join issue with the 
 common-place, and to speak out her own nature firmly, though 
 with a becoming deference to the old worn-out creeds of hu- 
 manity. It is a striking proof of the blindness of the world, 
 that, although it owes every blessing to those men who boldly 
 in bygone times spoke out new opinions, it nevertheless pre- 
 cisely imitates the conduct of those persecutors, whom they are 
 in the constant habit of branding as bigoted and sanguinary 
 fiends. Do these shortsighted human bats never reflect that in 
 a few years their own children will be compelled to regard 
 them in the same odious light ? Let the public reflect ere they 
 draw down the anathema of posterity. 
 
 These remarks have been forced from us by the charge we 
 have heard brought against our gifted authoress of being a 
 socialist and a sceptic ! Of all egotisms that which denies to an- 
 
8. MARGARET FULLER. 317 
 
 other the right of forming and holding an opinion either in 
 morals, politics, religion, or taste, is the most ignorant and dia- 
 bolical. Were it not for the fatal effects of such arrogance, it 
 would be too ludicrous for anything save contempt ; but it un- 
 fortunately happens that the innate love of cruelty which so 
 marks man from the rest of the brute creation, is enabled, by 
 appealing to this egotism, to select some of the noblest of God's 
 creatures for victims. Man is cruel by nature ; it is reflection 
 that modifies him into humanity. A modern poet, in some 
 verses, has made a parallel between a cruel boy and the 
 grown-up world. Alluding to the favorite pastime of youth to 
 impale an insect on a pin, and then enjoy its flutterings, he 
 says : 
 
 " 1 hardly know, dear reader, which is safer, 
 To be a genius or a cockchafer !" 
 
 The slightest reflection must convince the most bigoted per- 
 son that it is the height of profanity and danger to deny to any 
 man his birthright of thought. In the first place, who gave 
 the bigot a patent to act the Omniscient on earth ? He is as 
 likely to be wrong as his fellow-man ! For every one is 
 equally certain that he is right ! It is dangerous, for the bigot 
 becomes responsible for the faith of the man he coerces ! It is 
 profane, because the bigot usurps the throne of God, to whom 
 we are alone responsible for our conscience ! We shall not 
 dwell on this point, for those who refuse assent to the first arti- 
 cle of freedom, will not be persuaded though " one rise from 
 the dead !" We cannot, however, help one closing remark 
 that of all nations the American ought to be the most tolerant 
 
 U 
 
318 S. MARGARET FULLER. 
 
 since it owes its existence to those noble-minded men who fled 
 from persecution to find freedom and toleration in the New 
 World ; and who, in after years, when tyranny followed them 
 to their new home, went forth to battle, and with the pebble of 
 Truth in the sling of Freedom laid low at their feet the giant 
 Goliah of the world. 
 
 We conclude our notice of Miss Fuller by confessing that she 
 is one of those few authors who have written too little. We 
 hope to read more of her prose, so thoughtful and vigorous ; 
 and of her poetry, at once so graceful, yet so strong and simple. 
 
 We regret that the scope of this volume will not allow us to 
 consider her as a politician. In this character, however, she is 
 familiar to all those who read the " Tribune " — a journal 
 which has of late sullied its high reputation for dignity and for- 
 bearance by indulging in personal attacks, and suffering itself to 
 be converted from a great organ of truth to a vehicle of indi- 
 vidual malignity. 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 319 
 
 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 America has produced few women superior to the authoress 
 of "Western Clearings," "A New Home, Who'll Follow?" 
 " Forest Life," and " Holidays Abroad." There is a clear, bright 
 intellect displayed in her writings generally, which inevitably 
 compels us to respect her conclusions, however much we may 
 differ from them. This we do in many points, and in some to 
 a great extent. 
 
 We shall commence with her last work, " Holidays Abroad," 
 and present to our readers those parts which seem to illustrate 
 most pointedly those peculiarities which constitute the indivi- 
 duality of Mrs. Kirkland. 
 
 Nature seems to possess the faculty of the kaleidoscope in 
 never producing the same aspect twice. However much men 
 and women may appear to resemble each other, the difference 
 is as distinct as though they belonged to separate races. This 
 is a conclusive reason why a man of intellect never despises the 
 lowest of his fellow creatures. Every one is an undiscovered 
 world, infinitely more wonderful than a new planet. When we 
 remember into how few elements human nature is resolved, the 
 imagination is not capable of realizing the countless variety of 
 
320 MRS. C. Mo KIRK LAND. 
 
 individuals produced by a different combination of the pas- 
 sions. We may illustrate this in a faint degree by observing 
 that out of twenty-five letters Shakspeare and the poets have 
 produced all those marvellous creations which constitute the 
 realm of thought. 
 
 When we take into account the variety of human passions, 
 the senses, the modifications of climate, the different ages of 
 the world, the disturbing influences of creeds, whether of religion, 
 politics, or taste, and then multiply all these by the countless 
 accidents of circumstances, we shall find a numerous alphabet 
 of creative facts and elements, out of which nature can form 
 that great dictionary of men — the human race — that wonder- 
 ful language of which every word is a living and immortal 
 being. 
 
 We met with some verses lately in a manuscript poem, which 
 reverse this illustration. Without vouching for the philosophy 
 they embody, we quote them : 
 
 " 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,' this knells 
 The common lot ; but it is ink to ink, 
 Paper to paper, pen to pen, which tells 
 
 The fate of those who sing, and those who think. 
 The poet moulders into syllables, 
 And from his tomb of Russia, silk, or calf, 
 Still makes all human nature weep or laugh." 
 
 Mrs. Kirkland is one of the few travellers who have avoided 
 the old stereotyped plan of diluting the " Guide Book," and 
 plagiarizing the " Catalogues of Art." In her preface she says : 
 " I was obliged to make a compromise with modesty, by secretly 
 vowing to resist all temptations to put anything in my book 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 321 
 
 which could be suspected of an intent to convey information, 
 properly so called ! A faithful reading of Murray's Guide 
 Books will give more of that than one can use." 
 
 This is the avowal of a woman of a superior intellect, a 
 scorner of the commonplace ; and it is infinitely preferable to 
 have the impressions left on such a mind by the new aspects 
 continually presented to her by foreign countries, than a tedious 
 detail of the statistics of the places she has visited. 
 
 Our fair traveller's enthusiasm is very creditable to her feel- 
 ings, but we are too frequently reminded by the largeness of 
 her admiration, that she is expressing her astonishment rather 
 than her critical opinion. 
 
 She is certainly one of the warmest admirers of England that 
 it has been our fortune to meet. How truly the impulsive 
 woman's nature is shown in the following apostrophe! 
 
 " Who shall describe the exquisite delight with which the land is 
 welcomed at the termination of a first voyage across the ocean ! 
 To see mere earth, though it were but a handful, enough to smell 
 and to feel, were something ! but to see land, and know that it is 
 the land towards which your curiosity, gratitude, and affections, 
 your nursery songs, your school stories, your academic education, 
 your studies in history, your whole literary experience, have been 
 directing and drawing you from your cradle ; to see before you the 
 shores of ' merry England,' the country of Alfred, and old Canute, 
 and Robin Hood, and Mother Goose — the land whose Christmas 
 and Twelfth-night revels Washington Irving made so unspeakably 
 fascinating to our imagination — the land of Shakspeare, and of 
 Shakspeare's creatures — the only Englishmen of the ages gone as 
 much alive now as they ever were ; England ! the country to which 
 appertain the glorious ages of Anne and Elizabeth, and the splendid 
 
322 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 names that are blazing round those queens, and lending them a 
 more substantial royalty in the imaginations of men, than they ever 
 exercised in their own right; England! the OZd-country, the 
 Mother-country — land of our fathers — fountain of our liberties — 
 source of our laws ; from whose full bosom we have not ceased to 
 draw the milk of gentle letters, though we spurned her maternal 
 claim to rule us ; England ! the home of the noblest race earth has 
 ever borne ; the scene of a civilization without a parallel since time 
 was. What educated American can first see the coast of England, 
 without such a thrill as life is too short, and the heart too narrow, 
 to afford many as keen, and deep, and universal !" 
 
 After the discomforts of a sea voyage we can well understand 
 the exaggeration of sentimental feeling which the sight of land 
 must raise, but Mrs. Kirkland's philosophy or good sense ought 
 to save her from presenting this magnified appearance as a 
 reality. Admiration and enthusiasm are fearful microscopes ! 
 
 She possesses the power of presenting in a few words those 
 mental sensations which so many have felt, but so few have 
 well expressed. How truly she observes — " When we stop at 
 Chester, we seem to have plunged at once into some crypt, so 
 subterranean do its dark streets appear after the riant freshness 
 of the country !" 
 
 To an American fresh from, the right-angular streets of 
 Philadelphia and New York, we doubt not the queer, old, tum- 
 ble-down gabled houses of an old country town appeared 
 strange. We are, however, somewhat amused at her consider- 
 ing them the Father of Komance. There is a romance to 
 every age, and it springs from the mind and not from the mat- 
 ter ; from men's hearts and not from their houses. In a hun- 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 323 
 
 dred years our posterity will doubtless smile at the romantic 
 chivalry of the nineteenth century, although it would now 
 puzzle the shrewdest observer of human nature to find anything 
 resembling it, according to the present standard. Railway 
 speculations in a few centuries may be considered in the same 
 light as the Crusades are now, and an act of generosity may be 
 put on a parallel with the heroism of Curtius, who fell into 
 a common sewer, or of Mucius Scaevola, who burned his 
 fingers at King Porsenna's fire. Many antiquated persons 
 groan over the alleged decay of romance and poetry. They 
 would have done the same had they been living in the days of 
 Sesostris, Alexander the Great, Robin Hood, Tom Thumb, or 
 any other Gogs and Magogs of the shadowy and fictitious 
 past. If these admirers of the antediluvian would walk face 
 foremost, and use their eyes, instead of turning their backs upon 
 the future, like Moses on Pisgah, looking on the wilderness 
 instead of towards the promised land, they would see there was 
 more romance in a steam-engine and more poetry in a railway 
 than either in a warrior on his charger, clad in complete steel, 
 or in a bower full of ladies, listening to some young vagabond 
 of a troubadour. Every age grows more and more poetical and 
 romantic, until we shall reach the perfection of both in the 
 world to come. "We hope this assurance will comfort Mrs. 
 Kirkiand, and its realization make amends for the inevitable 
 demolition of the tumble-down houses of Chester. We will 
 let her speak for herself. 
 
