'^ V* x ^. ^ x . +J. .■» ■^ ©CV * N X +L. \? ^ •\ AV x * ' '^o o v l\ / THE LITERATI SOME HONEST OPINIONS ABOUT AUTORIAL MERITS AND DEMERITS, tosinttnl Wuh nf ^wanwlibf. TOGETHER WITH MARGINALIA, SUGGESTIONS, AND ESSAYS, BY EDGAR A. POE. If I have in any point receded from what is commonly received, it hath been for the purpose of proceeding melius and not in aliud. — Lord Bacon. Truth, peradventure, by force, may for a time be trodden down, but never, by any means, whatso- soever, can it be trodden out. — Lord Coke. WITH A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR, BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD. NEW-YORK: J. S. REDFIELD, CLINTON HALL, NASSAU-STREET. BOSTON I B. B. MUSSEY u praised me : everybody praises me now : but because you so perfectly understand me, or what I have aimed at, in all my poems : I did not think you had so much delicacy of appreciation joined with your strong sense ; 1 can say truly that no man's approbation gives me so much pleasure. 1 send you with this another package, also through Zieber, by Burgess & Stringer. It contains, in the way of essay, " Mesmeric Revelation," which I would like to have go in, even if you have to omit the " House of Usher." I send also corrected copies of (in the way of funny criticism, but you don't like this) "PTaceus," which conveys a tolerable idea of my style; and of my serious manner " Barnaby Rudge " is a good specimen. In the tale line, "The Murders of the Rue Morgue," "The Gold Bug," and the "Man that was Used Up," — far more than enough, but you can select to suit yourself. I prefer the "G. B." to the "M. in the R. M." I have taken a third interest in the "Broadway Journal," and will be glad if you could send me anything for it. Why not let me anticipate the book publication of your splendid essay on Milton ? Truly yours, Pob. The next is without date : Dear Griswold : — I return the proofs with many thanks for your attentions. The poems look quite as well in the short metres as in the long ones, and I am quite content as it is. In " The Sleeper " you have " Forever with unclosed eye " for " Forever with unopen'd eye." Is it possible to make the correction? I presume you under- stand that in the repetition of my Lecture on the Poets, (in N. Y.) I left out all that was offensive to yourself. I am ashamed of myself that I ever said anything of you that was so unfriendly or so unjust ; but what I did say I am confident has been misrepresented to you. See my notice of C. F. Hoffman's (?) sketch of you. Very sincerely yours, Poe. On the twenty-sixth of October, 1845, he wrote : My dear Griswold : — Will you aid me at a pinch — at one of the greatest pinches conceivable 1 If you will, I will be indebted to you for life. After a prodigious deal of manoeuvering, I have succeeded in getting the " Broad- way Journal " entirely within my own control. It will be a fortune to me if I can hold it — and I can do it easily with a very trifling aid from my friends. May I count you as one « Lend me $50, and you shall never have cause to regret it. Truly yours, Edgar A. Poe. And on the first of November : My dear Griswold: — Thank you for the $25. And since you will allow me to draw upon you for the other half of what I asked, if it shall be needed at the end of a month, I am just as grateful as if it were all in hand, — for my friends here have acted generously by me. Don't have any more doubts of my success. I am, by the way, preparing an article about you for the' B. J., in which I do you justice — which is all you can ask of any one. Ever truly yours, Edgar A. Poe. The next is without date, but appears to have been written early in 1849 : Dear Griswold: — Your uniform kindness leads me to hope that you will attend to this little matter of Mrs. L , to whom I truly think you have done less than justice. I am ashamed to ask favors of you, to whom I am so much indebted, but I have promised Mrs. L this. They lied to you, (if you told what he says you told him,) upon the subject of my forgotten Lecture on the American Poets, and' I take this opportunity to say that what I have always held inconversations about you, and what I believe to be entirely true, as far as it goes, is contained in my notice of your "Female Poets of America," in the forthcoming "Southern Literary Messenger." By glancing at what I have published about you, (Aut. in Graham, 1841 ; Review in Pioneer, 1843; notice in B. Journal, 1845; Letter in Int., 1847 ; and the'Review of your Female Poets,) you will see that I have never hazarded my own reputation by a disrespectful word of you," though there were, "as I long ago ex- plained, in consequence of 's false imputation of that beastly article to you, some absurd jokes at your ex- pense in the Lecture at Philadelphia. Come up and see me : the cars pass within a few rods of the New- York Hotel, where I have called two or three times without finding you in. Yours truly, Poe. I soon after visited him at Fordham, and passed two or three hours with him. The only letter he afterward sent me — at least the only one now in my possession — follows : Dear Griswold: — I inclose perfect copies of the lines " For Annie " and " Annabel Lee," in hopes that you may make room for them in your new edition. As regards "Lenore," (which you were kind enough to say yon would insert,) I would prefer the concluding stanza to run as here written. ... It is a point of no great impor- tance, but in one of your editions you have given my sister's age instead of mine. I was born in Dec. 181S; my sister, Jan. 1811. [The date of his birth to which he refers was printed from his statement in the memoranda referred to in the first of the letters here printed.— R. W. G.j Willis, whose good opjnioo I value highly, and of whose good word I have a right to be proud, has done ma the honor to speak very pointedly in praise of '-The MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. vii Raven." I inclose what he said, and if you could contrive to introduce it, you would render me an < favor, and greatly further my literary interests, at a point where I am most anxious they should be advanced. Truly yours, E. A. Poe. P. S.— Considering my indebtedness to you, can you not sell to Graham or to Godey (with whom, you know, I cannot with the least self-respect again have anything to do directly)— can you not sell to one of these men, "Annabel Lee," say for $50, and credit me that sum? Either of them could print it before you wiU need it for your book. Mem. The Eveleth you ask about is a Yankee impertinent, who, knowing my extreme poverty, has for years pestered me with unpaid letters; but I believe almost every literary man of any note has suffered in the same way. I am surprised that you have escaped. Poe. These are all the letters (unless I have given away some notes of bis to autograph collectors) ever received by me from Mr. Poe. They are a sufficient answer to the article by John Neal, and to that under the signature of " George R. Graham," which have induced their publication. I did not undertake to dispose of the poem of "Annabel Lee," but upon the death of the author quoted it in the notice of him in "The Tribune," and I was sorry to learn soon after that it had been purchased and paid for by the proprietors of both " Sartain's Magazine," and " The Southern Literary Messenger." R. W. G. New-Yobk, September 2, 1850. MEMOIR. The family of Edgar A. Poe was one of the oldest and most reputable in Baltimore. David Poe, his paternal grandfather, was a Quartermaster-Gene- ral in the Maryland line during the Revolution, and the intimate friend of Lafayette, who, during his last visit to the United States, called personally upon the General's widow, and tendered her acknowledgments for the ser- vices rendered to him by her husband. His great-grandfather, John Poe, married in England, Jane, a daughter of Admiral James McBride, noted in British navah history, and claiming kindred with some of the most illustrious English families. His father, David Poe, jr., the fourth son of the Quarter- master-General, was several years a law student in Baltimore, but becoming enamored of an English actress, named Elizabeth Arnold, whose prettmess and vivacity more than her genius for the stage made her a favorite, he eloped with her, and after a short period, having married hei\ became him- self an actor. They continued six or seven years in the theatres of the prin- cipal cities, and finally died, within a few weeks of each other, in Richmond, leaving three children, Henry, Edgar, and Rosalie, in utter destitution. Edgar Poe, who was born in Baltimore, in January, 1811, was at this pe- riod of remarkable beauty, and precocious wit. Mr. John Allan, a merchant of large fortune and liberal disposition, who had been intimate with his parents, having no children of his own, adopted him, and it was generally un- derstood among his acquaintances that he intended to make him the heir of his estate. The proud, nervous irritability of the boy's nature was fostered by his guardian's Well-meant but ill-judged indulgence. Nothing was per- mitted which could " break his spirit." He must be the master of his mas- ters, or not have any. An eminent and most estimable gentleman of Rich- mond has written to me, that when Poe w r as only six or seven years of age, he went to a school kept by a widow of excellent character, to whom was committed the instruction of the children of some of the principal families in the city. A portion of the grounds was used for the cultivation of vegeta- bles, and its invasion by her pupils strictly forbidden. A trespasser, if dis- covered, was commonly made to wear, during school hours, a turnip or carrot, or something of this sort, attached to his neck as a sign of disgrace. On one MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. occasion Poe, having violated the rules, was decorated with the promised badge, which he wore in sullenness until the dismissal of the boys, when, that the full extent of his wrong might be understood by his patron, of whose sympathy he was confident, he eluded the notice of the schoolmistress, who would have relieved him of his esculent, and made the best of his way home, with it dangling at his neck. Mr. Allan's anger was aroused, and he pro- ceeded instantly to the' school-room, and after lecturing the astonished dame upon the enormity of such an insult to his son and to himself, demanded his account, determined that the child should not again be subjected to such tyranny. Who can estimate the effect of this puerile triumph upon the growth of that morbid self-esteem which characterized the author in after- life? In 1816, he accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Allan to Great Britain, visited the most interesting portions of the country, and afterwards passed four or five years in a school kept at Stoke Newington, near London, by the Rev. Dr. Bransby. In his tale, entitled " William Wilson," he has introduced a striking description of this school and of his life here. He says : " My earliest recollections of a school life, are connected with a large, rambling, Eliza- bethan house, in a misty-looking village of England, where were a vast number of gigan- tic and gnarled trees, and where all the houses were excessively ancient. In truth, it was a dream-like and spirit-soothing place, that venerable old town. At this moment, in fancy, I feel the refreshing chilliness of its deeply-shadowed avenues, inhale the fragrance of its thousand shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinable delight, at the deep hollow note of the church-bell, breaking, each hour, with sullen and sudden roar, upon the still- ness of the dusky atmosphere in which the fretted Gothic steeple lay embedded and asleep. It gives me, perhaps, as much of pleasure as I can now in any manner experience, to dwell upon minute recollections of the school and its concerns. Steeped in misery as I am — misery, alas ! only too real — I shall be pardoned for seeking relief, however slight and temporary, in the weakness of a few rambling details. These, moreover, utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in themselves, assume, to my fancy, adventitious importance, as connected with a period and a locality when and where I recognise the first ambigu- ous monitions of the destiny which afterwards so fully overshadowed me. Let me then remember. The house, I have said, was old and irregular. The grounds were extensive, and a high and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of mortar and broken glass, encom- passed the whole. This prison-like rampart formed the limit of our domain ; beyond it we saw but thrice a week — once every Saturday afternoon, when, attended by two ushers, we were permitted to take brief walks in a body through some of the neighbor- ing fields — and twice during Sunday, when we were paraded in the same formal manner to the morning and evening service in the one church of the village. Of this church the principal of our school was pastor. With how deep a spirit of wonder and perplexity was I wont to regard him from our remote pew in the gallery, as, with step solemn and slow, he ascended the pulpit ! This reverend man, with countenance so demurely benign, with robes so glossy and so clerically flowing, with wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast, — could this be he who, of late, with sour visage, and in snuffy habiliments, admin- istered, ferule in hand, the Draconian Laws of the academy? Oh, gigantic paradox, too utterly monstrous for solution ! At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more pon- derous gate. It was riveted and studded with iron bolts, and surmounted with jagged iron spikes. What impressions of deep awe did it inspire ! It was never opened save for the three periodical egressions and ingressions already mentioned ; then, in every creak of its mighty hinges, we found a plenitude of mystery — a world of matter for solemn remark, or for more solemn meditation. The extensive enclosure was irregular in form, having MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. many capacious recesses. Of these, three or four of the largest constituted the play ground. It was level, and covered with fine hard gravel. I well remember it had no trees, nor benches, nor anything similar within it. Of course it was in the rear of the house. In front lay a small parterre, planted with box and other shrubs; but through this sacred division we passed only upon rare occasions indeed — such as a first advent to school or final departure thence, or perhaps, when a parent or friend having called for us, we joyfully took our way home for the Christmas or Midsummer holidays. But the house ! — how quaint an old building was this ! — tome how veritably a palace of enchant- ment ! There was really no end to its windings — to its incomprehensible subdivisions. It was difficult at any given time, to say with certainty upon which of its two stories one happened to be. From each room to every other there were sure to be found three or four steps either in ascent or descent. Then the lateral branches were innumerable — inconceivable— and so returning in upon themselves, that our most exact ideas in regard to the whole mansion were not very far different from those with which we pondered upon infinity. During the five years of my residence here, I was never able to ascertain with precision, in what remote locality lay the little sleeping apartment assigned to my- self and some eighteen or twenty other scholars. The school room was the largest in the house — I could not help thinking, in the world. It was very long, narrow, and dismally low, with pointed Gothic windows and a ceiling of oak. In a remote and terror-inspiring angle was a square enclosure of eight or ten feet, comprising the sanctum, ' during hours,' of our principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure, with massy door, sooner than open which in the absence of the ' Dominie,' we would all have will- ingly perished by the peine forte et dure. In other angles were two other similar boxes, far less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly matters of awe. One of these was the pulpit of the ' classical' usher, one of the ' English and mathematical.' Interspersed about the room, crossing and recrossing in endless irregularity, were innumerable benches and desks, black, ancient, and time-worn, piled desperately with much-bethumbed books, and so beseamed with initial letters, names at full length, grotesque figures, and other multi- plied efforts of the knife, as to have entirely lost what little of original form might have been their portion in days long departed. A huge bucket with water stood at one extre- mity of the room, and a clock of stupendous dimensions at the other. " Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable academy, I passed yet not in tedium or disgust, the years of the third lustrum of my life. The teeming brain of childhood requires no external world of incident to occupy or amuse it ; and the apparently dismal monotony of a school was replete with more intense excitement than my riper youth has derived from luxury, or my full manhood from crime. Yet I must believe that my first mental devel- opment had in it much of the uncommon — even much of the outre. Upon mankind at large the events of very early existence rarely leave in mature age any definite impres- sion. All is gray shadow — a weak and irregular remembrance — an indistinct regather- ing of feeble pleasures and phantasmagoric pains. With me this is not so. In childhood I must have felt with the energy of a man what I now find stami>ed upon memory in lines as vivid, as deep, and as durable as the exergues of the Carthaginian medals. Yet in fact — in the fact of the world's view — how little was there to remember. The morn- ing's awakening, the nightly summons to bed ; the connings, the recitations ; the period- ical half-holidays and perambulations ; the play-ground, with its broils, its pastimes, its intrigues ; these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, an universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and spirit-stirring. " Ok, le bon temps, que ce siecle de fer .'" In 1822, he returned to the United States, and after passing a few months at an Academy in Richmond, he entered the University at Charlottesville, where he led a very dissipated life ; the manners which then prevailed there •were extremely dissolute, and he was known as the wildest and most reck- less student of his class ; but his unusual opportunities, and the remarkable ease with which he mastered the most difficult studies, kept him all the MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. while in the first rank for scholarship, and he would have graduated with the highest honors, had not his gambling, intemperance, and other vices, induced his expulsion from the university. At this period he was noted for feats of hardihood, strength and activity, and on one occasion, in a hot day of June, he swam from Richmond to War- wick, seven miles and a half, against a tide running probably from two to three miles an hour* He was expert at fence, had some skill in drawing, and was a ready and eloquent conversationist and declaimer. His allowance of money while at Charlottesville had been liberal, but he quitted the place very much in debt, and when Mr. Allan refused to accept some of the drafts with which he had paid losses in gaming, he wrote to him an abusive letter, quitted his house, and soon after left the country with the Quixotic intention of joining the Greeks, then in the midst of their struggle with the Turks. He never reached his destination, and we know but little of his adventures in Europe for nearly a year. By the end of this time he had made his way to St. Petersburgh, and our Minister in that capital, the late Mr. Henry Middleton, of South Carolina, was summoned one morning to save him from penalties incurred in a drunken debauch. Through Mr. Mid- dleton's kindness he was set at liberty and enabled to return to this country. His meeting with Mr. Allan was not very cordial, but that gentleman de- clared himself willing to serve him in any way that should seem judicious ; and when Poe expressed some anxiety to enter the Military Academy, he induced Chief Justice Marshall, Andrew Stevenson, General Scott, and other eminent persons, to sign an application which secured his appointment to a scholarship in that institution. Mrs. Allan, whom Poe appears to have regarded with much affection, and who had more influence over him than any one else at this period, died on the twenty-seventh of February, 1829, which I believe was just before Poe left Richmond for West Point. It has been erroneously stated by all Poe's biographers, that Mr. Allan was now sixty -five years of age, and that Miss Paterson, to whom he was married afterward, was young enough to be his grand-daughter. Mr. Allan was in his forty-eighth year, and the difference between his age and that of his second wife was not so great as justly to attract any observation. For a few weeks the cadet applied himself with much assiduity to his stu- dies, and he became at once a favorite with his mess and with the officers and professors of the Academy ; but his habits of dissipation were renewed ; he neglected his duties and disobeyed orders ; and in ten months from his matriculation he was cashiered. * This statement was first printed during Mr. Poe's life-time, and its truth being ques- tioned in some of the journals, the following certificate was published by a distinguished gentleman of Virginia : "I was one of several who witnessed this swimming feat. We accompanied Mr. Poe in boats. Messrs. Robert Stannard, John Lyle, (since dead) Robert Saunders, John Mun- ford, I think, and one or two others, were also of the party. Mr. P. did not seem at all fatigued, and walked back to Richmond immediately after the feat — which was under- taken for a wager. "Robert G. Cabell." MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. He went again to Richmond, and was received into the family of Mr. Allan, who was disposed still to be his friend, and in the event of his good behavior to treat him as a son ; but it soon became necessary to close his doors against him forever. According to Poe's own statement he ridiculed the marriage of his patron with Miss Paterson, and had a quarrel with her ; but a different story,* scarcely suitable for repetition here, was told by the friends of the other party. Whatever the circumstances, ihey parted in anger, and Mr. Allan from that time declined to see or in any way to assist him. Mr. Allan died in the spring of 1834, in the fifty-fourth year of his age, leaving three children to share his property, of which not a mill was bequeathed to Poe. Soon after he left West Point Poe had printed at Baltimore a small volume of verses, (" Al Aaraaf," of about four hundred lines, " Tamerlane," of about three hundred hues, with smaller pieces,) and the favorable manner in which it was commonly referred to confirmed his belief that he might suc- ceed in the profession of literature. The contents of the book appear to have been written when he was between sixteen and nineteen years of age ; but though they illustrated the character of his abilities and justified his anticipa- tions of success, they do not seem to me to evince, all things considered, a very remarkable precocity. The late Madame d'Ossoli refers to some of them as the productions of a boy of eight or ten years, but I believe there is no evidence that anything of his which has been published was written be- fore he left the university. Certainly, it was his habit so constantly to labor upon what he had produced — he was at all times so anxious and industrious in revision — that his works, whenever first composed, displayed the perfection of his powers at the time when they were given to the press. His contributions to the journals attracted little attention, and his hopes of gaining a living in this way being disappointed, he enlisted in the army as a private soldier. How long he remained in the service I have not been able to ascertain. He was recognised by officers who had known him at West Point, and efforts were made, privately, but with prospects of success, to ob- tain for him a commission, when it was discovered by his friends that he had deserted. He had probably found relief from the monotony of a soldier's fife in lite- rary composition. His mind was never in repose, and without some such re- sort the dull routine, of the camp or barracks would have been insupportable. * The writer of an eulogium upon the life and genius of Mr. Poe, in the Southern Lite- rary Messenger, for March, 1850, thus refers to this point in his history : "The story of the other side is different; and if true, throws a dark shade upon the quarrel, and a very ugly light upon Poe's character. We shall not insert it, because it is one of those relations which we think with Sir Thomas Browne, should never be re- corded,— being "verities whose truth we fear and heartily wish there were no truth therein whose relations honest minds do deprecate. For of sins heteroclital, and such as want name or precedent, there is oft-times a sin even in their history. We desire no record of enormities : sins should be accounted new. They omit of their monstrosity as they fall from their rarity ; for men count it venial to err with their forefathers, and fool- ishly conceive they divide a sin in its society In things of this nature, silence com- mendeth history : 'tis the veniable part of things lost ; wherein there must never arise a Pancirollus, nor remain any register but that of hell." MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. "When he next appears, he has a volume of MS. stories, which he desires to print under the title of " Tales of the Folio Club." An offer by the proprie- tor of the Baltimore " Saturday Visiter," of two prizes, one for the best tale and one for the best poem, induced him to submit the pieces entitled " MS. found in a Bottle," " Lionizing," " The Visionary," and three others, with " The Coliseum," a poem, to the committee, which consisted of Mr. John P. Kennedy, the author of " Horse Shoe Robinson," Mr. J. H. B. Latrobe, and Dr. James H. Miller. Such matters are usually disposed of in a very off- hand way: Committees to award literary prizes drink to the payer's health in good wines, over unexamined MSS., which they submit to the discretion of publishers with permission to use their names in such a way as to promote the publishers' advantage. So perhaps it would have been in this case, but that one of the committee, taking up a little book remarkably beautiful and distinct in caligraphy, was tempted to read several pages ; and becoming inter- ested, he summoned the attention of the company to the half-dozen composi- tions it contained. It was unanimously decided that the prizes should be paid to " the first of geniuses who had written legibly." Not another MS. was unfolded. Immediately the " confidential envelope " was opened, and the successful competitor was found to bear the scarcely known name of Poe. The committee indeed awarded to him the premiums for both the tale and the poem, but subsequently altered their decision, so as to exclude him from the second premium, in consideration of his having obtained the higher one. The prize tale was the " MS. found in a Bottle." This award was published on the twelfth of October, 1833. The next day the publisher called to see Mr. Kennedy, and gave him an account of the author, which excited his curio- sity and sympathy, and caused him to request that he should be brought to Ins office. Accordingly he was introduced ; the prize-money had not yet been paid, and he was in the costume in which he had answered the adver- tisement of his good fortune. Thin, and pale even to ghastliness, his whole appearance indicated sickness and the utmost destitution. A well-worn frock coat concealed the absence of a shirt, and imperfect boots disclosed the want of hose. But the eyes of the young man were luminous with intelli- gence and feeling, and his voice and conversation and manners all won upon the lawyer's regard. Poe told his history, and his ambition, and it was de- termined that he should not want means for a suitable appearance in society, nor opportunity for a just display of his abilities in literature. Mr. Kennedy accompanied him to a clothing store, and purchased for him a respectable suit, with changes of linen, and sent him to a bath, from which he returned with the suddenly regained style of a gentleman. His new friends were very kind to him, and availed themselves of every opportunity to serve him. Near the close of the year 1834 the late Mr. T. "W. White established in Richmond the " Southern Literary Messenger." He was a man of much simplicity, purity and energy of character, but not a writer, and he frequently solicited of his acquaintances literary assistance. On receiving from him an application for an article, early in 1835, Mr. Ken- MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xiii nedy, who was busy with the duties of his profession, advised Poe to send one, and in a few weeks he had occasion to enclose the following answer to a letter from Mr. White. " Baltimore, April 13, 1835. " Dear Sir : Foe did right in referring to me. He is very clever with his pen — classical and scholarlike. He wants experience and direction, but I have no doubt he can be made very useful to you. And, poor fellow ! he is very poor. I told him to write something for every number of your magazine, and that you might find it to your advantage to give him some permanent employ. He has a volume of very bizarre tales in the hands of , in Philadelphia, who for a year past has been promising to publish them. This young fellow is highly imaginative, and a little given to the terrific. He is at work upon a tragedy, but I have turned him to drudging upon whatever may make money, and I have no doubt you and he will find your account in each other." In the next number of the " Messenger " Mr. White announced that Poe was its editor, or in other words, that he had made arrangements with a gentle- man of approved literary taste and attainments to whose especial manage- ment the editorial department would be confided, and it was declared that this gentleman would " devote his exclusive attention to the work." Poe continued, however, to reside in Baltimore, and it is probable that he was engaged only as a general contributor and a writer of critical notices of books. In a letter to Mr. White, under the date of the thirtieth of May, he says : "In regard to my critique of Mr. Kennedy's novel I seriously feel ashamed of what 1 have written. I fully intended to give the work a thorough review, and examine it in detail. Ill health alone prevented me from so doing. At the time I made the hasty sketch I sent you, I was so ill as to be hardly able to see the paper on which I wrote, and I finished it in a state of complete exhaustion. I have not, therefore, done anything like justice to the book, and I am vexed about the matter, for Mr. Kennedy has proved himself a kind friend to me in every respect, and I am sincerely grateful to him for many acts of generosity and attention. You ask me if lam perfectly satisfied with your course. 