 " As you walk the streets you see how Romance was born in 
 England. Instead of great staring rows of houses, in the plan of 
 whose fronts all shadow is excluded as if it were death, we have 
 
324 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 here upper stories projecting over the street, or in default of these, 
 deep recesses with only a railing in front, where the family appear 
 at their various occupations of business or pleasure — mothers get- 
 ting their children ready for school, maids sweeping and dusting, 
 and the like. It is as if the whole second story were drawn back 
 some ten or twelve feet, leaving a shaded parlor without a front, — 
 an arrangement so contrary to the modern exclusiveness which 
 prompts a blank white linen curtain to protect even the backs of the 
 chairs from the view of the passers-by, that we felt it to be symbo- 
 lical of older and freer and more natural times. Some of the 
 people we saw in these recesses were fit for pictures ; and one old 
 lady whom we observed as she appeared to be dismissing her grand- 
 son on an errand with many cautions, looked and moved just as 
 people do on the stage, in character, when they desire to seem old 
 and quaint. Indeed we see now where the old style of stage- 
 dresses came from — they were faithful transcripts of real life in 
 England. We had supposed the monstrous cap-border surmounted 
 by a red bow, the gown tucked up to the waist, the flounced apron, 
 the short sleeves and coarse black mitts, the length of black ankle, and 
 the high-heeled shoe, were only the ideal of an old English woman 
 of the lower class ; we find them here on the very woman herself, 
 as she moves about in every-day life. The picturesque in costume 
 is so completely unknown in our country, where society is maca- 
 damized, as it were, that the peculiarities and individualities of 
 English outer life form a perpetual source of amusement and inte- 
 rest for us, especially in these older country towns. Every man, 
 woman, and child, seems to dress without the least reference to any- 
 body else, wearing exactly what taste or convenience may dictate. 
 We are inclined to hope it may be long before the roller of fashion 
 passes over them, crushing all this variety, till daily life resembles a 
 huge skating-pond, whose only inequality of surface consists in the 
 flourishes cut by a few expert skaters." 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 325 
 
 She abounds with little bits of " word-painting " which are very- 
 felicitous. She says, " We asked for a fire, and after some time 
 were served with a smoke." A little further on Mrs. Kirkland 
 makes an admission which lets us into the foundation of her 
 romance. Breakfast, it appears, is a primary element therein : 
 
 " But a Coventry breakfast is soon dispatched, so we made our 
 way to the railway station in good time, scarcely waiting to admire 
 the really pretty old town as we passed. It is wonderful indeed 
 that a bad breakfast can so starve out one's romance ; but all we 
 shall remember of Coventry will be our many resolutions of never 
 sending any of our friends there." 
 
 One of the peculiarities in the American people which most 
 surprises an Englishman on first coming among them, is their 
 perfect familiarity with all the idioms and local allusions of the 
 old country ; their intimate acquaintance also with their poli- 
 tics shows an infinite superiority of knowledge in the masses 
 over the English people. They may not possibly have so many 
 profound scholars, but for the diffusion of practical learning 
 there is no comparison between the two countries. Mrs. Kirk- 
 land, in the conclusion to the above quotation, turns her 
 knowledge of old English proverbs to good account. 
 
 In the next page our traveller allows, despite her admiration 
 of the shell of romance, viz. the tumble down houses of Ches- 
 ter — "Any attempt to reproduce the outward semblance of 
 that grand old style, when the spirit from which it emanated 
 has departed, has a would-be air, false and heartless : no nearer 
 to true dignity than the Chinese villa of the cit, or the paste- 
 diamonds of the soubrette !" 
 
 14* 
 
326 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 She has a true artist's feeling of the poetical suggestiveness 
 of a natural ruin, when she says : 
 
 " Kenilworth is all the better and more satisfactory view, from 
 there being so little of it, comparatively. There are just land- 
 marks enough to serve the purpose of fancy. As everything is 
 better conveyed or expressed by means of the inherent poetry or 
 philosophy of it, so is the Kenilworth of Elizabeth's days more 
 completely restored to us by these few remaining towers and 
 walls, than it could have been if every battlement were standing 
 unbroken ; as witness that one beautiful gate-tower so nicely fitted 
 up and made perfect, which excites so little feeling in the observer. 
 Dilapidation is in truth a voucher for the reasonableness of our in- 
 terest. A ruin mended up is a vexatious impertinence, in spite of 
 all we may say of the piety of the thing. Who likes to look upon 
 rouge and brown curls on the octogenarian V 
 
 And her eye for artificial scenery is displayed when she 
 
 " English landscape has a minutely-finished look ; it lacks gran- 
 deur ; its features are delicate, and the impression left is that of 
 softness and gentle beauty. The grass grows to the very rim of 
 the water, like carpet to a rich drawing-room, which must not be- 
 tray an inch of unadorned floor. The fields are rolled to a per- 
 fect smoothness; the hedges look as if they had no use but 
 beauty ; the trees and multitudinous vines have a draperied air, and 
 strike the eye rather as part of the charming whole than as pos- 
 sessing an individual interest. We have seen woodlands in the far 
 west that were far more gracefully majestic than any we have yet 
 seen in England ; but we have no such miles of cultured and close- 
 fitted scenery. Nature with us throws on her clothes negligently, 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 32*7 
 
 confident in beauty ; in England she has evidently looked in the 
 glass until not a curl strays from its fillet, not a dimple is un- 
 schooled. She is mise a quatre epingles, as the French milliners 
 say ; but how lovely !" 
 
 We purposely say " artificial scenery," for, with a few excep- 
 tions, there is scarcely a bit of uncultivated nature in all Eng- 
 land. She has no naked scenery ; it has all been dressed up, 
 put into special attitudes, and grouped so as to form the best 
 possible "tout ensemble." It has no more real nature in it 
 than a garden, to which it is so often compared : like a little 
 woman, she is obliged to make the most of a pretty face and 
 agreeable person, by the elaboration of her toilet, the judicious 
 arrangement of her ornaments, and the elegance of her man- 
 ners. She cannot afford, to have a curl awry or a ribbon mis- 
 placed, while a Patagonian Venus of six feet or so can afford 
 to leave the impression to her stature. 
 
 The common-place feeling which some have for ruins is well 
 illustrated by an incident related by a gentleman who was him- 
 self the happy possessor of one. Having invited some antiqua- 
 rians to inspect it, he told his steward to have all arranged by 
 the day in question. On arriving at the venerable relic of the 
 feudal ages they were astounded by the modernization it had 
 evidently undergone: it was elegantly whitewashed, carpets 
 laid down, chairs and tables placed, and some curtains hung to 
 give a snug air to the sublimity in question. The steward 
 broke the speechless astonishment of the party by saying : 
 "Your Lordship must allow I have much improved their 
 appearance, and made them decent !" 
 
 To return to Mrs. Kirkland. 
 
328 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 There is another feature in her criticism which we admire, 
 and that is her freedom from the cant of classicality, which has 
 had so fatal an influence on art and literature over all the 
 world. We were delighted to meet with the following pas- 
 sage, as it coincides with the opinion of many of the best critics 
 in Europe. 
 
 "The monuments have a modern air, and poor Dr. Johnson 
 looks particularly forlorn, with nothing on hut a sheet, as if he had 
 been called out of bed by the cry of fire. This matter of drapery 
 for statues becomes a subject of incessant question as one walks 
 through these monumental aisles. The wig and buckles of Dr. 
 Johnson would not certainly be very classical ; but he is not Dr. 
 Johnson without them, and we desire nobod) 7 - else as we stand 
 near his grave. The equestrian statue of George III., which the 
 wits say is 
 
 ' a ridiculous thing. 
 All horse-tail and pig-tail, and not an inch of king !' 
 
 is not a whit more ridiculous than the figure of Dr. Johnson in a 
 costume, or non-costume, which would have been odious to him 
 while living. If it was necessary to wind him in a sheet he 
 should have been represented as dead, and so unable to put him- 
 self in more proper trim for sitting to the artist." 
 
 What gives such an interest to the sculptured forms of the 
 old crusaders, as they lie in dim cathedrals, carved in com- 
 plete mail, but the exactness of the resemblance? What 
 should we say of the sculptor of that time had he put them 
 into Roman or Turkish costume ? The artist might with as 
 much propriety change the features as the dress ! One be- 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 329 
 
 longs to the man, the other to the country in which he lived. 
 The combination forms the complete idea of the individual 
 which was to be demonstrated. Looking at the statues of cele- 
 brated men we should define the art of sculpture to be invented 
 for the express purpose of disguising them from the knowledge 
 of posterity, seeing their very contemporaries cannot recognise 
 them. Barbarous as it may sound we must exclaim, Give us 
 the pigtail of George the Third in preference to the toga of 
 Samuel Johnson ! 
 