1 reply that I am — entirely. My poor services are not worth what you give me for them." About a month afterward he wrote : " You ask me if I would be willing to come on to Richmond if you should have occasion for my services during the coming winter. I reply that nothing would give me greater pleasure. I have been desirous for some time past of paying a visit to Richmond, and would be glad of any reasonable excuse for so doing. Indeed I am anxious to settle my- self in that city, and if, by any chance, you hear of a situation likely to suit me, I would gladly accept it, were the salary even the merest trifle. I should, indeed, feel myself greatly indebted to you if through your means I could accomplish this object. What you say in the conclusion of your letter, in relation to the supervision of proof-sheets, gives me reason to hope that possibly yoxi might find something for me to do in your office. If so, I should be very glad— for at present only a very small portion of my time is employed." He continued in Baltimore till September. In this period he wrote seve- ral long reviewals, which for the most part were rather abstracts of works than critical discussions, and published with others, " Hans Pfaall," a story in some respects very similar to Mr. Locke's celebrated account of Herschell's Discoveries in the Moon. At first he appears to have been ill satisfied with Richmond, or with his duties, for in two or three weeks after his removal to that city we find Mr. Kennedy writing to him : "I am sorry to see you in such plight as your letter shows you in. It is strange that just at this time, when everybody is praising you, and when fortune is beginning to smile xiv MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. upon your hitherto wretched circumstances, you should be invaded by these blue devils. It belongs, however, to your age and temper to be thus buffeted — but be assured, it only wants a little resolution to master the adversary forever. You will doubtless do well henceforth in literature, and add to your comforts as well as to your reputation, which it gives me great pleasure to assure you is everywhere rising in popular esteem." But he could not bear his good fortune. On receiving a month's salary- he gave himself up to habits which only necessity had restrained at Balti- more. For a week he was in a condition of brutish drunkenness, and Mr. White dismissed him. When he became sober, however, he had no resource but in reconciliation, and he wrote letters and induced acquaintances to call upon Mr. White with professions of repentance and promises of reformation. With his usual considerate and judicious kindness that gentleman answered him: " J\Iy dear Edgar : I cannot address you in such language as this occasion and my feel- ings demand : I must be content to speak to you in my plain way. That you are sincere in all your promises I firmly believe. But when you once again tread these streets, I have my fears that your resolutions will fail, and that you will again drink till your senses are lost. If you rely on your strength you are gone. Unless you look to your Maker for help you will not be safe. How much I regretted parting from you is known to Him only and myself. I had become attached to you ; I am still ; and I would willingly say return, did not a knowledge of your past life make me dread a speedy renewal of our separation. If you would make yourself contented with quarters in my house, or with any other pri- vate family, where liquor is not used, I should think there was some hope for you. But, if you go to a tavern, or to any place where it is used at table, you are not safe. You have fine talents, Edgar, and you ought to have them respected, as well as yourself. Learn to respect yourself, and you will soon find that you are respected. Separate your- self from the bottle, and from bottle companions, forever. Tell me if you can and will do so. If you again become an assistant in my office, it must be understood that all engage- ments on my part cease the moment you get drunk. I am your true friend. T. W. W." A new contract was arranged, but Poe's irregularities frequently inter- rupted the kindness and finally exhausted the patience of his generous though methodical employer, and in the number of the " Messenger " for January, 1837, he thus took leave of its readers : " Mr. Poe's attention being called in another direction, he will decline, with the present number, the editorial duties of the Messenger. His Critical Notices for this month end with Professor Anthon's Cicero — what follows is from another hand. With the best wishes to the magazine, and to its few foes as well as many friends, he is now desirous of bidding all parties a peaceful farewell." While in Richmond, with an income of but five hundred dollars a year, he had married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a very amiable and lovely girl, who was as poor as himself, and little fitted, except by her gentle temper, to be the wife of such a person. He went from Richmond to Baltimore, and after a short time, to Philadelphia, and to New- York. A slight acquaintance with Dr. Hawks had led that acute and powerful writer to invite his contri- butions to the " New- York Review," and he had furnished for the second number of it (for October, 1837) an elaborate but not very remarkable arti- cle upon Stephens's then recently published " Incidents of Travel in Egypt, Arabia Petrea, and the Holy Land." His abilities were not of the kind de- manded for such a work, and he never wrote another paper for this or for MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. any other Review of the same class. He had commenced in the " Literary- Messenger," a story of the sea, under the title of " Arthur Gordon Pym,"* and upon the recommendation of Mr. Paulding and others, it was printed by the Harpers. It is his longest work, and is not without some sort of merit, but it received little attention. The publishers sent one hundred copies to England, and being mistaken at first for a narrative of real experiences, it was advertised to be reprinted, but a discovery of its character, I believe, prevented such a result. An attempt is made in it, by simplicity of style, minuteness of nautical descriptions, and circumstantiality of narration, to give it that air of truth which constitutes the principal attraction of Sir Edward Seaward's Narrative, and Robinson Crusoe ; but it has none of the pleasing interest of these tales ; it is as full of wonders as Munchausen, has as many atrocities as the Book of Pirates, and as liberal an array of paining and revolting horrors as ever was invented by Anne Radcliffe or George Walker. Thus far a tendency to extravagance had been the most striking infirmity of his genius. He had been more anxious to be intense than to be natural ; and some of his bizarreries had been mistaken for satire, and admired for that quality. Afterward he was more judicious, and if his outlines were incredi- ble it was commonly forgotten in the simplicity of his details and their cohesive cumulation. Near the end of the year 1838 he settled in Philadelphia, He had no very definite purposes, but trusted for support to the chances of success as a magazinist and newspaper correspondent. Mr. Burton, the comedian, had recently established the " Gentleman's Magazine," and of this he became a contributor, and in May, 1839, the chief editor, devoting to it, for ten dollars a week, two hours every day, which left him abundant time for more im- portant labors. In the same month he agreed to furnish such reviewals as he had written for the " Literary Messenger," for the " Literary Examiner," a new magazine at Pittsburgh. But his more congenial pursuit was tale writing, and he produced about this period some of his most remarkable and characteristic works in a department of imaginative composition in which he was henceforth alone and unapproachable. The " Fall of the House of Usher," and " Legeia," are the most interesting illustrations of his mental organization — his masterpieces in a peculiar vein of romantic creation. They have the unquestionable stamp of genius. The analyses of the growth of madness in one, and the thrilling revelations of the existence of a first wife in the person of a second, in the other, are made with consummate skill ; and the strange and solemn and fascinating beauty which informs the style and * The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, of Nantucket ; comprising the De- tails of a Mutiny and Atrocious Butchery on board the American Brig Grampus, on her way to the South Seas — with an Account of the Re-capture of the Vessel by the Sur- vivors ; their Shipwreck, and subsequent Horrible Sufferings from Famine ; their Deliv- erance by means of the British schooner Jane Gray ; the brief Cruise of this latter Vessel in the Antartic Ocean ; her Capture, and the Massacre of her Crew among a Group of Islands in the 84th parallel of southern latitude ; together with the incredible Adventures and Discoveries still further South, to which that distressing Calamity gave rise.— 1 vol. l2mo. pp. 198. New -York, Harper & Brothers. 1838. MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. invests the circumstances of both, drugs the mind, and makes us forget the improbabilities of their general design. An awakened ambition and the healthful influence of a conviction that his works were appreciated, and that his fame was increasing, led him for a while to cheerful views of life, and to regular habits of conduct. He wrote to a friend, the author of " Edge Hill," in Richmond, that he had quite over- come " the seductive and dangerous besetment " by winch he had so often been prostrated, and to another friend that, incredible as it might seem, he had become a " model of temperance," and of " other virtues," which it had sometimes been difficult for him to practise. Before the close of the sum- mer, however, he relapsed into his former courses, and for weeks was regard- less of everything but a morbid and insatiable appetite for the means of intoxication. In the autumn he published all the prose stories he had then written, in two volumes, under the title of " Tales of the Grotesque and the Arabesque." The work was not saleable, perhaps because its contents were too familiar from recent separate publication in magazines ; and it was not so warmly praised, generally, as I think it should have been, though in point of style the pieces which it embraced are much less perfect than they were made subse- quently. He was with Mr. Burton until June, 1840 — more than a year. Mr. Burton appreciated his abilities and would gladly have continued the connexion ; but Poe was so unsteady of purpose and so unreliable that the actor was never sure when he left the city that his business would be cared for. On one oc- casion, returning after the regular day of publication, he found the number unfinished, and Poe incapable of duty. He prepared the necessary copy him- self, published the magazine, and was proceeding with arrangements for an- other month, when he received a letter from his assistant, of which the tone may be inferred from this answer : " I am sorry you have thought it necessary to send me such a letter. Your troubles have given a morbid tone to your feelings which it is your duly to discourage. I myself have been as severely handled by the world as you can possibly have been, but my suf- ferings have not tinged my mind with melancholy, nor jaundiced my views of society. You must rouse your energies, and if care assail you, conquer it. I will gladly overlook the past. I hope you will as easily fulfil your pledges for the future. We shall agree very well, though I cannot permit the magazine to be made a vehicle for that sort of severity which you think is so " successful with the mob." I am truly much less anxious about making a monthly "sensation" than I am upon the point of fairness. You must, my dear sir, get rid of your avowed ill-feelings toward your brother authors. You see I speak plainly: I cannot do otherwise upon such a subject. You say the people love havoc. I think they love justice. I think you yourself would not have written the arti cle on Dawes, in a more healthy state of mind. I am not trammelled by any vulgar con- sideration of expediency ; I would rather lose money than by such undue severity wound the feelings of a kind-hearted and honorable man. And I am satisfied that Dawes has something of the true fire in him. I regretted your word-catching spirit. But I wander from my design. I accept your proposition to recommence your interrupted avocations upon the Maga. Let us meet as if we had not exchanged letters. Use more exer- cise, write when feelings prompt, and be assured of my friendship. You will soon regain a healthy activity of mind, and laugh at your past vagaries." MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xvii This letter was kind and judicious. It gives us a glimpse of Poe's theory of criticism, and displays the temper and principles of the literary comedian in an honorable light. Two or three months afterward Burton went out of town to fulfil a professional engagement, leaving material and directions for completing the next number of the magazine in four days. He was absent nearly a fortnight, and on returning he found that his printers in the mean- while had not received a fine of copy ; but that Poe had prepared the pros- pectus of a new monthly, and obtained transcripts of his subscription and account books, to be used in a scheme for supplanting him. He encountered his associate late in the evening at one of his accustomed haunts, and said, " Mr. Poe, I am astonished : Give me my manuscripts so that I can attend to the duties you have so shamefully neglected, and when you are sober we will settle." Poe interrupted him with " Who are you that presume to ad- dress me in this manner ? Burton, I am — the editor — of the Penn Magazine — and you are — hiccup — a fool." Of course this ended his relations with the " Gentleman's." In November, 1840, Burton's miscellany was merged in "The Casket," owned by Mr. George R. Graham, and the new series received the name of its proprietor, who engaged Poe in its editorship. His connexion with " Gra- ham's Magazine " lasted about a year and a half, and this was one of the most active and brilliant periods of his literary life. He wrote in it several of his finest tales and most trenchant criticisms, and challenged attention by his papers entitled " Autography," and those on cryptology and cyphers. In the first, adopting a suggestion of Lavater, he attempted the illustration of character from handwriting ; and in the second, he assumed that human in- genuity could construct no secret writing which human ingenuity could not resolve : a not very dangerous proposition, since it implied no capacity in him- self to discover every riddle of this kind that should be invented. He how- ever succeeded with several difficult cryptographs that were sent to him, and the direction of his mind to the subject led "to the composition of some of the tales of ratiocination which so largely increased his reputation. The infirmi- ties which induced his separation from Mr. White and from Mr. Burton at length compelled Mr. Graham to seek for another editor ; but Poe still re- mained in Philadelphia, engaged from time to time in various literary occu- pations, and in the vain effort to establish a journal of his own to be called " The Stylus." Although it requires considerable capital to carry on a month- ly of the description he proposed, I tliink it would not have been difficult, with his well-earned fame as a magazinist, for him to have found a compe- tent and suitable publisher, but for the unfortunate notoriety of his habits, and the failure in succession of three persons who had admired him for his genius and pitied him for his misfortunes, by every means that tact or friend- ship could suggest, to induce the consistency and steadiness of application indispensable to success in such pursuits. It was in the spring of 1848 — more than a year after his dissociation from Graham — that he wrote the story of u The Gold Bug," for which he was paid a prize of one hundred dol- MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. lars. It has relation to Captain Kyd's treasure, and is one of the most re- markable illustrations of his ingenuity of construction and apparent subtlety of reasoning. The interest depends upon the solution of an intricate cypher In the autumn of 1844 Poe removed to New- York. It was while he resided in Philadelphia that I became acquainted with him. His manner, except during his fits of intoxication, was very quiet and gentlemanly ; he was usually dressed with simplicity and elegance ; and when once he sent for me to visit him, during a period of illness caused by protract- ed and anxious watching at the side of his sick wife, I was impressed by the singular neatness and the air of refinement in his home. It was in a small house, in one of the pleasant and silent neighborhoods far from the centre of the town, and though slightly and cheaply furnished, everything in it was so tasteful and so fitly disposed that it seemed altogether suitable for a man of genius. For this and for most of the comforts he enjoyed in his brightest as in his darkest years, he was chiefly indebted to his mother-in-law, who loved him with more than maternal devotion and constancy. He had now written his most acute criticisms and his most admirable tales. Of tales, besides those to which I have referred, he had produced " The De- scent into the Maelstrom," " The Premature Burial," " The Purloined Letter," " The Murders of the Rue Morgue," and its sequel, " The Mystery of Marie Roget." The scenes of the last three are in Paris, where the author's friend, the Chevalier Auguste Dupin, is supposed to reveal to him the curiosities of his experience and observation in matters of police. " The Mystery of Marie Roget" was first published in the autumn of 1842, before an extraordinary excitement, occasioned by the murder of a young girl named Mary Rogers, in the vicinity of New- York, had quite subsided, though several months after the tragedy. Under pretence of relating the fate of a Parisian grisette, Mr. Poe followed in minute detail the essential w r hile merely paralleling the ines- sential facts of the real murder. His object appears to have been to reinves- tigate the case and to settle his own conclusions as to the probable culprit. There is a great deal of hair-splitting in the' incidental discussions by Dupin, throughout all these stories, but it is made effective. Much of their popular- ity, as well as that of other tales of ratiocination by Poe, arose from their being in a new key. I do not mean to say that they are not ingenious ; but they have been thought more ingenious than they are, on account of their method and air of method. In " The Murders of the Rue Morgue," for in- stance, what ingenuity is displayed in unravelling a web which has been woven for the express purpose of unravelling ? The reader is made to con- found the ingenuity of the supposititious Dupin with that of the writer of the story. These works brought the name of Poe himself somewhat conspicu- ously before the law courts of Paris. The journal, La Commerce, gave a feuilleton in which " The Murders of the Rue Morgue " appeared in transla- tion. Afterward a writer for La Quotidienne served it for that paper under the title of " L'Orang-Otang." A third party accused La Quotidienne of plagiary from La Commerce, and in the course of the legal investigation MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. which ensued, the feuilletoniste of La Commerce proved to the satisfaction of the tribunal that he had stolen the tale entirely from Mr. Poe,* whose merits were soon after canvassed in the " Revue des Deux Mondes" and whose best tales were upon this impulse translated by Mme. Isabelle Meunier for the Democratic Pacifique and other French gazettes. In New- York Poe entered upon a new sort of life. Heretofore, from the commencement of his literary career, he had resided in provincial towns. Now he was in a metropolis, and with a reputation which might have served as a passport to any society he could desire. For the first time he was re- ceived into circles capable of both the appreciation and the production of literature. He added to his fame soon after he came to the city by the pub- lication of that remarkable composition " The Raven," of which Mr. Willis has observed that in his opinion " it is the most effective single example of fugi- tive poetry ever published in this country, and is unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift ;" and by that of one of the most extraordinary instances of the naturalness of detail — the verisimilitude of minute narrative — for which he was preeminently distinguished, his " Mesmeric Revelation," purporting to be the last conversation of a somnambule, held just before death with his magnetizer ; which was followed by the yet more striking ex- hibition of abilities in the same way, entitled " The Facts in the Case of M» * The controversy is wittily described in the following extract from a Parisian journal, L'Entr Acte, of the twentieth of October, 1846 : " Un grand journal accusait l'autre jour M. Old-Nick d'avoir vole un orang-outang. Cet interessant animal flanait dans le feuilleton de la Quotidienne, lorsque M. Old-Nick le vit, le trouva a son gout et s'en empara. Notre confrere avait sans doute besoin d'un groom. On sait que les Anglais ont depuis long-temps colonise les orangs-outangs, et les *ont instruits dans l'art de porter les lettres sur un plateau de vermeil, et de vernir les bottes. II paraitrait, toujours suivant le meme grand journal, que RJ. Old-Nick, apres avoir derobe cet orang-outang a la Quotidienne, l'aurait ensuite cede au Commerce, comme propriete a lui appartenant. Je sais que RI. Old-Nick est un garcon plein d'espiit et plein d'honneur, assez riche de son propre fonds pour ne pas s'approprier les orangs-outangs' des autres ; cette accusation me surprit. Apres tout, me dis-je, il y a eu des monomanies plus extraordinaires que celle-la ; le grand Bacon ne pouvait voir un baton de cire a cacheter sans se I'approprier : dans une conference avec RI. de RIetternich aux Tuileries, l'Empereur s'apercut que le diplomate autrichien glissait des pains a cacheter dans sa poche. RI. Old-Nick a une autre manie, il fait les orangs-outangs. Je m'attendais tou- jours a ce que la Quotidienn e jetat feu et flammes et demandat a grands cris son homme des bois. II faut vous dire que j'avais hi son histoire dans le Commerce, elle etait char- mante d'espritetde style, pleine de rapidite et de desinvolture ; la Quotidienne Vava.it egalement publiee, mais en trois feuilletons. L'orang-outang du Commerce n 'avait que nenf colonnes. II s'agissait done d'un autre quadrumane litteraire. Rla foi non ! e'etait le meme; seulement il n'appartenait ni a la Quotidienne, ni au Commerce. RI. Old-Nick l'avait einprunte a un romancier Americain qu'il est en train d'inventer dans la Revue des Deux-Mondes. Ce romancier s'appelle Poe : je ne dis pas le contraire. Voila done un ecrivain qui use du droit legitime d'arranger les nouvelles d'un romancier Americain qu'il a invente, et on l'accuse de plagiat, de vol au feuilleton ; on alarme ses amis en leur faisant croire que cet ecrivain est possede de la monomanie des orangs-outangs. Par la Courchamps ! voila qui me parait leger. M. Old-Nick a ecrit au journal en question une reponse pour retablir sa moralite, attaquee a l'endroit des orangs-outangs. Cet orang- outang a mis, ces jours derniers, toute la litterature en ernoi ; personne n'a cru un seul instant a l'accusation qu'on a essaye de faire peser sur RI. Old-Nick, d'autant plus qu'il avait pris soin d'indiqner luimeme la cage oii il avait pris son orang-outang. Ceci va fournir de nouvelles amies a la secte qui croit aux romanciers Americains. Le prejuge de l'existence de Cooper en prendra de nouvelles forces. En attendant que la vcrite se decouvre, nous sommes forces de convenir que ce Poe est un gaillard bien fin, bien spirituel, quand il est arrange par RI. Old-Nick. MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR, Valdemar," in which the subject is represented as having been mesmerized in articulo mortis. These pieces were reprinted throughout the literary and philosophical world, in nearly all languages, everywhere causing sharp and curious speculation, and where readers could be persuaded that they were fables, challenging a reluctant but genuine admiration. He had not been long in New- York before he was engaged by Mr. Willis and General Morris as critic and assistant editor of " The Mirror." He re- mained in this situation about six months, when he became associated with Mr. Briggs in the conduct of the "Broadway Journal," which in October, 1845, passed entirely into his possession. He had now the long-sought but never before enjoyed absolute control of a literary gazette, and, with much friendly assistance, he maintained it long enough to show that whatever his genius, he had not the kind or degree of talent necessary to such a position. His chief critical writings in the " Broadway Journal," were a paper on Miss Barrett's Poems and a long discussion of the subject of plagiarism, with espe- cial reference to Mr. Longfellow. In March, 1845, he had given a lecture at the Society Library upon the American poets, composed, for the most part, of fragments of his previously published reviewals ; and in the autumn he ac- cepted an invitation to read a poem before the Boston Lyceum. A week after the event, he printed in the " Broadway Journal " the following account of it, in reply to a paragraph in one of the city papers, founded upon a state- ment in the Boston " Transcript." " Our excellent friend, Major Noah, has suffered himself to be cajoled by that most be- guiling of all beguiling little divinities, Miss Walter, of ' The Transcript.' We have been looking all over her article with the aid of a taper, to see if we could discover a single syllable of truth in it — and really blush to acknowledge that we cannot. The adorable creature has been telling a parcel of fibs about us, by way of revenge for some- thing that we did to Mr. Longfellow (who admires her very much) and for calling her 'a pretty little witch' into the bargain. The facts of the case seem to be these : We were invited to ' deliver' (stand and deliver) a poem before the Boston Lyceum. As a matter of course, we accepted the invitation. The audience was 'large and distinguished.' Mr. dishing* preceded us with a very capital discourse : he was much applauded. On arising, we were most cordially received. We occupied some fifteen minutes with an apology for not ' delivering,' as is usual in such cases, a didactic poem : a didactic poem, in our opinion, being precisely no poem at all. After some farther words — still of apology — for the 'indefinitiveness' and 'general imbecility' of what we had to offer— all so unworthy a Bostonian audience — we commenced, and, with many interruptions of ap- plause, concluded. Upon the whole the approbation was considerably more (the more the pity too) than that bestowed upon Mr. dishing. When we had made an end, the audience, of course, arose to depart ; and about one-tenth of them, probably, had really departed, when Mr. Coffin, one of the managing committee, arrested those who remained, by the announcement that we had been requested to deliver 'The Raven.' We deliv- ered 'The Raven' forthwith — (without taking a receipt) — were very cordially applaud- ed again— and this was the end of it— with the exception of the sad tale invented to suit her own purposes, by that amiable little enemy of ours, Miss Walter. We shall never call a woman 'a pretty little witch' again, as long as we live. " We like Boston. We were born there — and perhaps it is just as well not to mention that we are heartily ashamed of the fact. The Bostonians are very well in their way. Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Their poetry is not so good. * Hon. Caleb Cushing, then recently returned from his mission to China. MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xxi Their common is no common thing— and the duck-pond might answer— if its answer could be heard for the frogs. But with all these good qualities the Bostonians have no soul. They have always evinced towards us, individually, the basest ingratitude for the services we rendered them in enlightening them about the originality of Mr. Longfellow. When we accepted, therefore, an invitation to 'deliver' a poem in Boston — we accepted it simply and solely, because we had a curiosity to know how it felt to be publicly hissed — and because we wished to see what effect we could produce by a neat little impromptu speech in reply. Perhaps, however, we overrated our own importance, or the Bostonian want of common civility — which is not quite so manifest as one or two of their editors would wish the public to believe. We assure Major Noah that he is wrong. The Bosto- nians are well-bred — as very dull persons very generally are. Still, with their vile ingrati- tude staring us in the eyes, it could scarcely be supposed that we would put ourselves to the trouble of composing for the Bostonians anything in the shape of an original poem. We did not. We had a poem (of about 500 lines) lying by us — one quite as good as new — one, at all events, that we considered would answer sufficiently well for an audience of Transcendentalists. That we gave them — it was the best that we had — for the price — and it did answer remarkably well. Its name was not ' The Messenger-Star ' — who but Miss Walter would ever think of so delicious a little bit of invention as that? We had no name for it at all. The poem is what is occasionally called a 'juvenile poem' — but the fact is, it is anything but juvenile now, for we wrote it, printed it, and published it, in book form, before we had fairly completed our tenth year. We read it verbatim, from a copy now in our possession, and which we shall be happy to show at any moment to any of our inquisitive friends. We do not, ourselves, think the poem a remarkably good one : — it is not sufficiently transcendental. Still it did well enough for the Boston audience — who evinced characteristic discrimination in understanding, and especially applauding, all those knotty passages which we ourselves have not yet been able to understand. "As regards the anger of the ' Boston Times ' and one or two other absurdities — as regards, we say, the wrath of Achilles — we incurred it — or rather its manifestation — by letting some of our cat out of the bag a few hours sooner than we had intended. Over a bottle of champagne, that night, we confessed to Messrs. Cushing, Whipple, Hudson, Fields, and a few other natives who swear not altogether by the frog-pond — we confessed, we say, the soft impeachment of the hoax. Et Mac Mae irae. We should have waited a couple of days." It is scarcely necessary to suggest that this must have been written before he had quite recovered from the long intoxication which maddened him at the time to which it refers — that he was not born in Boston, that the poem was not published in Ins tenth year, and that the " hoax " was all an after- thought. Two weeks later he renewed the discussion of the subject in the " Broadway Journal," commenting as follows upon allusions to it by other parties : " Were the question demanded of us— 'What is the most exquisite of sublunary plea sures?' we should reply, without hesitation, the making a fuss, or, in the classical words of a western friend, the ' kicking up a bobbery.' Never was a ' bobbery ' more de- lightful than which we have just succeeded in ' kicking up ' all around about Boston Common. We never saw the Frogpondians so lively in our lives. They seem abso- lutely to be upon the point of waking up. In about nine days the puppies may get open their eyes. That is to say they may get open their eyes to certain facts which have long been obvious to all the world except themselves— the facts that there exist other cities than Boston— other men of letters than Professor Longfellow — other vehicles of literary information than the 'Down-East Review.' "We had tact enough not to be ' taken in and done for ' by the Bostonians. Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes — {for timeo substitute contemno or turn-tip-our-nosed). We knew very well that among a certain clique of the Frogpondians, there existed a prede- termination to abuse us under any circumstances. We knew that, write what we would, xxii MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. they would swear it to be worthless. We knew that were we to compose for them a 4 Paradise Lost,' they would pronounce it an indifferent poem. It would have been very weak in us, then, to put ourselves to the trouble of atteznpting to please these people. We preferred pleasing ourselves. We read before them a 'juvenile ' — a very 'juvenile' poem — and thus the Frogpondians were had — were delivered up to the enemy bound hand and foot. Never were a set of people more completely demolished. They have blustered and flustered — but what have they done or said that has not made them more thoroughly ridiculous 1— what, in the name of Momus, is it possible for them to do or to say ? We 1 delivered ' them the ' juvenile poem ' and they received it with applause. This is accounted for by the fact that the clique (contemptible in numbers as in everything else) were overruled by the rest of the assembly. These malignants did not dare to interrupt by their preconcerted hisses, the respectful and profound attention of the majority. We have been told, indeed, that as many as three or four of the personal friends of the little old lady entitled Miss Walter, did actually leave the hall during the recitation— but, upon the whole, this was the very best thing they could do. We have been told this, we say— we did not see them take their departure .