 We doubt if they would know themselves again if they 
 looked in a glass ; more especially as it sometimes happens 
 that a man who is dressed in a manner unlike his usual style 
 may mistake himself in the glass for some one else. Incre- 
 dible as it may appear, we know this happened to the father of 
 a very popular writer of the low school of literature. 
 
 The gentleman in question volunteered to distribute the 
 playbills on the night of a grand amateur performance, which 
 was given for the benefit of an institution which was drooping 
 for want of funds. While he was busily engaged in his voca- 
 tion, with a huge bundle of the aforesaid prospectuses in his 
 hand, he was accosted by some person connected with the 
 theatre ; turning suddenly round he was astonished by observ- 
 ing that a short, stout gentleman, in an ample white waistcoat, 
 ■was standing before him with the identical bundle of papers in 
 his hand. Thinking the person had taken them from him, he 
 demanded in an angry tone : " What the devil do you mean, sir, 
 by taking those papers from me ?" A narrower inspection con- 
 vinced him he was beginning to quarrel with his own image in 
 a large mirror, which he had not previously observed. Some 
 
330 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 bystanders were heartily amused at this novel method of get- 
 ting up an altercation. 
 
 The stout gentleman in question explains it away by stating 
 that he was very busy, that he had no idea of there being a 
 looking-glass so near, and that seldom dressing in a white 
 waistcoat, he lost for a minute his own identity ; hence the mis- 
 take, which principally turned upon a difference in costume. His 
 friends consider that a few glasses of champagne had more to 
 do with it than the looking-glass. At all events, if it takes 
 so little to prevent a man recognising himself, we may 
 form a faint idea of the small chance our posterity have when 
 they come to look upon us under the almost impenetrable dis- 
 guise of a classical costume. 
 
 While we are on the subject of the Amateur Plays we may 
 as well quote an apropos passage from her book, which seems 
 to countenance the current belief that the author of " Pickwick" 
 was at an early period of his life a strolling player. 
 
 " The amateur plays came off finely. Mark Lemon, Forster of 
 the 'Examiner,' Mr. Dudley Costello, George Cruikshank, and 
 Mrs. Cowden Clarke, and sundry artists, assisted ; but Mr. Dickens 
 was all in all. He toiled incessantly in the cause, and was the 
 only good actor in the company ; for although great correctness of 
 appreciation was evident, the lack of use and of technical knowledge 
 chilled parts of the performance very much." 
 
 The sensitiveness of some actors to any allusion respecting 
 their profession is very remarkable. We were told by a friend 
 who was present, that a tragedian celebrated for his pride and 
 aversion to being considered an actor, was grievously vexed one 
 evening at a dinner party. Seated next to him was a very 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 331 
 
 prosy antiquarian, who, mistaking our Roscius for a clergyman, 
 by the solemnity of his countenance, began a long argument on 
 the " stat nominis umbra" of Junius. After some discussion he 
 quoted the old story of the king sending secretly for Garrick, 
 to request his vigilance in discovering who the great unknown 
 was. " Singular enough" (quoth the antiquarian to the actor) 
 "just as Garrick was about to commence his performance, a 
 note was given to him couched in words like these, and signed 
 Junius : — " So the tyrant has commanded you to find out who 
 I am ! Mark me, vagabond" — at this word the narrator, look- 
 ing solemnly in the other's face, said, " alluding to his profession 
 as an actor, which, by the statutes of England," &c. &c. The 
 ghastly face of the tragedian may well be imagined. 
 
 We gladly quote another morcel of genuine, honest criticism, 
 in her estimate of Jenny Lind. It shows that although our 
 fair writer can be misled by her own feelings, she is determined 
 not to be led captive by a popular cry. 
 
 " London is like a nest of singing-birds just now. Jenny Lind, 
 Alboni, Grisi, and half a dozen more of only less note are trilling and 
 twittering somewhere every night. The ecstatics are reserved for 
 Jenny, whose very faults are exalted to the skies as peculiar, individual 
 excellences. She is a very fascinating little syren, certainly ; and we 
 can hardly blame the young men for falling in love with her graces 
 and prettiness, which so set off and appreciate her sweet singing. 
 But take the singing alone, and as a whole, it is, as an artistic perfor- 
 mance, far inferior to some others ; though in certain tours de force 
 Jenny is unrivalled as yet. When she crosses her arms on her 
 breast, raises her pretty shoulders, fixes her eyes intensely on the 
 audience, and gives forth a sustained note, higher in the clouds than 
 
332 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 human organs could be expected to reach, we confess her power, 
 and assent to all that her warmest admirers insist on. But the 
 quality of her voice is comparatively poor ; it does not compare in 
 roundness and melody with Alboni's or with Castellan's, who has 
 one of the best natural organs I have ever heard ; while in scien- 
 tific training Grisi is infinitely superior. Jenny's reputation is 
 made up of many khids of material, among which the gentle sweet- 
 ness, and real kindness and simplicity of her character, bear their 
 part. She has a pretty place at Brompton, which she calls home ; 
 and one of her neighbors there assured me that she was an angel 
 of goodness. This character, her youth, her pleasant face aud deli- 
 cate appearance, all contribute, probably, to the enthusiasm of the 
 public. Poor Grisi, so long a reigning favorite, is now convicted 
 of the crime of growing old, and sings to scant houses, though she 
 is a good actress, which Jenny will never be. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Alboni is two Jenny Linds rolled into one, for 
 size of body, and power, F and volume of voice. She reminds me 
 a good deal of our old favorite Pico, who was never fully appre- 
 ciated in New York." 
 
 Although we strongly suspect that some person has been 
 hoaxing Mrs. Kirkland with the following story, we cannot helj) 
 quoting it as a good illustration of that instinct wnich tells 
 a crowned head that literature is a dangerous thing to all 
 superstitions, however popular they may be : 
 
 " We were amused to hear that the Queen of England does not 
 like literary people ; that she excludes them as far as possible from 
 the Court ; and, in fact, considers having produced a book as equiva- 
 lent to loss of caste. A person who had by dint of great science and 
 ingenuity perfected a plan by means of which the public interest 
 was essentially benefited, embodied the result of his studies in a 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 333 
 
 book, highly esteemed by the critics and the public. It was pro- 
 posed by a certain lady at Court to present this gentleman, on the 
 strength of his merit ; but the Queen absolutely declined receiving 
 him, because of his literary character. Some one suggested that he 
 had served with honor in the army, upon which ground her Majesty 
 consented to receive him. But the gentleman very properly declined 
 appealing at Court on these terms; so that her Majesty was, after 
 all, the only person presented in the affair. (Somebody says, there 
 is hardly a magistrate that does not commit himself twice as often 
 as he commits any one else.) But the Queen is only proving her 
 legitimacy ; for who ever heard of one of her family as a patron, 
 or even an admirer of literature 1" 
 
 We have the authority of one of the poet's own family for 
 saying that Queen Victoria, the head of the Anglo-Saxon race, 
 had never heard of Wordsworth till he was proposed to her 
 for Poet-Laureate, on the death of Southey. 
 
 If this be really the fact, it seems only fair to infer that Her 
 Majesty has had no education at all, for it evidences so deep an 
 ignorance of other branches of learning, besides Belles-Lettres. 
 It is scarcely possible to read a dozen volumes without some 
 allusion to the great philosophical poet of the day, or else some 
 quotation from his writings. A committee of the House of 
 Lords should be formed to inquire into this point. We recom- 
 mend Lord Brougham to follow up our suggestion. 
 
 Mrs. Kirkland's boldness we have before spoken of in terms 
 of commendation. But what will the female aristocracy of 
 England say to this I 
 
 " With a strong prepossession in favor of English beauty, and a 
 notion that such an occasion as that of the drawing-room would 
 
334 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 afford a fine field for the display of it, we have been disappointed 
 in our search. Very few of the ladies we saw were more than 
 comely ; a large proportion fell behind even that. One beautiful 
 woman there was, whom we were led to suppose to be the Mar- 
 chioness of Douro, though we could not ascertain it. We were 
 told that that lady, daughter-in-law of the Duke of Wellington, 
 and the Duchess of Argyll, daughter of the Duchess of Sutherland, 
 were the only conspicuously-beautiful women about the Court." 
 
 We would advise her not to put herself into the power of the 
 infuriated " graces " of the British nobility. It is said that a 
 profound judge of the female heart was told that two ladies of 
 his acquaintance had quarrelled and abused each other so vio- 
 lently that a reconciliation was deemed hopeless ! " Did they 
 call each other ugly ?" said he. " No," was the reply. " It 's 
 all right — they '11 soon make it up," was the emphatic answer, 
 and it proved so. Mrs. Kirkland has, therefore, no chance of 
 pardon ! We also feel for the Duchess of Sutherland and the 
 Marchioness of Douro ! Conspiracies will be hatched forthwith 
 against their beauty ! Possibly the fact of the Duchess of 
 Sutherland being an extensive grandmother may plead in her 
 behalf, but the lovely young Marchioness is doomed. It is not 
 the first time that the latter has been the cause of a deadly re- 
 port. Her maiden name was Lady Elizabeth Hay. When 
 Lord Douro was courting her the wits said, that, like the Duke 
 of Devonshire, he had got the " Hay Fever !" 
 
 Our readers must hold Mrs. Kirkland responsible for this bit 
 of gossip, for mentioning Lady Douro ! 
 