—the fact is they belong to a class of people that we make it a point never to see. The poem being thus well received, in spite of this ridiculous little cabal — the next thing to be done was to abuse it in the papers. Here, they imagined, they were sure of their game. But what have they accomplished? The poem, they say, is bad. We admit it. We insisted upon this fact in our prefatory remarks, and we insist upon it now, over and over again. It is bad — it is wretched — and what then ? We wrote it at ten years of age — had it been worth even a pumpkin-pie undoubtedly we should not have ' delivered ' it to them. To demonstrate its utter worth- lessness, ' The Boston Star ' has copied the poem in full, with two or three columns of criticism (we suppose) by way of explaining that we should have been hanged for its perpetration. There is no doubt of it whatever — we should. ' The Star,' however, (a dull luminary) has done us more honor than it intended ; it has copied our third edition of the poem, revised and improved. We considered this too good for the occasion by one-half, and so ' delivered ' the first edition with all its imperfections on its head. It is the first — the original edition — the delivered edition — which we now republish in our collection of Poems." When he accepted the invitation of the Lyceum he intended to write an original poem, upon a subject which he said had haunted his imagination for years ; but cares, anxieties, and feebleness of will, prevented ; and a week before the appointed night he wrote to a friend, imploring assistance. " You compose with such astonishing facility," he urged in his letter, " that you can easily furnish me, quite soon enough, a poem that shall be equal to my reputation. For the love of God I beseech you to help me in this extremity." The lady wrote lum kindly, advising him judiciously, but promising to attempt the fulfilment of his wishes. She was, however, an invalid, and so failed.* At last, instead of pleading illness himself, as he had previously done on a sim-. ilar occasion, he determined to read his poem of " Al Aaraaf," the original publication of which, in 1829, has already been stated. The last number of the " Broadway Journal " was published on the third of January, 1846, and Poe soon after commenced the series of papers enti- tled "The Literati of New- York City," which were published in "The Lady's Book " in six numbers, from May to October. Their spirit, boldness, and occasional causticity, caused them to be much talked about, and three * This lady was the late Mrs. Osgood, and a fragment of what she wrote under these circumstances may be found in the last edition of her works under the title of " Lulin,or the Diamond Fay." MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. editions were necessary to supply the demand for some numbers of the maga- zine containing them. They however led to a disgraceful quarrel, and this to their premature conclusion. Dr. Thomas Dunn English, who had at one time sustained the most intimate relations with Poe, chose to evince his re- sentment of the critic's unfairness by the publication of a card in which he painted strongly the infirmities of Poe's life and character, and alleged that he had on several occasions inflicted upon him personal chastisement. This was not a wise confession, for a gentleman never appeals to his physical abili- ties except for defence. But the entire publication, even if every word of it were true, was unworthy of Dr. English, unnecessary, and not called for by Poe's article, though that, as every one acquainted with the parties might have seen, was entirely false in what purported to be its facts. The state- ment of Dr. English appeared in the New- York " Mirror " of the twenty-third of June, and on the twenty-seventh Mr. Poe sent to Mr. Godey for publica- tion in the " Lady's Book " his rejoinder, which would have made about five of the large pages of that miscellany. Mr. Godey very properly declined to print it, and observed, in the communication of his decision, that the tone of the article was regarded as unsuitable for his work and as altogether wrong. In compliance with the author's wishes, however, he had caused its appear- ance in a daily paper. Poe then wrote to him : " The man or men who told you that there was anything wrong in the tone of my reply were either my enemies, or your enemies, or asses. When you see them, tell them so, from me. I have never written an article upon which I more confidently depend for lite- rary reputation than that Reply. Its merit lay in its being precisely adapted to its pur- pose. In this city I have had upon it the favorable judgments of the best men. All the error about it was yours. You should have done as I requested— published it in the ' Book.' It is of no use to conceive a plan if you have to depend upon another for its execution." Nevertheless, I agree with Mr. Godey. Poe's article was as bad as that of English. Yet a part of one of its paragraphs is interesting, and it is here transcribed : — " Let me not permit any profundity of disgust to induce, even for an instant, a viola- tion of the dignity of truth. What is not false, amid the scurrility of this man's state- ments, it is not in my nature to brand as false, although oozing from the filthy lips of which a lie is the only natural language. The errors and frailties which I deplore, it can- not at least be asserted that I have been the coward to deny. Never, even, have I made attempt at extenuating a weakness which is (or, by the blessing of God, toas) a calamity, although those who did not know me intimately had little reason to regard it otherwise than as a crime. For, indeed, had my pride, or that of my family permitted, there was much — very much — there was everything — to be offered in extenuation. Perhaps, even, there was an epoch at which it might not have been wrong in me to hint— what by the testimony of Dr. Francis and other medical men I might have demonstrated, had the pub- lic, indeed, cared for the demonstration — that the irregularities so profoundly lamented were the effect of a terrible evil rather than its cause.— And now let me thank God that in redemption from the physical ill I have forever got rid of the moral." Dr. Francis never gave any such testimony. On one occasion Poe borrow- ed fifty dollars from a distinguished litejjary woman of South Carolina, pro- mising to return it in a few days, and when he failed to do so, and was asked for a written acknowledgment of the debt that might be exhibited to the MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. husband of the friend who had thus served him, he denied all knowledge of it, and threatened to exliibit a correspondence which he said would make the woman infamous, if she said any more on the subject. Of course there had never been any such correspondence, but when Poe heard that a brother of the slandered party was in quest of him for the purpose of taking the satisfaction supposed to be due in such cases, he sent for Dr. Francis and induced him to carry to the gentleman his retraction and apology, with a statement which seemed true enough at the moment, that Poe was " out of his head." It is an ungracious duty to describe such conduct in a person of Poe's unquestionable genius and capacities of greatness, but those who are familiar with the career of this extraordinaxy creature can recall but too many similar anecdotes ; and as to his intemperance, they perfectly well un- derstand that its pathology was like that of ninety-nine of every hundred cases of the disease. As the autumn of 1846 wore on Poe's habits of frequent intoxication and his inattention to the means of support reduced him to much more than common destitution. He was now living at Fordham, several miles from the city, so that his necessities were not generally known even among his acquaintances ; but when the dangerous illness of his wife was added to his misfortunes, and his dissipation and accumulated causes of anxiety had prostrated all his own energies, the subject was introduced into the journals. The "Express" said : " We regret to learn that Edgar A. Poe and his wife are both dangerously ill with the consumption, and that the hand of misfortune lies heavy upon their temporal affairs. We are sorry to mention the fact that they are so far reduced as to be barely able to obtain the necessaries of life. This is indeed a hard lot, and we hope that the friends and ad- mirers of Mr. Poe will come promptly to his assistance in his bitterest hour of need." Mr. "Willis, in an article in the " Home Journal " suggesting a hospital for disabled laborers with the brain, said — " The feeling we have long entertained on this subject, has been freshened by a recent paragraph in the ' Express,' announcing that Mr. Edgar A. Poe and his wife were both dangerously ill, and suffering for want of the common necessaries of life. Here is one of the finest scholars, one of the most original men of genius, and one of the most industri- ous of the literary profession of our country, whose temporary suspension of labor, from bodily illness, drops him immediately to a level with the common objects of public charity. There was no intermediate stopping-place — no respectful shelter where, with the delicacy due to genius and culture, he might secure aid, unadvertised, till, with returning health, he could resume his labors and his unmodified sense of independence. He must either apply to individual friends — (a resource to which death is sometimes almost preferable) — or suffer down to the level where Charity receives claimants, but where Rags and Hu- miliation are the only recognised Ushers to her presence. Is this right? Should there not be, in all highly civilized communities, an Institution designed expressly for educated and refined objects of chanty— a hospital, a retreat, a home of seclusion and comfort, the sufficient claims to which would be such susceptibilities as are violated by the above mentioned appeal in a daily newspaper." The entire article from which this paragraph is taken, was an ingenious apology for Mr. Poe's infirmities ; but it was conceived and executed in a generous spirit, and it had a quick effect in various contributions, winch MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xxv relieved the poet from pecuniary embarrassments. The next week he pub- lished the following letter : " My Dear Willis .—The paragraph which has been put in circulation respecting my wife's illness, my own, my poverty, etc., is now lying before me ; together with the beauti- ful lines by Mrs. Locke and those by Mrs. , to which the paragraph has given rise, as well as your kind and manly comments in* The Home Journal.' The motive of the paragraph I leave to the conscience of him or her who wrote it or suggested it. Since the thing is done, however, and since the concerns of my family are thus pitilessly thrust before the public, I perceive no mode of escape from a public statement of what is true and what erroneous in the report alluded to. That my wife is ill, then, is true ; and you may imagine with what feelings I add that this illness, hopeless from the first, has been heightened and precipitated by her reception at two different periods, of anonymous letters, — one enclosing the paragraph now in question ; the other, those published calumnies of Messrs. , for which I yet hope to find redress in a court of justice. " Of the facts, that I myself have been long and dangerously ill, and that my illness has been a well understood thing among my brethren of the press, the best evidence is afforded by the innumerable paragraphs of personal and of literary abuse with which I have been latterly assailed. This matter, however, will remedy itself. At the very first blush of my new prosperity, the gentlemen who toadied me in the old, will recollect themselves and toady me again. You, who know me, will comprehend that I speak of these things only as having served, in a measure, to lighten the gloom of unhappiness, by a gentle and not unpleasant sentiment of mingled pity, merriment and contempt. That, as the inevitable consequence of so long an illness, I have been in want of money, it would be folly in me to deny— but that 1 have ever materially suffered from privation, be- yond the extent of my capacity for suffering, is not altogether true. That I am ' without friends' is a gross calumny, which I am sure you never could have believed, and which a thousand noble-hearted men would have good right never to forgive me for permitting to pass unnoticed and undented. Even in the city of New York I could have no difficulty in naming a hundred persons, to each of whom — when the hour for speaking had arrived — I could and would have applied for aid with unbounded confidence, and with ab- solutely no sense of humiliation. I do not think, my dear Willis, that there is any need of my saying more. I am getting better, and may add — if it be any comfort to my enemies — that I have little fear of getting worse. The truth is, I have a great deal to do ; and I have made up my mind not to die till it is done. Sincerely yours, " December 30th, 1846. Edgar A. Pok." This was written for effect. He had not been ill a great while, nor danger- ously at all ; there was no literary or personal abuse of him in the journals ; and his friends in town had been applied to ibr money until their patience was nearly exhausted. His wife, however, was very sick, and an a few weeks she died. In a letter to a lady in Massachusetts, who, upon the appearance of the newspaper articles above quoted, had sent him money and expressions of sympathy, he wrote, under date of March 10, 1847 : " In answering your kind letter permit me in the very first place to absolve myself from a suspicion which, under the circumstances, you could scarcely have failed to entertain — a suspicion of discourtesy toward yourself, in not having more promptly replied to you.. . I could not help fearing that should you see my letter to Mr. Willis — in which a natural pride, which I feel you could not blame, impelled me to shrink from public charity, even at the cost of truth, in denying those necessities which were but too real — I could not help fearing that, should you see this letter, you would yourself feel pained at having caused me pain — at having been the means of giving further publicity to an unfounded report — at all events to the report of a wretchedness which Ihad thought it prudent (since the world regards wretchedness as a crime) so publicly to disavow. In a word, venturing to judge your noble nature -by my own, 1 felt grieved lest my published denial might cause Vol. III.— B MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. you to regret what you had done ; and my first impulse was to write you, and assure you> even at the risk of doing so too warmly, of the sweet emotion, made up of respect and gratitude alone, with which my heart was filled to overflowing. While I was hesitating, however, in regard to th^3 propriety of this step, I was overwhelmed by a sorrow so poig- nant as to deprive me for several weeks of all power of thought or action. Your letter, now lying before me, tells me that I had not been mistaken in your nature, and that I should not have hesitated to address you ; but believe me, my dear Mrs. L , that I am already ceasing to regard those difficulties or misfortunes which have led me to even this partial correspondence with yourself." For nearly a year Mr. Poe was not often before the public, but he was as industrious, perhaps, as he had been at any time, and early in 1848 adver- tisement was made of his intention to deliver several lectures, with a view to obtain an amount of money sufficient to establish his so-long-contemplated monthly magazine. His first lecture — and only one at this period — was given at the Society Library, in New- York, on the ninth of February, and was upon the Cosmogony of the Universe ; it was attended by an eminently intellectual auditory, and the reading of it occupied about two hours and a half; it was what he afterwards published under the title of "Eureka, a Prose Poem." To the composition of this work he brought his subtlest and highest capacities, in their most perfect development. Denying that the arcana of the universe can be explored by induction, but informing his imagination with the various results of science, he entered with unhesitating boldness, though with no guide but the divinest instinct, — that, sense of beauty, in which our great Edwards recognises the flowering of all truth — into the sea of speculation, and there built up of according laws and their phenomena, as under the influence of a scientific inspiration, his theory of Nature. I will not attempt the difficult task of condensing his propositions ; to be apprehended they must be studied in his own terse and simple language ; but in this we have a summary of that which he regards as fundamental : " The law which we call Gravity,'' he says, ' : exists on account of matter having been radiated, at its origin, atomically, into a, limited sphere of space, from one, individual, unconditional, irrelative/ and absolute Particle Proper, by the sole process in which it was possible to satisfy, at the same time, the two conditions, radiation and equable distribution throughout the sphere — that is to say, by a force varying in direct proportion with the squares of the distances between the radiated atoms, respectively, and the particular centre of radiation." Poe was thoroughly persuaded that he had discovered the great secret ; that the propositions of " Eureka " were true ; and he was wont to talk of the subject with a sublime and electrical enthusiasm which they cannot have forgotten who were familiar with him at the period of its publication. He felt that an author known solely by his adventures in the lighter literature, throwing down the gauntlet to professors of science, could not expect abso- lute fairness, and he had no hope but in discussions led by wisdom and candor. Meeting me, he said, " Have you read ' Eureka V " I answered " Not yet : I have just glanced at the notice of it by Willis, who thinks it MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. contains no more fact than fantasy, and I am sorry to see — sorry if it be t rue — suggests that it corresponds in tone with that gathering of sham and obsolete hypotheses addressed to fanciful tyros, the ' Vestiges of Creation ;' and our good and really wise friend Bush, whom you will admit to be of all the professors, in temper one of the most habitually just, thinks that while you may have guessed very shrewdly, it would not be difficult to suggest many difficulties in the way of your doctrine." " It is by no means ingenuous," he replied, " to hint that there are such difficulties, and yet to leave them unsuggested. I challenge the investigation of every point in the book. I deny that there are any difficulties which I have not met and overthrown. Injustice is done me by the application of this word 'guess :'. I have assumed nothing and proved all." In his preface he wrote : " To the few who love me and whom I love ; to those who feel rather than to those who think ; to the dreamers and those who put faith in dreams as in the only realities — I offer this book of truths, not in the character of Truth- Teller, but for the beauty that abounds in its truth : constituting it true. To these I present the composition as an Art-Product alone : — let us say as a Romance ; or, if it be not urging too lofty a claim, as a Poem. What I here propound is true : therefore it cannot die : or if by any means it be now trodden down so that it die, it will rise again to the life everlasting." When I read " Eureka " I could not help but think it immeasurably superior as an illustration of genius to the " Vestiges of Creation ;" and as I admired the poem, (except the miserable attempt at humor in what pur- ports to be a letter found in a bottle floating on the Mare tenebrarum,) so I regretted its pantheism, which is not necessary to its main design. To some of the objections to his work he made this answer in a letter to Mr. C. F. Hoffman, then editor of the " Literary World :" " Dear Sir :— In your paper of July 29, I find some comments on " Eureka," a late book of my own ; and I know you too well to suppose, for a moment, that you will refuse me the privilege of a few words in reply. I feel, even, that I might safely claim, from Mr. Hoffman, the right, which every author has, of replying to his critic tone for tone— that is to say, of answering your correspondent, flippancy by flippancy and sneer by sneer —but, in the first place, I do not wish to disgrace the " World ;" and, in the second, I feel that I never should be done sneering, in the present instance, were I once to begin. La- martine blames Voltaire for the use which he made of (ruse) misrepresentation, in his attacks on the priesthood; but our young students of Theology do not seem to be aware that in defence, or what they fancy to be defence, of Christianity, there is anything wrong in such gentlemanly peccadillos as the deliberate perversion of an author's text — to say nothing of the minor indecora of reviewing a book without reading it and without having the faintest suspicion of what it is about. "You will understand that it is merely the misrepresentations of the critique in ques- tion to which I claim the privilege of reply : — the mere opinions of the writer can be of no consequence to me — and I should imagine of very little to himself— that is to say if he knows himself, personally, as well as /have the honor of knowing hirti. The first mis- representation is contained in this sentence : — ' This letter is a keen burlesque on the Aristotelian or Baconian methods of ascertaining Truth, both of which the writer ridi- cules and despises, and pours forth his rhapsodical ecstasies in a glorification of the third mode — the noble art of guessing." 1 What I really say is this : — That there is no absolute certainty either in the Aristotelian or Baconian process — that, for this reason, neither xxviii MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. Philosophy is so profound as it fancies itself— and that neither has a right to sneer at that seemingly imaginative process called Intuition (by which the great Kepler attained his laws ;) since ' Intuition,' after all, ' is but the conviction arising from those inductions or deductions of which the processes are so shadowy as to escape our consciousness, elude our reason or defy our capacity of expression.' The second misrepresentation runs thus : — 'The developments of electricity and the formation of stars and suns, luminous and non-luminous, moons and planets, with their rings, &c, is deduced, very much accord- ing to the nebular theory of Laplace, from the principle propounded above.' Now the impression intended to be made here upon the reader's mind, by the ' Student of Theol- ogy,' is, evidently, that my theory may all be very well in its way, but that it is nothing but Laplace over again, with some modifications that he (the Student of Theology) can- not regard as at all important. I have only to say that no gentleman can accuse me of the disingenuousness here implied ; inasmuch as, having proceeded with my theory up to that point at which Laplace's theory meets it, I then give Laplace's theory in full, with the expression of my firm conviction of its absolute truth at all points. The ground covered by the great French astronomer compares with that covered by my theory, as a bubble compares with the ocean on which it floats ; nor has he the slightest allusion to the ' principle propounded above,' the principle of Unity being the source of all things— the principle of Gravity being merely the Reaction of the Divine Act which irradiated all things from Unity. In fact, no point of my theory has been even so much as alluded to by Laplace. I have not considered it necessary, here, to speak of the astronomical know- ledge displayed in the ' stars and suns ' of the Student of Theology, nor to hint that it would be better grammar to say that ' development and formation' are, than that develop- ment and formation is. The third misrepresentation lies in a foot-note, where the critic says : — ' Further than this, Mr. Poe's claim that he can account for the existence of all organized beings — man included — merely from those principles on which the origin and present appearance of suns and worlds are explained, must be set down as mere bald assertion, without a particle of evidence. In other words we should term it arrant fudge.'' The perversion at this point is involved in a wilful misapplication of the word * principles.' I say ' wilful ;' because, at page 63, I am particularly careful to distinguish between the principles proper, Attraction and Repulsion, and those merely resultant sub- principles which control the universe in detail. To these sub-principles, swayed by the immediate spiritual influence of Deity, I leave, without examination, all that which the Student of Theology so roundly asserts I account for on the principles which account for the constitution of suns, &c. " In the third column of his ' review ' the critic says :— ' He asserts that each soul is its own God— its own Creator.' What I do assert is, that ' each soul is, in part, its own God— its own Creator.' Just below, the critic says :— ' After all these contradictory pro- poundings concerning God we would remind him of what he lays down on page 28 — 'of this Godhead in itself he alone is not imbecile — he alone is not impious who propounds nothing. A man who thus conclusively convicts himself of imbecility and impiety needs no further refutation.' Now the sentence, as I wrote it, and as I find it printed on that very page which the critic refers to and which must have been lying before him while he quoted my words, runs thus : — ' Of this Godhead, in itself, he alone is not imbecile, &c, who propounds nothing.' By the italics, as the critic well knew, I design to distinguish between the two possibilities — that of a knowledge of God through his works and that of a knowledge of Him in his essejitial nature. The Godhead, in itself, is distinguished from the Godhead observed in its effects. But our critic is zealous. Moreover, being a divine, he is honest— ingenuous. It is his duty to pervert my meaning by omitting my italics— just as, in the sentence previously quoted, it was his Christian duty to falsify my argument by leaving out the two words, ' in part,' upon which turns the whole force- indeed the whole intelligibility of my proposition. "Were these ' misrepresentations' (is that the name for them ?) made for any less serious a purpose than that of branding my book as 'impious ' and myself as a 'pan- theist,' a ' polytheist,' a Pagan, or a God knows what (and indeed I care very little so it be not a ' Student of Theology,') I would have permitted their dishonesty to pass unuo- MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. ticed, through pure contempt for the boyishness — for the turn down- shirt-collar-ness of their tone : — but, as it is, you will pardon me, Mr. Editor, that I have been compelled to expose a 'critic' who, courageously preserving his own anonymosity, takes advantage of my absence from the city to misrepresent, and thus villify me, by name. "Fordham, September 20, 1848." "Edgar A. Pok." From this time Poe did not write much ; he had quarrelled with the con- ductors of the chief magazines for which he had previously written, and they no longer sought his assistance. In a letter to a friend, he laments the im- probabilities of an income from literary labor, saying : " I have represented to you as merely an ambitious simpleton, anxious to get into society with the reputation of conducting a magazine which somebody behind the cur- tain always prevents him from quite damning with his stupidity ; he is a knave and a beast. I cannot write any more for the Milliner's Book, where T n prints his feeble and very quietly made dilutions of other people's reviews : and you know that can afford to pay but little, though I am glad to do anything for a good fellow like . In this emergency I sell articles to the vulgar and trashy , for $5 a piece. I enclose my last, cut out, lest you should see by my sending the paper in what company I am forced to appear." » His name was now frequently associated with that of one of the most brilliant women of New England, and it was publicly announced that they were to be married. He had first seen her on his way from Boston, when he visited that city to deliver a poem before the Lyceum there. Restless, near the midnight, he wandered from his hotel near where she lived, until he saw her walking in a garden. He related the incident afterward in one of his most exquisite poems, worthy of himself, of her, and of the most exalted passion. • " I saw thee once — once only — years ago ; Were seen no more : the very roses' odors I must not say hmc many — but not many. Died in the arms of the adoring airs. It was a July midnight : and from out All — all expired save thee — save less than thou : A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Save only the divine light in thine eyes — Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, I saw but them— they were the world to me. With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, I saw but them — saw only them for hours — Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand Saw only them until the moon went down. Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwrilten Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe — Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres '. Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses How dark a wo ! yet how sublime a hope ! That gave out, in return for the love-light, How silently serene a sea of pride 1 Their odorous souLs in an ecstatic death — How daring an ambition ! yet how deep — Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses How fathomless a capacity for love! That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted " But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; "" Clad all in "white, upon a violet bank And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees I saw thee half reclining; while the moon Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses, They would not'go — they never yet have gone. And on thine own, upturn'd — alas, in sorrow! Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, " Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight — They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. Was it not Fate, (whose name is also* Sorrow,) They follow me — they lead me through the years. That bade me pause before that garden-gate, They are my ministers — yet I their slave. To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses! Their office is to illumine and enkindle- No footstep stirred ; the hated world all slept, My duty, to be saved by their bright light, Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven! — oh, God! And purified in their electric fire, How my heart beats in coupling those two words !) And sanctified in their elysian fire. Save only thee and me. I paused — I looked— They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,) And in an instant ail things disappeared. And are far up in Heaven — the stars I kneel to (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!) In the sad, silent watches of my night ; The pearly lustre of the moon went out : While even in the meridian glare of day The mossy banks and the meandering paths, I see them still — two sweetly scintillant The happy flowers and the repining trees, Venuses, unextinguished by the sun !" They were not married, and the breaking of the engagement affords a striking illustration of his character. He said to an acquaintance in New- York, who congratulated with him upon the prospect of his union with a person of so much genius and so many virtues — " It is a mistake : I am not MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. going to be married." " Why, Mr. Poe, I understand that the banns have been published." " I cannot help what you have heard, my dear Madam : but mark me, I shall not many her." He left town the same evening, and the next day was reeling through the streets of the city which was the lady's home, and in the evening — that should have been the evening before the bridal — in his drunkenness he committed at her house such outrages as made necessary a summons of the police. Here was no insanity leading to indul- gence : he went from New- York with a determination thus to induce an end- ing of the engagement ; and he succeeded. Sometime in August, 1849, Mr. Poe left New- York for Virginia. In Phila- delphia he encountered persons who had been his associates in dissipations while he lived there, and for several days he abandoned himself entirely to the control of his worst appetites. When his money was all spent, and the disorder of his dress evinced the extremity of his recent intoxication, he asked in charity means for the prosecution of his journey to Richmond. There, after a few days, he joined a temperance society, and his conduct showed the earnestness of his determination to reform his life. He delivered in some of the principal towns of Virginia two lectures, which were well attended, and renewing his acquaintance with a lady whom he had known in his youth, he was engaged to marry her, and wrote to his friends that he should pass the remainder of his days among the scenes endeared by all his pleasantest recollections of youth. On Thursday, the fourth of October, he set out for New- York, to fulfil a lite- rary engagement, and to prepare for his marriage. Arriving in Baltimore he gave his trunk to a porter, with directions to convey it to the cars which were to leave in an hour or two for Philadelphia, and went into a tavern to obtain some refreshment. Here he met acquaintances who invited him to drink ; all his resolutions and duties were soon forgotten ; in a few hours he was in such a state as is commonly induced only by long-continued intoxication ; af- ter a night of insanity and exposure, he was carried to a hospital ; and there, on the evening of Sunday, the seventh of October, 1849, he died, at the age of thirty-eight years. It is a melancholy history. No author of as much genius had ever in this country as much unhappiness ; but Poe's unhappiness was in an unusual degree the result of infirmities of nature, or of voluntary faults in conduct. A writer who evidently knew him well, and who comes before us in the "Southern Literary Messenger" as his defender, is "compelled to admit that the blemishes in his life were effects of character rather than of circum- stances."* How this character might have been modified by a judicious education of all his faculties I leave for the decision of others, but it will be evident to those who read this biography that the unchecked freedom of his earlier years was as unwise as its results were unfortunate. It is contended that the higher intelligences, in the scrutiny to which they appeal, are not to be judged by the common laws ; but I apprehend that * Southern Literary Messenger, March, 1850, p. 179. MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. this doctrine, as it is likely to be understood, is entirely wrong. All men are amenable to the same principles, to the extent of the parallelism of these principles with their experience ; and the line of duty becomes only more severe as it extends into the clearer atmosphere of truth and beauty which is the life of genius. De mortuis nil nisi bonum is a common and an hon- orable sentiment, but its proper application would lead to the suppression of the histories of half of the most conspicuous of mankind ; in this case it is impossible on account of the notoriety of Mr. Poe's faults ; and it would be unjust to the living against whom his hands were always raised and who had no resort but in his outlawry from their sympathies. Moreover, his career is full of instruction and warning, and it has always been made a por- tion of the penalty of wrong that its anatomy should be displayed for the common study and advantage. The character of Mr. Poe's genius has been so recently and so admirably discussed by Mr. Lowell, with whose opinions on the subject I for the most part agree, that I shall say but little of it here, having already extended this notice. beyond the limits at first designed. There is a singular harmony be- tween his personal and his literary qualities. St. Pierre, who seemed to be without any nobility in his own nature, in his writings appeared to be moved only by the finest and highest impulses. Poe exhibits scarcely any virtue in either his life or his writings. Probably there is not another instance in the literature of our language in which so much has been accomplished without a recognition or a manifestation of conscience. Seated behind the intelli- gence, and directing it, according to its capacities, Conscience is the parent of whatever is absolutely and unquestionably beautiful in art as well as in con- duct. It touches the creations of the mind and they have life ; without it they have never, in the range of its just action, the truth and naturalness which are approved by universal +o . ouiiunng reputation. In Poe's works there is constantly display a the most touching melancholy, the moat extreme and terrible despair, but never reverence or remorse. His genius was peculiar, and not, as he himself thought, various. He re- marks, in one of his letters : "There is one particular in which I have had wrong done me, and it may not be indec- orous in me to call your attention to it. The last selection of my tales was made from about seventy by one of our great little cliquists and claquers, Wiley and Putnam's rea- der, Duyckinck. He has what he thinks a taste for ratiocination, and has accordingly made up the book mostly of analytic stories. But this is not representing my mind in its various phases — it is not giving me fair play. In writing these tales one by one, at long intervals, I have kept the book unity always in mind — that is, each has been composed with reference to its effect as part of a whole. In this view, one of my chief aims has been the widest diversity of subject, thought, and especially tone and manner of handling. Were all my tales now before me in a large volume, and as the composition of another, the merit which would principally arrest my attention would be their wide diversity and /variety. You will be surprised to hear me say that, (omitting one or two of my first efforts.) I do not consider any one of my stories better than another. There is a vast va- riety of kinds, and, in degree of value, these kinds vary — but each tale is equally good of its kind. The loftiest kind is that of the highest imagination — and for this reason only ' Ligeia ' may be called my best tale." MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. But it seems to me that this selection of his tales was altogether judicious. Had it been submitted to me I might indeed have changed it in one or two instances, but I should not have replaced any tale by one of a different tone. One of the qualities upon which Poe prided himself was his humor, and he has left us a large number of compositions in this department, but except a few paragraphs in his " Marginalia," scarcely anything which it would not have been injurious to his reputation to republish. His realm was on the shadowy confines of human experience, among the abodes of crime, gloom, and horror, and there he delighted to surround himself with images of beau- ty and of terror, to raise his solemn palaces and towers and spires in a night upon which should rise no sun. His minuteness of detail, refinement of rea- soning, and propriety and power of language — the perfect keeping (to borrow a phrase from another domain of art) and apparent good faith with which he managed the evocation and exhibition of his strange and spectral and revolt- ing creations — gave him an astonishing mastery over his readers, so that his books were closed as one would lay aside the nightmare or the spells of opium. The analytical subtlety evinced in his works has frequently been over- estimated, as I have before observed, because it has not been sufficiently con- sidered that his mysteries were composed with the express design of being dissolved. When Poe attempted the illustration of the profounder operations of the mind, as displayed in written reason or in real action, he frequently failed entirely. In poetry, as in prose, he was eminently successful in the metaphysical treatment of the passions. His poems are constructed with wonderful inge- nuity, and finished with consummate art. They display a sombre and weird imagination, and a taste almost faultless in the apprehension of that sort of beauty which was most agreeable to his temper. But they evince little genuine feeling, and less ox that spontaneous ecstacy which gives its freedom, smooth- pe"«s and naturalness to immortal verse. JMs own account of the composition of " The Raven," discloses his methods — the absence of all impulse, and the absolute control of calculation and mechanism. That curious analysis of the processes by which he wrought would be incredible if from another hand. He was not remarkably original in invention. Indeed some of his plagiar- isms are scarcely paralleled for their audacity in all literary history : For in- stance, in his tale of " The Pit and the Pendulum," the complicate machinery upon which the interest depends is borrowed from a story entitled " Viven- zio, or Italian Vengeance," by the author of " The First and Last Dinner," in " Blackwood's Magazine." And I remember having been shown by Mr. Long- fellow, several years ago, a series of papers which constitute a demonstration that Mr. Poe was indebted to him for the idea of " The Haunted Palace," one of the most admirable of his poems, which he so pertinaciously asserted had been used by Mr. Longfellow in the production of his " Beleaguered City." Mr. Longfellow's poem was written two or three years before the first publication of that by Poe, and it was during a portion of this time in Poe's possession ; but it was not printed, I believe, until a few weeks after the appearance of MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. " The Haunted Palace." " It would be absurd," as Poe himself said many times, " to believe the similarity of these pieces entirely accidental." This was the first cause of all that malignant criticism which for so many years he carried on against Mr. Longfellow. In his " Marginalia " he borrowed largely, especially from Coleridge, and I have omitted in the republication of these papers, numerous paragraphs which were rather compiled than borrowed from one of the profoundest and wisest of our own scholars.* In criticism, as Mr. Lowell justly remarks, Mr. Poe had " a scientific pre- cision and coherence of logic ;" he had remarkable dexterity in the dissection of sentences ; but he rarely ascended from the particular to the general, from subjects to principles : he was familiar with the microscope but never looked through the telescope. His criticisms are of value to the degree in which they are demonstrative, but his unsupported assertions and opinions were so apt to be influenced by friendship or enmity, by the desire to please or the fear to offend, or by his constant ambition to surprise, or produce a sensation, that they should be received in all cases with distrust of then- fairness. A volume might be filled with literary judgments by him as antagonistical and inconsistent as the sharpest antitheses. For example, when Mr. Laughton Osborn's romance, " The Confessions of a Poet," came out, he reviewed it in " The Southern Literary Messenger," saying : "There is nothing of the vates about the author. He is no poet — and most positively ■he is no prophet. He avers upon his word of honor that in commencing this work he loads a pistol and places it upon the table. He further states that, upon coming to a con- clusion, it is his intention to blow out what he supposes to be his brains. Now this is excellent. But, even with so rapid a writer as the poet must undoubtedly be, there would be some little difficulty in completing the book under thirty days or thereabouts. The best of powder is apt to sustain injury by lying so long 'in the load.' We sincerely hope the gentleman took the precaution to examine his priming before attempting the rash act. A flash in the pan — and in such a case — were a thing to be lamented. Indeed there would be no answering for the consequences. We might even have a second series of the ' Confessions.' " — Southern Literary Messenger, i. 459. This review was attacked, particularly in the Richmond " Compiler," and Mr. Poe felt himself called upon to vindicate it to the proprietor of the maga- zine, to whom he wrote : " There is no necessity of giving the ' Compiler ' a reply. The book is silly enough of it- self, without the aid of any controversy concerning it. I have read it, from beginning * I have neither space, time, nor inclination for a continuation of this subject, and I add but one other instance, in the words of the Philadelphia " Saturday Evening Post," — published while Mr. Poe was living: " One of the most remarkable plagiarisms was perpetrated by Mr. Poe, late of the Broad- way Journal, whose harshness as a critic and assumption of peculiar originality, makes the fault, in his case, more glaring. This gentleman, a few years ago, in Philadelphia, published a work on Conchology as original, when in reality it was a copy, nearly ver- batim, of 'The Text Book of Conchology, by Capt. Thomas Brown,' printed in Glasgow in 1833, a duplicate of which we have in our library. Mr. Poe actually took out a copy- right for the American edition of Capt. Brown's work, and. omitting all mention of the English original, pretended, in the preface, to have been under great obligations to seve- ral scientific gentlemen of this city. It is but justice to add, that in the second edition of this book, published lately in Philadelphia, the name of Mr. Poe is withdrawn from the title-page, and his initials only affixed to the preface. But the affair is one of the most curious on record." B* MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. to end, and was very much amused at it. My opinion of it is pretty nearly the opinion of the press at large. I have heard no person offer one serious word in its defence." — Letter to T. W. White. Afterwards Mr. Poe became personally acquainted with the author and he then wrote, in his account of " The Literati of New- York City," as follows : "The Confessions of a Poet made much noise in the literary world, and no little curi- osity was excited in regard to its author, who was generally supposed to be John Neal The " Confessions," however, far surpassed any production of Mr. NeaPs. . . . He has done nothing which, as a whole, is even respectable, and "The Confessions" are quite remarkable for their artistic unity and perfection. But on higher regards they are to be commended. / do not think, indeed, that a better book of its kind has been written in America Its scenes of passion are intensely wrought, its incidents are striking and original, its sentiments audacious and suggestive at least, if not at all times tenable. In a word, it is that rare thing, a fiction of power without rudeness." I will adduce another example of the same kind. In a notice of the " Dem- ocratic Review," for September, 1845, Mr. Poe remarks of Mr. William A. Jones's paper on American Humor : " There is only one really bad article in the number, and that is insufferable : nor do we think it the less a nuisance because it inflicts upon ourselves individually a passage of maudlin compliment about our being a most 'ingenious critic' and ' prose poet,' with some other things of a similar kind. We thank for his good word no man who gives pal- pable evidence, in other cases than our own, of his incapacity