 The conventional elegance of the woman is sometimes too 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 335 
 
 strong for her kind heart and vigorous common sense, as wit- 
 ness this rhapsody : 
 
 " I can never forget the view in Kensington Gardens, as we stood 
 on one side of the water, and looked far through the ancient groves 
 upon snatches of rich sky beyond. The walks were alive with 
 children and their attendants ; hoys were launching their gay boats 
 upon the water, and watching their progress as the wind wafted 
 the tiny sails here and there. Other boats were there, larger, for 
 they held men ; but still, more like the most delicate of the sea- 
 shells than like boats of mortal mould. Below, Hyde Park was 
 full of elegant equipages and equestrians, as well as throngs of 
 people on foot; and that famous statue of the Duke, which 
 afforded ' Punch ' material for so many good jokes, stood out fair 
 against the sky, overtopping the arched gateway towards Picca- 
 dilly, making, at least to those who associate it with the great 
 events of 1815, no undignified feature in the landscape. Then on 
 every side are palaces, and more parks, and more trees, and more 
 water, and more people. A lovelier or more exciting circle of vi- 
 sion I do not expect to enjoy in this life, though Fate should lead 
 me to the top of the Himmalehs, or to that 'peak of Darien' from 
 which Cortes and his men ' stared at the Pacific !' A sense of the 
 majesty of human life and human ability — of the goodness of God, 
 and the accountability of man — filled my thoughts, and inspired my 
 imagination as I gazed. Not but some painful considerations 
 found place too — not but I was ever conscious of the truth, that 
 much of this splendor is the result of an unjust and oppressive ine- 
 quality of condition, in this land so favored of Heaven. I felt all 
 this ; but the scene as it was made an indelible impression, and I 
 shall ever think of it as a model of what may be done, and, in our 
 own country at least, without any of the attendant evils which 
 
336 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 seem but too pertinaciously to dog the steps of whatever is best 
 and most glorious in England, and especially in London." 
 
 It is not of Kensington Gardens or of the parks, that an 
 American should think when writing of the British Empire ; 
 they are but a small and artificial part. Let them be contrasted 
 with the coal mines of Barnsley, where men and women work 
 naked, and where little children crawl on all-fours, harnessed to 
 cars like the brutes of the fields ; or else with Spitalfields, where 
 the weavers may all pray that God had made them silkworms 
 instead of men-worms ! This is the reverse of the medal, and 
 no writer should dare to give an impression of one side without 
 the likeness of the other. 
 
 Let the Americans thank God heartily for all their blessings, 
 but above all that they have no grandeur so appalling as that 
 of England. While we are in the fault-finding vein with Mrs. 
 Kirkland, let us name that, for a lady of the land of equality, 
 there are occasional ebullitions of an artificial elevation we did 
 not expect to meet with in an American and a republican. 
 We must excuse it on the ground of her having been above a 
 month in the old country. How true it is, " English commu- 
 nication corrupts American manners !" 
 
 " My dislike is to the class, rather than to any particular speci- 
 men of it. My objections relate principally to the disgustingness 
 of such a presence at a time when one would possess one's soul ; 
 the perpetual vicinity of a vulgar mind when the very zest of the 
 moment lies in forgetting all vulgar things ; the ceaseless iteration 
 of threadbare common-places, while the best powers of memory 
 are tasked to call up its most precious hoardings. At first the in- 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 337 
 
 trusive gabble was the great annoyance ; but the time came when 
 the mere sight of that intensely meaningless face seemed always to 
 find a bare nerve ; and in the very Vatican I was more sensible of 
 his presence than of that of the Apollo, on which he stood com- 
 menting in a way that made one feel wicked. I appeal to any rea- 
 sonable soul for sympathy under such an annoyance as this. ' Ver 
 fine ting dat ! Tres bien ! ah 1 ver fine ting ! Two tousand year 
 old! Dieu! qu'il fait chaud!' and so on and on and on — con- 
 tinual dropping. 
 
 " We feel it essential to be rid of the presence of servants when 
 we would enjoy conversation at home, yet we provide for their 
 constant presence when we go abroad for the highest kind of intel- 
 lectual pleasure. A courier is at once more and less than a ser- 
 vant ; his position is held to excuse both servility and insolence, 
 and while he receives the wages of a lackey he takes the airs of a 
 companion." 
 
 Mrs. Kirkland devotes six mortal pages to abolish the race of 
 couriers ! She advises everybody to learn French instead ! 
 This is a charming* puff for the professors of the polite tongue. 
 We are inclined to think it would considerably diminish the 
 number of travellers ! 
 
 We remember in our youth there was a great prejudice in 
 England against the study of French. Some did not hesitate 
 to attribute the growth of infidelity and rebellion to the use of 
 that language in which Fenelon and Massillon had written. 
 Not long ago a worthy old grandmother of a friend labored un- 
 der the trifling delusion that nobody, not even a French person, 
 was such a fool as not to understand English, more especially 
 if it was spoken very loudly and distinctly. She caused no little 
 merriment one day by an attempt to put her theory in practice. 
 
338 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 Her daughters, who were well-educated women and spoke 
 French, had been expecting a governess from Paris who did 
 not speak a word of English. During their absence one after- 
 noon the young foreigner arrived, a very pretty, timid Parisian 
 girl, of about eighteen. The old lady, who knew of her coming, 
 was anxious to be very kind to her, and, seeing she looked 
 fatigued, resolved to persuade her to take a cup of strong tea, 
 which she naturally concluded would refresh her amazingly. 
 She therefore rang her bell, and ordered her servant to bring 
 up the teakettle, which speedily made its appearance, bright as 
 the copper sun and hissing like a serpent letting off its venom. 
 When all was prepared the simple-minded old lady com- 
 menced the conversation by saying to the French damsel that 
 she had better have a cup of tea. The poor girl looked bewil- 
 dered, not understanding a word the other said. You had 
 better have a cup of tea, it will do you good ! A vague look of 
 ignorance was the reply. The hostess resolved to put on a greater 
 power of French, so emphasizing every word, and speaking 
 very loud, she said : You — had — better — have — a cup — of tea. 
 This not being attended with any better success, the " tea-per- 
 suader " resolved to suit the action to the word, so arming her- 
 self with the resplendent and steam-emitting kettle, she bran- 
 dished it emphatically in the other's face, accompanying this pan- 
 tomimic action with : " It — will — do — you — good !" in a louder 
 and louder tone. The poor creature began now to grow alarmed, 
 fearing the old lady was a maniac. She therefore rose from 
 her seat, and kept retreating before the benevolent but ener- 
 getic kettle-holder, and was commencing a loud scream, when 
 the door opened and the two daughters entered and explained 
 
MRS. C. M. K IRELAND. 389 
 
 the whole difficulty. We are afraid more serious disasters than 
 this would flow from following out Mrs. Kirkland's theory in 
 strange lands without couriers. 
 
 Passing from this digression, we observe our fair friend in 
 another light — that of a politician ; and here she shows her 
 characteristic sagacity. 
 
 "It must he allowed that soldiers, puppets as they are, add 
 much to the mere display of such occasions, and the presence of 
 the various military hands is very enlivening ; but when we think 
 of our French brethren as being in the midst of a noble struggle 
 for liberty, and desirous of founding their Republic on immutable 
 principles, these soldiers are the most discouraging sight that meets 
 our eyes. We are told that it would be exceedingly unsafe for 
 France to be unarmed in the midst of the nations of Europe, who 
 would be very likely to take advantage of her defenceless state ; 
 but without quoting the pacific wisdom of Mr. Cobden, who repu- 
 diates this barbarous and degrading notion, we reply, that no re- 
 public founded upon military force will stand. The idea of a re- 
 public is the result of the general progress of the world, which has 
 outlived the monarchical age ; further progress will as surely leave 
 behind the idea of brute force. We shall never see a permanent 
 government until we see one absolutely Christian. Christianity is 
 immutable, uncompromising ; and He who has said that by it alone 
 the world shall be saved, will surely overturn, and overturn, and 
 overturn, till mankind shall submit in truth, as they now do in pro- 
 fession, to the rule of Christ. 
 
 " Here lies our chief fear for the new French Republic. The 
 accursed military spirit, which has been inbred in the people for 
 generations, is still predominant; the bayonet may be wreathed 
 with flowers, but it glitters through them; and the world applauds 
 
S40 MRSw C. M. KIRK LAND. 
 
 the folly under the name of prudence. The men whose counsels 
 have prevailed, though wise and good, are not in advance of their 
 age, as were the founders of our Republic. Their sentiments are 
 fine in the way of poetry, generosity, bravery ; but fall far short of 
 Christian principle, which recognises no modifying power in expe- 
 diency, declines all compromise with the spirit of the world, sees 
 no safety but in a rigid adherence to the law and to the testimony. 
 Our hopes prophesy the best for France ; our fears have been in- 
 creased by a visit to Paris at this juncture. Every third man is a 
 soldier ; you are waked in the morning by the beat of the drum 
 and the trumpet of cavalry ; in every street is a corps de garde ; if 
 you ask the name of a fine building, ten to one you are told it is a 
 caserne (barrack) or a military hospital. The public reliance is 
 not on wisdom, on virtue, on justice, on the spirit of peace ; but on 
 fighting, a quickness to resent, and ability to revenge an injury. 
 Herein is fatal weakness. 
 
 " The French are a nation of sentiments. Words are things to 
 them." 
 
 All this is politically true, no doubt, and we echo the calm, 
 common-sense method of her reasoning. But in the following 
 description of Rachel's acting, we have a piece of painting as 
 fine a composition as one of the old masters. It would be diffi- 
 cult to convey the image more perfectly to the mind than she 
 has done in her simple but well-arranged phrases. 
 
 " But the most striking thing of this kind is the singing of the 
 Marseillaise by Mademoiselle Rachel, and the enthusiasm of her 
 audiences. She appears after the tragedy, in the simplest possible 
 tragic drapery, majestic in simplicity; the voice is nothing, as a 
 voice, but her declamation of the hymn is sublime. Her eye, her 
 tones, her gestures, are passionate in the extreme; and at each 
 
MRS. O. M. KIRKLAND. 341 
 
 refrain she becomes a Pythoness, and her audience is spell-bound 
 until the last word, when they burst forth in acclamations that rend 
 the skies. For the last stanza she grasps the tri-color ; she kneels 
 before it ; she clasps it to her bosom ; she waves it with a frantic 
 eagerness ; and she carries her hearers with her throughout. It is 
 a perfectly unique exhibition, and one which only a Rachel could 
 make sublime, instead of ridiculous. Rachel is born for tragedy, 
 and nothing else. We cannot possibly conceive of her ordering 
 breakfast or cheapening a bonnet. A strictly classical drapery is 
 her only wear, and she scorns the aid of silks aud spangles, and 
 even of point lace and diamonds. Without being handsome, sbe 
 fascinates the eye ; perhaps she is scarcely even graceful ; but her 
 pose is perfect, and, when passion throws her into attitudes of such 
 abandon as would certainly result in fatal awkwardness in less per- 
 fectly artistic hands, she is sure to recover herself without any 
 apparent effort, and without a moment's break in the action. Thin 
 to a fault, she is yet more like a statue than like a living woman, so 
 completely is want of fulness of outline made up by taste in cos- 
 tume, and classic perfection of attitude. Rachel is not so much an 
 actress as a great artist. Her voice is low, almost hoarse; but it 
 is heard distinctly, even in a whisper. Her power is intellectual 
 and sympathetic; it seems hardly subject to rules; yet we can- 
 not doubt that it is the result of intense study. The Parisians ap- 
 preciate her, and listen with breathless interest to speeches long 
 enough to tire any audience less accustomed to French tragedy. It 
 is observable, however, that Rachel, and other finished performers, 
 have a way of hastening through those interminable speeches quite 
 different from the declamatory style of our school-days, when we 
 gave the ' Madame !' and ' Seigneur !' with such dignified emphasis. 
 Rachel recites those passages in a tone almost of domestic fami- 
 liarity. When she persuades, she uses not the theatrical but the 
 family tone of persuasion; when she scolds, she does it as 
 
 15 
 
342 MR S. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 naturally as can be, whether the sufferer be husband or papa. She 
 has no stage tricks ; takes no care of her braids or of her train, 
 does not seem to know there is an audience in the house, even 
 when they applaud her to the echo ; and is, in short, the perfect 
 artist who conceals all art. I class an evening with Rachel among 
 the grand things of Europe, and her singing of the Marseillaise as 
 almost the grandest thing she does." 
 
 We have, however, not space to follow our authoress through 
 her tour, which is more valuable for the impression it records 
 than for what she saw. We shall therefore conclude our notice 
 of this part of her mental history by saying that she has formed 
 — so far as our experience goes — a very fair estimate of the 
 difference between the two grand divisions of the Anglo-Saxons, 
 the English and the Americans, How often have we heard 
 the conversations which compel intelligent and impartial 
 lookers on to form this conclusion ! 
 
 " Repudiation is but a minor item in the list of excuses for dis- 
 like : and if it could be visited upon those to whom it properly 
 belongs, we should have nothing to say. But to insist on charging 
 it upon the whole United States is simply a piece of stolid ill-temper. 
 The English are, to be sure, proverbially slow in the reception of 
 foreign ideas, and doggedly set against the value of new ones ; but 
 they could easily, if they were desirous of doing justice, come at 
 some notion of the nature of our confederacy, and our State inde- 
 pendence; and so lay repudiation at its proper door, instead of 
 pretending to consider it the bantling of republicanism. But they 
 are peculiarly sensitive in the region of the pocket, and as they can 
 only get three or four per cent, for money at home, it must doubt- 
 less have been a cruel disappointment to find that there was any 
 uncertainty attending the reception of ten or twenty from us. We 
 ought to feel very patient under their anger about repudiation." 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 343 
 
 We cordially call the attention of American legislators to 
 what their clear-headed countrywoman says about International 
 Copyright. 
 
 "With regard to that particular sort of national dishonesty 
 which systematically appropriates other men's property and means 
 of living, because it happens to be of a kind easily stolen, I con- 
 fess to an humbled silence under British objurgation. If anybody 
 thinks that to write and publish a book which others read, is not 
 creating a property on which the author has a right to depend as a 
 means of subsistence, I cannot agree with him ; and I have never 
 yet seen an argument on the subject which convinced me that it 
 was less dishonest to steal a book than a pair of shoes. If an 
 author has no right to live by his works, a clergyman can have no 
 claim on account of his public teaching, or a legislator because he 
 devotes his time to debate and the preparation for it. People, who 
 perform intellectual labor must form the single exception to the 
 law which appoints that men shall enjoy that place in society 
 to which their ability and industry entitle them. So absurd 
 an idea I cannot advocate, even for the sake of defending the 
 land I love against the angry taunts of our English neighbors. 
 They are right in despising the moral coarseness which can think a 
 wrong justified by the ease with which it can be perpetrated. 
 They are quite right in feeling that the American people ought not 
 to be willing to be amused and instructed without rendering some 
 equivalent, merely because the creditor is so placed that he has uo 
 power to collect his dues. All that the American in England can 
 say, when the sore subject is mentioned, is, that he hopes the day for 
 such meanness is passing away. A higher general cultivation, and 
 a nobler appreciation of the blessings and claims of mind, will 
 undoubtedly set us right on this subject. May the time be not far 
 distant !" 
 
344 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 We now turn from this well-written work to her other pro- 
 ductions, premising that the " Holidays Abroad" leaves on our 
 mind the impression of a woman of admirable temper, good 
 judgment, a keen perception of the comfortable and elegant — 
 with a great predisposition to select the best side of a picture, 
 which she draws with great power, contenting herself with a 
 bare reference to the more unpleasant features. This, while it 
 renders her books more acceptable to those who seek for 
 amusement only, impairs their value considerably with those 
 who read to reflect. There is likewise too little of that personal 
 egotism or bonhommie which attaches a reader to a traveller. 
 We hear nothing of her two companions. She is also deficient 
 in the dramatic power which gives a subjective value to the 
 author as a friend. We accompany her without interest, and 
 part from her without regret. We cannot help thinking this is 
 a serious defect in that style of writing, for however we may 
 respect her judgment as a critic, we should like at the same 
 time to feel a more glowing sympathy with the woman. We 
 have before remarked upon her partiality for the English, to which 
 we can possibly have no objection ; but with regard to Mrs. Kirk- 
 land we have at times a strong belief that it partakes too much of 
 a deferential feeling, which was very natural in the colonial 
 state, but somewhat derogatory in a rival nation. We think 
 we know enough of John Bull to be convinced of this, that 
 nothing so entirely wins his esteem, and even affection, as to 
 stand up manfully to your argument, whether it be carried on 
 with blows or words, and if it be possible, he will honor and 
 love you all the more for beating him. 
 
 Mrs. Kirkland occasionally has passages which are perfect 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 345 
 
 specimens of careful and fortunate composition ; in general her 
 style is natural, seldom rising into eloquence ; there is a simpli- 
 city, however, about all her writings which impresses the reader 
 very favorably. An author should bear in mind that every 
 word has a certain value, just as a figure, and that, as in nume- 
 rals, it has its importance more from its relative position than 
 from its abstract or individual meaning. 
 
 Mrs. Kirkland's " New Home ; Who '11 Follow ?" is a vivid 
 and complete sketch of real life. It is a singular and con- 
 vincing proof how a woman of genius, using simple, unadul- 
 terated English, can surpass a clever artificial writer, with all 
 his cockneyisms, grammatical distortions, and elaborate word- 
 painting. 
 
 Let our readers take the following account of a breakfast in 
 the " openings :" 
 
 " She soon after disappeared behind one of the white screens I 
 have mentioned, and in an incredibly short time emerged in a dif- 
 ferent dress. Then taking down the comb I have hinted at, as ex- 
 alted to a juxtaposition with the spoons, she seated herself opposite 
 to me, unbound her very abundant brown tresses, and proceeded 
 to comb them with great deliberateness ; occasionally speering a 
 question at me, or bidding Miss Irene (pronounced Ireen) ' mind 
 the bread.' When she had finished, Miss Irene took the comb and 
 went through the same exercise, and both scattered the loose hairs 
 on the floor with a coolness that made me shudder when I thought 
 of my dinner, which had become, by means of the morning's ram- 
 ble, a subject of peculiar interest. A little iron ' wash-dish,' such 
 as I had seen in the morning, was now produced ; the young lady 
 vanished — re-appeared in a scarlet Circassian dress, and more combs 
 in her hair than would dress a belle for the court of St. James ; 
 
346 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 and forthwith both mother and daughter proceeded to set the table 
 for dinner. 
 
 " The hot bread was cut into huge slices, several bowls of milk 
 were disposed about the board, a pint bowl of yellow pickles, an- 
 other of apple sauce, and a third containing mashed potatoes, took 
 their appropriate stations, and a dish of cold fried pork was 
 brought out from some recess, heated and re-dished, when Miss 
 Irene proceeded to blow the horn. 
 
 " The sound seemed almost as magical in its effects as the whis- 
 tle of Roderick Dhu ; for, solitary as the whole neighborhood had 
 appeared to me in the morning, not many moments elapsed before 
 in came men and boys enough to fill the table completely. I had 
 made sundry resolutions not to touch a mouthful ; but I confess I 
 felt somewhat mortified when I found there was no opportunity to 
 refuse. 
 
 " After the ' wash-dish' had been used in turn, and various hand- 
 kerchiefs had performed, not for that occasion only, the part of 
 towels, the lords of creation seated themselves at the table, and 
 fairly demolished in grave silence every eatable thing on it. Then, 
 as each one finished, he arose and walked off", till no one remained 
 of all this goodly company but the red-faced, heavy-eyed master of 
 the house. This personage used his privilege by asking me five 
 hundred questions, as to my birth, parentage, and education ; my 
 opinion of Michigan, my husband's plans and prospects, business 
 and resources ; and then said, ' he guessed he must be off.' " 
 
 We may also mention that the history of Mrs. Danforth is 
 told in a manner which is nature's truth ; the whole scene is 
 vividly brought before us, and we know at once a shrewd 
 mind is at work. 
 
 The nakedness with which nature reveals itself in these re- 
 gions is amusingly told : 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRK LAND. 347 
 
 "To be sure, I had one damsel who crammed herself almost to 
 suffocation with sweetmeats and other things which she esteemed 
 very nice ; and ate up her own pies and cake, to the exclusion of 
 those for whom they were intended; who would put her head in 
 at a door, with — ' Miss Clavers, did you holler ! I thought I heered 
 a yell." 
 
 " And another who was highly offended because room was not 
 made for her at table with guests from the city, and that her com- 
 pany was not requested for tea visits. And this latter high-born 
 damsel sent in from the kitchen a circumstantial account in writ- 
 ing, of the instances wherein she considered herself aggrieved; 
 well written ic was, too, and expressed with much naivete, and 
 abundant respect. I answered it in a way which ' turneth away 
 wrath.' Yet it was not long before this fiery spirit was aroused 
 again, and I was forced to part with my country belle." 
 
 The next scene is infinitely comic : 
 
 " The lady greeted me in the usual style, with a familiar nod, 
 and seated herself at once in a chair near the door. 
 
 " ' Well, how do you like Michigan V 
 
 " This question received the most polite answer which my con- 
 science afforded ; and I asked the lady in my turn, if she was one 
 of my neighbors ? 
 
 « < Why, massy, yes !' she replied ; ' don't you know me ? I 
 tho't everybody know'd me. Why, I 'm the school ma'am, Simeon 
 Jenkins's sister, Cleory Jenkins.' 
 
 " Thus introduced, I put all my civility in requisition to entertain 
 my guest, but she seemed quite independent, finding amusement 
 for herself, and asking questions on every possible theme. 
 
 " ' You 're doing your own work now, a'n't ye V 
 
348 MRS. C. M, KTRKLAND. 
 
 " This might not be denied ; and I asked if she did not know of 
 a girl whom I might be likely to get. 
 
 " ' Well, I don't know, I 'm looking for a place where I can board 
 and do chores myself. I have a good deal of time before school, 
 and after I get back ; and I didn't know but I might suit ye for a 
 while.' 
 
 " I was pondering on this proffer, when the sallow damsel arose 
 from her seat, took a short pipe from her bosom (not ' Pan's reedy 
 pipe,' reader), filled it with tobacco, which she carried in her ' work 
 pocket,' and reseating herself, began to smoke with the greatest 
 gusto, turning ever and anon to spit at the hearth. 
 
 " Incredible again ? alas, would it were not true ! I have since 
 known a girl of seventeen, who was attending a neighbor's sick in- 
 fant, smoke the live-long day, and take snuff besides ; and I can 
 vouch for it, that a large proportion of the married women in the 
 interior of Michigan use tobacco in some form, usually that of the 
 odious pipe. 
 
 "I took the earliest decent opportunity to decline the offered 
 help, telling the school-ma'am plainly, that an inmate who smoked 
 would make the house uncomfortable to me. 
 
 " ' Why, law !' said she, laughing ; ' that's nothing but pride 
 now : folks is often too proud to take comfort. For my part, I 
 couldn't do without my pipe to please nobody.' " 
 
 The simple philosophy of the woods is charming, after the 
 fish-blooded faith of which the Bank of England is the temple, 
 the directors the apostles, and merchants the priests. 
 
 " ' Mother wants your sifter,' said Miss Ianthe Howard, a young 
 lady of six years' standing, attired in a tattered calico, thickened 
 with dirt; her unkempt locks straggling from under that hideous 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 349 
 
 substitute for a bonnet, so universal in the western country, a dirty 
 cotton handkerchief, which is used ad nauseam for all sorts of 
 purposes. 
 
 " ' Mother wants your sifter, and she says she guesses you can 
 let her have some sugar and tea, 'cause you 've got plenty.' 
 
 " This excellent reason, ' 'cause you 've got plenty,' is conclusive 
 as to sharing with your neighbors. Whoever comes into Michigan 
 with nothing, will be sure to better his condition ; but woe to him that 
 brings with him anything like an appearance of abundance, whether 
 of money or mere household conveniences. To have them, and not 
 be willing to share them in some sort with the whole community, 
 is an unpardonable crime. You must lend your best horse qui que 
 ce soit to go ten miles over hill and marsh, in the darkest night, 
 for a doctor; or your team to travel twenty after a 'gal;' your 
 wheel-barrows, your shovels, your utensils of all sorts, belong, not 
 to yourself, but to the public, who do not think it necessary even 
 to ask a loan, but take it for granted. The two saddles and bri- 
 dles of Montacute spend most of their time travelling from house 
 to house a-man-back ; and I have actually known a stray martin- 
 gale to be traced to four dwellings two miles apart, having been 
 lent from one to another, without a word to the original proprietor, 
 who sat waiting, not very patiently, to commence a journey." 
 
 Mrs. Kirkland does not seem altogether to relish the joke, al- 
 though she seems thoroughly aware of its comicality. She 
 says: 
 
 " But the cream of the joke lies in the manner of the thing. It is 
 so straight-forward and honest, none of your hypocritical civility 
 and servile gratitude ! Your true republican, when he finds that 
 
 you possess anything which would contribute to his convenience, 
 
 15* 
 
350 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 walks in with, ' Are you going to use your horses to-day V if horses 
 happen to be the thing he needs. 
 
 " ' Yes, I shall probably want them.' 
 
 " ' O, well ; if you want them 1 was thinking to get 'em to 
 
 go up north a piece.' 
 
 " Or perhaps the desired article comes within the female depart- 
 ment. 
 
 " ' Mother wants to get some butter : that 'ere butter you bought 
 of Miss Barton this mornin.' 
 
 " And away goes your golden store, to be repaid perhaps with 
 some cheesy, greasy stuff, brought in a dirty pail, with, ' Here 's 
 your butter !' 
 
 " A girl came in to borrow a ' wash-dish,' ' because we 've got 
 company.' Presently she came back : ' Mother says you 've forgot 
 to send a towel.' 
 
 " ' The pen and ink, and a sheet o' paper and a wafer,' is no 
 unusual request; and when the pen is returned, you are generally 
 informed that you sent ' an awful bad pen.' 
 
 " I have been frequently reminded of one of Johnson's humorous 
 sketches. A man returning a broken wheel-barrow to a Quaker, 
 with, ' Here' I 've broke your rotten wheel-barrow usin' on 't. I 
 wish you 'd get it mended right off, 'cause I want to borrow it 
 again this afternoon.' The Quaker is made to reply, ' Friend, it 
 shall be done :' and I wished I possessed more of his spirit." 
 
 We are afraid our quotations are growing upon us, but we 
 cannot resist copying the following scene. Of a truth, America 
 has no more comic pencil than that wielded by the fair hand of 
 Mary CI avers. 
 
 " He is quite an old settler, came in four years ago, bringing 
 with him a wife who is to him as vinegar-bottle to oil cruet, or as 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 351 
 
 mustard to the sugar which is used to soften its biting qualities. 
 Mrs. Doubleday has the sharpest eyes, the sharpest nose, the sharp- 
 est tongue, the sharpest elbows, and above all, the sharpest voice 
 that ever 'penetrated the interior' of Michigan. She has a tall, 
 straight, bony figure, in contour somewhat resembling two hard- 
 oak planks fastened together and stood on end ; and, strange to 
 say ! she was full five-and-thirty when her mature graces attracted 
 the eye and won the affections of the worthy Philo. What eclipse 
 had come over Mr. Doubleday's usual sagacity when he made 
 choice of his Polly, I am sure I never could guess ; but he is cer- 
 tainly the only man in the wide world who could possibly have 
 lived with her ; and he makes her a most excellent husband. 
 
 " She is possessed with a neat devil ; I have known many such 
 cases ; her floor is scoured every night, after all are in bed, by the 
 unlucky scrubber, Betsey, the maid of all work ; and woe to the 
 unfortunate ' indifiddle,' as neighbor Jenkins says, who first sets 
 dirty boot on it in the morning. If men come in to talk over road 
 business, for Philo is much sought when 'the public' has any work 
 to do ; or school-business, for that being very troublesome, and 
 quite devoid of profit, is often conferred upon Philo — Mrs. Double- 
 day makes twenty errands into the room, expressing in her visage 
 all the force of Mrs. Raddle's inquiry, ' Is them wretches going V 
 And when at length their backs are turned, out comes the bottled 
 vengeance. The sharp eyes, tongue, elbow, and voice, are all in 
 instant requisition. 
 
 " ' Fetch the broom, Betsey ! and the scrub-broom, Betsey ! and 
 the mop, and that 'ere dish of soap, Betsey : and why on earth 
 didn't you bring some ashes ? You didn't expect to clean such a 
 floor as this without ashes, did you V — ' What time are you going 
 to have dinner, my dear?' says the imperturbable Philo. who is 
 getting ready to go out. 
 
352 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 " ' Dinner ! I 'm sure I don't know ! there's no time to cook din- 
 ner in this house ! nothing but slave, slave, slave, from morning till 
 night, cleaning up after a set of nasty, dirty, &c. &c. 'Phew,' 
 says Mr. Doubleday, looking at his fuming helpmate with a calm 
 smile, ' it '11 all rub out when it 's dry, if you '11 only let it alone.' 
 
 " ' Yes, yes ; and it would be plenty clean enough for you if 
 there had been forty horses in here.' " 
 
 But the crowning joke of borrowing is contained in the fol- 
 lowing request : 
 
 " We were in deep consultation one morning on some important 
 point touching the well-being of this sole object of Mrs. Double- 
 day's thoughts and dreams, when the very same little Ianthe How- 
 ard, dirty as ever, presented herself. She sat down and stared 
 awhile without speaking, a V ordinaire ; and then informed us that 
 her mother ' wanted Miss Doubleday to let her have her baby for a 
 
 little while, 'cause Benny's mouth 's so sore, that' but she had 
 
 no time to finish the sentence. 
 
 " ' Lend mt baby ! ! !' — and her utterance failed." 
 
 It reminds us of an indignant message once sent by a loving 
 papa, who was very fond of his firstborn. Coming home from 
 store one evening in full expectation of nursing his darling pro- 
 duction, he was annoyed to find that some young ladies, next 
 door, had borrowed it to exhibit to some of their friends. As this 
 had frequently happened, he sent for it back and desired his 
 servant would say: "That Mr. Billings requested the young- 
 ladies would get a baby of their own, and not borrow his in 
 future !" 
 
 From this specimen of Michigan manners, so vividly given, 
 
MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 353 
 
 we come to a tale charmingly told. We have seldom met 
 with a romance so Arcadian as that of Cora Mansfeld. As the 
 young ladies would say : " It is a love of a tale." 
 
 Nor is Mrs. Kirkland behind in a knowledge of what consti- 
 tutes a patriot. Her description is so graphic that we cannot 
 resist the temptation to enrich our pages with it. 
 
 " From this auspicious commencement may he dated Mr. Jen- 
 kins's glowing desire to serve the public. Each successive elec- 
 tion-day saw him at his post. From eggs he advanced to pies, 
 from pies to almanacs, whiskey, powder and shot, foot-balls, play- 
 ing-cards, and at length, for ambition ever ' did grow with what it 
 fed on,' he brought into the field a large turkey, which was tied to 
 a post and stoned to death at twenty-five cents a throw. By this 
 time the still youthful aspirant had become quite the man of the 
 world ; could smoke twenty-four cigars per diem, if anybody else 
 would pay for them ; play cards in old Hurler's shop from noon 
 till day-break, and rise winner: and all this with suitable trim- 
 mings of gin and hard words. But he never lost sight of the main- 
 chance. He had made up his mind to serve his country, and he 
 was all this time convincing his fellow-citizens of the disinterested 
 purity of his sentiments." 
 
 We strongly incline to the belief that Mrs. Kirkland would 
 excel in a romance of real life, laying the scene in the present 
 times. Her eye is keen* and retentive ; her style infinitely 
 superior to Thackeray or Dickens ; and if she be somewhat defi- 
 cient in imagination, let her reflect how wonderfully the latter 
 has managed without that rare faculty. That she has inven- 
 tion we feel assured, although she has not yet given her atten- 
 tion to works which favor its development. She has admirable 
 
354 MRS. C. M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 good sense ; a true womanly taste, without any sickly, " fine- 
 lady sentimental ism ;" and that instinct — almost as rare a 
 gift as genius — which counsels how far she can proceed in the 
 coloring of a fact without trenching on the realm of caricature. 
 What bombast is in poetry — distortion in sculpture and paint- 
 ing — ranting in elocution — buffoonery in acting — quackery in 
 medicine — charlatanism in politics — even so caricature is in 
 writing. It resembles genius just as the monkey resembles 
 man ! — not a likeness, but a living caricature. 
 
 Our limits will not allow us a further examination of her 
 other writings. The}^ display the same merits and defects. 
 Her "Forest Life" has some beautiful pieces of description, 
 both of men and nature. There is a health about her produc- 
 tions which gives promise of a long life. 
 
JARED SPARKS. 355 
 
 JAR ED SPARKS. 
 
 It is a peculiar fact in the literature of America that while 
 deficient in poetical genius, she boasts three historians not un- 
 worthy to be matched with the greatest of their contemporaries. 
 This is no new opinion, for it has been remarked by an eminent 
 authority in England that Bancroft, Prescott, and Jared Sparks, 
 are among the first writers of the age. We have endeavored 
 to justify this assertion in our review of Prescott's works. We 
 now proceed to a consideration of the historical claims of the 
 author of "The Life of Washington," and in our next shall 
 devote part of our space to Mr. Bancroft's writings. We must 
 not forget that the latter has had advantages not extended to 
 his brother historians. 
 
 As we have in a previous part of this volume explained 
 somewhat our theory of the manner in which History should 
 be written, we shall at once proceed to the consideration of Mr. 
 Sparks's labors. Biography and history differ materially in 
 one respect, viz. the spirit in which they should be written. 
 The biographer should have a certain love for his hero, a kind 
 of household feeling ; but the historian should sit like Jove on 
 
356 JARED SPARKS. 
 
 Olympus, out of the turmoil of the conflict, and above the dis- 
 turbing influence of those clouds which distort and interrupt 
 " the vision, and the faculty divine 1 ' of truly judging of events. 
 It is of course understood, that while we expect the biographer 
 to take a personal interest in the subject of his memoir, we do 
 not wish him to become either the apologist of his errors or the 
 propagator of his opinions ; we only require a generous sympa- 
 thy with the great objects of his life, and a forbearing judgment 
 when he goes astray. There are certain grand elements in our 
 nature which are far removed from the sphere of political and 
 religious bigotries, and these are so broadly marked as to ren- 
 der an offence against them palpable to all. This is the only 
 basis on which one man can condemn another. The elements 
 we mean are those comprehended in the pure humanity of man. 
 A man has a perfect right to be a republican or a monarchist ; 
 to be of any religion his conscience dictates. He is lord and 
 master of his creed and opinion. If he acts consistently with 
 these rules of faith, none dare blame him ; but when he violates 
 truth, honor, humanity, purity, then he comes under the just 
 condemnation of his fellow man ; he puts himself out of the 
 human family when he becomes cruel, unjust, false, or even 
 ungenerous. 
 
 In history the narrator should regard the great law of pro- 
 gress. This should be the compass by which he steers his 
 course. He should look at an event not so much by itself as in 
 conjunction with others. In the most successful campaign all 
 is not victory ; many a step backward, apparently, may be the 
 forerunner of a permanent advance ; the sum total must be 
 regarded, and not isolated items " in the great account." Now 
 
JARED SPARKS. 357 
 
 Mr. Sparks lias, in his writings, combined the excellences of 
 both systems, and while he has written of his hero with a 
 deep feeling of appreciation, he has likewise taken into con- 
 sideration his historical value. In his life of the great founder 
 of this republic, he has avoided the common error of considering 
 George Washington as a Fourth of July Orator, and treated 
 him as a lover of human freedom, not an actor surrounded with 
 drums, trumpets, and penny crackers, but a lofty-minded man, 
 armed with the noblest attributes of the patriot hero. Sparks 
 is one of the few writers who have presented Washington in 
 that pure simplicity of character which renders him one of 
 the greatest men that have ever been known to their fellow 
 creatures. We always apply involuntarily to him these lines 
 of Wordsworth on Milton : 
 
 " His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart ! 
 He had a voice whose sound was like the sea, 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free ; 
 So did he travel on life's common way, 
 In cheerful godliness, and yet his heart 
 The lowliest duties on itself did lay !" 
 
 It is somewhat out of time here, but we have thought that 
 the picture presented by Washington retiring from the arduous 
 struggle of having achieved his country's freedom, and then 
 returning to his farm, resuming all his old labors, is one of the 
 finest in the human gallery, infinitely distancing the hacknied 
 example of Cincinnatus to which it has been so often com- 
 pared. When the difference of times and manners is taken 
 into account, there is little comparison between them. 
 
 There is also another light in which Mr. Sparks may claim 
 
358 JARED SPARKS. 
 
 distinguished notice, and that is the selection of his subjects. 
 In this particular he is infinitely more national than either Ban- 
 croft or Prescott. He is truly the American biographical his- 
 torian ; as we said before, he combines the two systems. His 
 Life of Washington is a great historical picture, where the 
 national events of the chief actor's life are so admirably 
 grouped that he seems, in his natural position, just as in a 
 drama, where the history moves around the man, as in the 
 Wallenstein of Schiller, and the Richard the Third of 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 It perhaps requires a more philosophical mind to write his- 
 tory properly, and a more dramatic one for biography. In the 
 former so much more must be considered, so many more per- 
 sons sketched, their relative positions examined, their impor- 
 tance weighed, with no undue influence given to any. The 
 comprehensiveness and nicety of this great labor can scarcely 
 be overestimated ; it requires the possession of a very rare mind, 
 for how seldom is it possible to weigh a ton and an ounce in 
 the same scales, and yet the historian should be able to esti- 
 mate the nation and the man ! 
 
 In the Life of Franklin we have another proof of Mr. 
 Sparks's fitness for the work he has chosen. While in that of 
 Washington we had a picture of the harmonious union of the 
 patriot, warrior, and statesman, formed upon the only sure basis 
 of the Christian gentleman, we have, in the biography of the 
 great printer, as admirable a likeness of the patriot philosopher 
 combined with the legislator. What one did from loftiness of 
 soul the other did from a love of utility. One looked at his 
 work with the serene principle of duty, the other with the dis- 
 
JARED SPARKS. ,159 
 
 passionate eye of practical philosophy. Both had the <rood of 
 their country as their leading motive; but one acted more from 
 the heart, and the other from the head. Washington^ actions 
 sprang from impulse, the other's from reflection. Both were 
 equally inflexible; one from the integrity of his heart, the 
 other from the soundness of his head. In drawing this parallel 
 let it not for an instant be understood that we deny a head to 
 Washington or a heart to Franklin. We only point out this 
 distinction as the governing principle of their conduct. One 
 said, I feel I ought to do it; the other said, I think I will. 
 
 It is in this identity with his subject that Mr. Sparks is the 
 unrivalled head of American biography ; indeed, we do not 
 know of any who is superior to him in the literature of England. 
 Some biographers, when they write the life of a hero, forget 
 Columbus was the grandest of discoverers, by the most magni- 
 ficent enthusiasm that ever stirred the human imagination, and 
 in like manner transmogrify Mahomet into a tame adventurer. 
 The truth is, these wonderful men w T ere the embodiments and 
 exponents of the leading feature of the age they lived in, and 
 so far from creating the storm, they merely rode upon it as the 
 chief objects. Some lean to the belief that the man makes the 
 epoch ; others that the epoch makes the man. Possibly the 
 truth may lie between in this, as in many other things, and the 
 fact prove they were made for each other. Doubtless, when a 
 vague idea is floating in the imaginations of men, some one 
 more charged with the spirit of that particular thought may 
 grasp it, and become the conductor of that electric shock which 
 is to shatter the tottering superstitions of the world. 
 
 It no doubt sometimes occurs that men who have carried out 
 
360 JARED SPARKS. 
 
 a theory to its remotest practice, would have started aghast had 
 the ultimate result been suddenly presented to their " mind's 
 eye." Like John Gilpin, they have been carried away by their 
 steed, and compelled by the brute force of a popular revolution 
 to dine at Ware, when they only set out to spend a day at 
 Edmonton, with their wife, some favorite theory. However 
 homely this illustration may be, it has been forced upon us by 
 a close study of the characters of many of the most celebrated 
 disturbers of the human race. A poet one day called these 
 men human yeast. 
 
 It may, however, possibly happen that they themselves 
 become quickened with the spirit of progress as they ride on ; 
 and as the path widens, future objects may present themselves 
 as the necessary consequence of their first advance. This 
 should be always borne in mind when we feel disposed to blame 
 the extreme lengths to which some of the most celebrated men 
 have been hurried by the force of circumstance. 
 
 Few men deserve more consideration in this respect than 
 Napoleon. If there was ever a man justified by the necessities 
 of his position, it was the great Emperor of the French. Many 
 are inclined to blame his pertinacious hatred to England, 
 and to sagely conclude that had he confined his ambition to 
 reasonable bounds, he would have lived and died the ruler of 
 France. This would have been true had Napoleon been only a 
 great man of the common-place order, but, unfortunately for 
 himself, he was the most original genius of his age. He had, 
 therefore, instincts which counselled him more strongly and un- 
 erringly than the concentrated e very-day good sense of the 
 world. This mute god revealed to him that he was the apostle 
 
J ARE!) SPARKS. ,*?01 
 
 of a creed which must be spoken through his mouth, although 
 to his own destruction ; and, like the Pythoness of old, he had 
 no free choice in the matter. The presentiment of a great man 
 becomes in time invariably his superstition, and we offer the 
 constantly recurring prediction of Napoleon as to the Omnipo- 
 tence of Destiny, as an illustration of our remark, and as an 
 explanation of his own fate. There is more grandeur in the 
 Exile on the Rock of St. Helena than in the Emperor on the 
 Throne of the Tuileries ; and we think that Napoleon did 
 more for human liberty when apparently the chained exile of 
 that lonely pinnacle of despair, than when he was the diademed 
 monarch of France. 
 
 Prometheus in fetters, dying 'neath the vulture, speaks to the 
 world for ever in the Greek of ^Eschylus. Jove himself is vul- 
 garized and dwarfed by the sublime fortitude of his victim, the 
 Fire Stealer. Even so does the dethroned and vanquished vic- 
 tor of tyranny speak to all nations through the voice of 
 history. 
 
 Had Napoleon died monarch of France, he had been vul- 
 garized for ever. He would have been dumb to the world of 
 liberty, save through the French tongue ; and the Goddess of 
 Freedom, we are afraid, will never listen to that language. But 
 his martyrdom on the solitary rock gave him a key to the heart 
 of every Anglo-Saxon, and they took up his mission, which was 
 to destroy the clay idol set up by a legitimate Nebuchadnezzar 
 for the worship of the world. Thus their sympathy first enlisted 
 them in the cause, and since then the great social Alcides has 
 cleansed the Augean Stables of tyranny through the agency of 
 his former foes. Had Prometheus not been a tortured captive, 
 
362 JARED SPARKS. 
 
 .^Eschylus had never made him the Hero of Endurance ; and 
 had Napoleon escaped that majestic doom of despair — 
 
 " Dying death stiffened in that mute emhrace," 
 
 he would only have been a successful adventurer, a nine days' 
 wonder, and the founder of a race of tyrants who would them- 
 selves in time have become legitimate, and required another 
 Napoleon to overthrow. Let the majestic shade of the departed 
 Corsican rejoice over the transient evil of the last few years of 
 his mortal life, and thank the "Triple Fates" that he was 
 snatched from a throne on which so many fools and despots 
 had died, to be placed on the loftiest pedestal ever awarded to 
 a human being. The truth of a great creed is testified by the 
 suffering of its founder, and not by the success of his earthly 
 mission. While the Crescent of the victorious Mahomet is 
 fading every day from the heavens, the Cross of the Galilean is 
 rapidly becoming the symbol of the world. 
 
 The mission of Napoleon is the grandest human theme ever 
 presented to the imagination of a poet. We can faintly con- 
 ceive how, in the times to come, when some future Milton pre- 
 sents him in an Epic, or some Sbakspeare in a dramatic shape, 
 the admiring audience will look upon him as belonging to a 
 nobler species than the human race ; and how in the solemn 
 temple of their souls they will execrate that nation for whom 
 he died, in emancipating from the thraldom of the dancing 
 master and the tax-gatherer. It may possibly bestow upon 
 Great Britain the dignity of its hatred. While we are on the 
 subject of the two Prometheuses, we may possibly be excused 
 by the reader for preserving a remark of Browning's. We had 
 
J A. RED SPARKS. JMJ8 
 
 been conversing (seated on the green hills of Surrey, at whose 
 foot this great poet resided, with his father, mother, and only 
 sister, before his marriage with Miss Barrett) upon Napoleon, 
 Prometheus, and other eminent sufferers. Browning grew warm 
 on the subject, and pointed out a curious passage of the Pro- 
 metheus Vinctus, which he said was not only the foundation of 
 Napoleon's creed, but also a prophecy or foreshadow of the 
 Christian Trinity. 
 
 This (the author of Sordello maintained) was a singular 
 proof of the ghostly or shadowy evidence, which the " cloud of 
 witnesses " gave in favor of these mysteries. 
 
 We have endeavored by these general remarks to give a 
 better idea of the excellence of Mr. Sparks's biographies than by 
 any extracts from his writings. Who could convey to the be- 
 holder the idea of a forest by presenting an elaborate isolated 
 tree ? Let this simile excuse our rather dealing in generalities 
 when we talk of Mr. Sparks's biographies. It is very often the 
 test of an undue and unartistic attention to parts, correspondent 
 to a neglect of the whole, when a critic is enabled to present 
 the reader with a convincing specimen of the genius of the ar- 
 tist. This really is the exact truth in the present case. All is 
 equally well finished ; there is nothing striking about a feature 
 or limb, but the face or the form is beautiful. Who would 
 think of cutting off a nose or plucking out an eye, and present- 
 ing these mutilations as convincing evidences of beauty ? We 
 cannot help carrying on the parallel by remarking that the very 
 isolation deprives each organ of sight and smell, and ignores at 
 the same time the delights of vision and perfume. What be- 
 
364 J A RED SPARKS. 
 
 comes of the beauty of a landscape or a lady, or the perfume of 
 a hay-field or a rose ? 
 
 These remarks apply the more especially to the author now 
 under review, for there is a symmetrical proportion about all 
 his works which evidences the artist. We could instance many 
 writers who elaborate their sentences more thoroughly, and 
 present far more finished and striking passages for the reader's 
 special attention ; but we know few authors who preserve so 
 much proportion in their figures, and so much propriety in the 
 grouping. The attention and labor are equally distributed, and 
 it is only when the entire picture is viewed that the full merit 
 of the painter is recognised ; then all examination of detail is 
 forgotten in admiration of the tout ensemble. We remember 
 a curious fact, related by a celebrated portrait painter, which 
 confirmed this opinion strongly. He selected from the most 
 celebrated beauties of the day the most perfect feature of each 
 face, and exhausted his skill in forming them into one which 
 he naturally thought would be the perfection of loveliness : he 
 was disappointed to find the result a decided common-place, 
 meaningless countenance, devoid of either grace or expression. 
 This is only what he might have expected : beauty is harmony 
 or congruity ; his model portrait was an incongruity. 
 
 Our space will not allow us to give sufficient quotations from 
 Mr. Sparks to illustrate our assertion ; indeed, as we said be- 
 fore, it would be unjust to do so. He has no pet passages, no 
 short episodes, which shine out from the rest, and placed there 
 as though purposely for samples — all is consistent and symme- 
 trical. A poet or a traveller abounds with passages which can 
 
JARED SPARKS. 305 
 
 be detached without any los8 of vitality or beauty ; but in a 
 sustained work, like the Biographies of Washington and Frank- 
 lin, it would be as absurd to select occasional sentences to con- 
 vince a doubting reader, as to present a bucket of sea-water in 
 order to convey a notion of the Atlantic ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
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