to distinguish the false from the true — the right from the wrong. If we are an ingenious critic, or a prose poet, it is not because Mr. William Jones says so. The truth is that this essay on 'American Humor' is contemptible both in a moral and literary sense — is the composition of an imitator and a quack — and disgraces the magazine in which it makes its appearance." — Broadway Journal, Vol. ii. No. 11. In the following week he reconsidered this matter, opening his paper for a defence of Mr. Jones ; but at the close of it said — " If we have done Mr. Jones injustice, we beg his pardon : but we do not think we have." Yet in a subsequent article in " Graham's Magazine," on " Critics and Criti- cism," he says of Mr. Jones — referring only to writings of his that had been for years before the public when he printed the above paragraphs : " Our most analytic, if not altogether our best critic, (Mr. Whipple, perhaps, excepted,) is Mr. William Ji. Jones, author of ' The Analyst.' How he would write elaborate criti- cisms I cannot say; but his summary judgments of authors are, in general, discriminative and profound. In fact, his papers on Emerson and on Macaulay, published in ' Arcturus,' are belter than merely 'profound,' if we take the word in its now desecrated sense; for they are at once pointed, lucid, and just:— as summaries, leaving nothing to be desired." I will not continue the display of these inconsistencies. As I have already intimated, a volume might be filled with passages to show that his criticisms were guided by no sense of duty, and that his opinions were so variable and eo liable to be influenced by unworthy considerations as to be really of no value whatever. It was among his remarkable habits that he preserved with scrupulous care everything that was published respecting himself or his works, and every- thing that was written to him in letters that could be used in any way for the establishment or extension of his reputation. In Philadelphia, hi 1843, he prepared with his own hands a sketch of his life for a paper called " The MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. Museum." Many parts of it are untrue, but I refer to it for the purpose of quoting a characteristic instance of perversion in the reproduction of com- pliments : " Of ' William Wilson,' Mr. Washington Irving says: ' It is managed in a highly pic- turesque style, and its singular and mysterious interest is ably sustained throughout. In point of mere style, it is, perhaps, even superior to 'The House of Usher.' It is simpler. In the latter composition, he seems to have been distrustful of his etlects, or, rather, too solicitous of bringing them forth fully to the eye, and thus, perhaps, has laid on too much coloring. He has erred, however, on the safe side, that of exuberance, and the evil might easily be remedied, by relieving the style of some of its epithets:' [since done.] ' There would be no fear of injuring the graphic effect, which is powerful.' 1 The italics are Mr. Irving's own." Now Mr. Irving had said in a private letter that he thought the " House of Usher " was clever, and that " a volume of similar stories would be well received by the public." Poe sent him a magazine containing " William Wilson," asking his opinion of it, and Mr. Irving, expressly declining to pub- lish a word upon the subject, remarked in the same manner, that " the sin- gular and mysterious interest is well sustained," and that in point of style the tale was " much better " than the " House of Usher," winch, he says, " might be improved by relieving the style from some of the epithets : there is no danger of destroying the graphic effect, which is powerful." There is not a word in italics in Mr. Irving's letter, the meaning of which is quite changed by Mr. Poe's alterations. And this letter was not only published in the face of an implied prohibition, but made to seem like a deliberately expressed judgment in a public reviewal. - In the same way Mr. Poe pub- lished the following sentence as an extract from a letter by Miss Barrett : "Our great poet, Mr. Browning, author of Paracelsus, etc. is enthusiastic in his admira- tion of the rhythm." But on turning to Miss Barrett's letter I find that she wrote : " Our great poet, Mr. Browning, the author of ' Paracelsus,' and ' Bells and Pomegranates,' was struck much by the rhythm of that poem." The piece alluded to is " The Raven." It is not true, as has been frequently alleged since Mr. Poe's death, that his writings were above the popular taste, and therefore without a suitable market in this country. His poems were worth as much to magazines as those of Bryant or Longfellow, (though none of the publishers paid him half as large a price for them,) and his tales were as popular as those of Willis, who has been commonly regarded as the best magazinist of his time. He ceased to write for " The Lady's Book " in consequence of a quarrel induced by Mr. Godey's justifiable refusal to print in that miscellany his " Reply to Dr. English," and though in the poor fustian published under the signature of " George R. Graham," in answer to some remarks upon Poe's character in " The Tribune," that individual is made to assume a passionate friendship for the deceased author that would have become a Pythias, it is known that the personal ill-will on both sides was such that for some four or five years not a line by Poe was purchased for " Graham's Magazine? To quote again the " Defence of Mr. Poe " in the " Southern Literary Messenger :" MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. " His changeable humors, his irregularities, his caprices, his total disregard of every- thing and body, save the fancy in his head, prevented him from doing well in the world. The evils and sufferings that poverty brought upon him, soured his nature, and deprived him of faith in human beings. This was evident to the eye — he believed in nobody, and cared for nobody. Such a mental condition of course drove away al! those who would otherwise have stood by him in his hours of trial. He became, and was, an Ishmaelite." After having, in no ungenerous spirit, presented the chief facts in Mr. Poe's history, not designedly exaggerating his genius, which none held in higher admiration, not bringing into bolder relief than was just and necessary his infirmities, I am glad to offer a portraiture of some of his social qualities, equally beautiful, and — so changeable and inconsistent was the man — as far as it goes, truthful. Speaking of him one day soon after his death, with the late Mrs. Osgood, the beauty of whose character had made upon Poe's mind that impression which it never failed to produce upon minds capable of the apprehension of the finest traits in human nature, she said she did not doubt that my view of Mr. Poe, which she knew indeed to be the common view, was perfectly just, as it regarded him in his relations with men ; but to women he was different, and she would write for me some recollections of him to be placed beside my harsher judgments in any notice of his hie that the acceptance of the appointment to be his literary executor might render it necessary for me to give to the world. She was an invalid — dying of that consumption by which in a few weeks she was removed to heaven, and calling for pillows to support her while she wrote, she drew this sketch : " You ask me, my friend, to write for you my reminiscences of Edgar Poe. For you, who knew and understood my affectionate interest in him, and my frank acknowledgment of that interest to all who had a claim upon my confidence, for you, I will willingly do so. I think no one could know him — no one has known him personally — certainly no woman — without feeling the same interest, I can sincerely say, that although I have frequently heard of aberrations on his part from 'the straight and narrow path,' I have never seen him otherwise than gentle, generous, well-bred, and fastidiously refined. To a sensitive and delicately-nurtured woman, there was a peculiar and irresistible charm in the chivalric, graceful, and almost tender reverence with which he invariably approached all women who won his respect. It was this which first commanded and always retained my regard for him. " I have been told that when his sorrows and pecuniary embarrassments had driven him to the use of stimulants, which a less delicate organization might have borne without injury, he was in the habit of speaking disrespectfully of the ladies of his acquaintance. It is difficult for me to believe this; for to me, to whom he came during the year of our acquaintance for counsel and kindness in all his many anxieties and griefs, he never spoke irreverently of any woman save one, and then only in my defence, and though I rebuked him for his momentary forgetfulness of the respect due to himself and to me, I could not but forgive the offence for the sake of the generous impulse which prompted it. Yet even were these sad rumors true of him, the wise and well-informed knew how to regard, as they would the impetuous anger of a spoiled infant, balked of its capricious will, the equally harmless and unmeaning phrenzy of that stray child of Poetry and Passion. For the few unwomanly and slander-loving gossips who have injured him and themselves only by repeating his ravings, when in such moods they have accepted his society, I have only to vouchsafe my wonder and my pity. They cannot surely harm the true and pure, who, reverencing his genius and pitying his misfortunes and his errors, endeavored, by their timely kindness and sympathy, to soothe his sad career. " It was in his own simple yet poetical home that, to me the character of Edgar Poo appeared in its most beautiful light. Playful, affectionate, witty, alternately docile and MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xxxvii wayward as a petted child— for his young, gentle and idolized wife, and for all who came, he had even in the midst of his most harassing literary duties, a kind word, a pleasant smile, a graceful and courteous attention. At his desk beneath the romantic picture of his loved and lost Lenore, he would sit, hour 'after hour, patient, assiduous and uncom- plaining, tracing, in an exquisitely clear chirography and with almost superhuman swiftness, the lightning thoughts— the 'rare and radiant ' fancies as they flashed through his wonderful and ever wakeful brain. I recollect, one morning, towards the close of his residence in this city, when he seemed unusually gay and light-hearted. Virginia, his sweet wife, had written me a pressing invitation to come to them : and I, who never could resist her affectionate summons, and who enjoyed his society far more in his own home than elsewhere, hastened to Amity-street. I found him just completing his series of pa- pers entitled 'The Literati of New- York.' ' See,' said he, displaying, in laughing triumph, several little rolls of narrow paper, (he always wrote thus for the press,) ' I am going to show you, by the difference of length in these, the different degrees of estimation in which I hold all you literary people. In each of these, one of you is rolled up and fully discussed. Come, Virginia, help me !' And one by one they unfolded them. At last they came to one which seemed interminable. Virginia laughingly ran to one corner of the room with one end, and her husband to the opposite with the other. 'And whose lengthened sweetness long drawn out is that?' said I. 'Hear her !' he cried, 'just as if her little vain heart didn't tell her it's herself!' " My first meeting with the poet was at the Astor House. A few days previous, Mr. Wil.ls had handed me, at the takle d'hote, that strange and thrilling poem entitled ' The Raven,' saying that the author wanted my opinion of it. Its effect upon me was so singular, so like that of ' wierd, unearthly music,' that it was with a feeling almost of dread, I heard he desired an introduction. Yet I could not refuse without seeming un- grateful, because I h'ad just heard of his enthusiastic and partial eulogy of my writings, in his lecture on American Literature. I shall never forget the morning when I was summon- ed to the drawing-room by Mr. Willis to receive him. With his proud and beautiful head erect, his dark eyes flashing with the elective light of feeling and of thought, a peculiar, an inimitable blending of sweetness and hauteur in his expression and manner, he greeted me, calmly, gravely, almost coldly; yet with so marked an earnestness that I could not help being deeply impressed by it. From that moment until his death we were friends; although we met only during the first year of our acquaintance. And in his last words, ere reason had forever left her imperial throne in that overtasked brain, I have a touching memento of his undying faith and friendship. "During that year, while travelling for my health, I maintained a correspondence with Mr. Poe, in accordance with the earnest entreaties of his wife, who imagined that my influence over him had a restraining and beneficial effect. It had, as far as this — that having solemnly promised me to give up the use of stimulants, he so firmly respected his promise and me, as never once, during our whole acquaintance, to appear in my presence when in the slightest degree affected by them. Of the charming love and confidence that existed between his wife and himself, always delightfully apparent to me, in spite of the many little poetical episodes, in which the impassioned romance of his temperament impelled him to indulge ; of this I cannot speak too earnestly — too warmly. I believe she was the only woman whom he ever truly loved ; and this is evidenced by the exquisite pathos of the little poem lately written, called Annabel Lee, of which she was the subject, and which is by far the most natural, simple, tender and touchingly beautiful of all his songs. I have heard it said that it was intended to illustrate a late love affair of the author ; but they who believe this, have in their dullness, evidently misunderstood or missed the beautiful meaning latent in the most lovely of all its verses— where he says, " A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee, So tnat her high-born kinsmen came, And bore her away from me." "There seems a strange and almost profane disregard of the sacred purity and spiritual tenderness of this delicious ballad, in thus overlooking the allusion to the kindred angels and the heavenly Father of the lost and loved and unforgotten wife. MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. " But it was in his conversations and his letters, far more than in his published poetry and prose writings, that the genius of Poe was most gloriously revealed. His letters were divinely beautiful, and for hours I have listened to him, entranced by strains of such pure and almost celestial eloquence as I have never read or heard elsewhere. Alas ! in the thrilliDg words of Stoddard, " He might have soared in the morning light, But he built his nest with the birds of night! But he lies in dust, and the stone is rolled Over the sepulchre dim and cold ; He has cancelled all he has done or said, And gone to the dear and holy dead. Let us forget the path he trod, And leave him now, to his Maker, God." The influence of Mr. Poe's aims and vicissitudes upon his literature, was more conspicuous in his later than in his earlier writings. Nearly all that he wrote in the last two or three years — including much of his best poetry, — was in some sense biographical; in draperies of his imagination, those who take the trouble to trace his steps, will perceive, but slightly concealed, the figure of himself. The lineaments here disclosed, I think, are not different from those displayed in this biography, which is but a filling up of the pic- ture. Thus far the few criticisms of his life or works that I have ventured have been suggested by the immediate examination of the points to which they referred. I add but a few words, of more general description. In person he was below the middle height, slenderly but compactly form- ed, and in his better moments he had in an eminent degree that air of gentle- manliness which men of a lower order seldom succeed in acquiring. His conversation was at times almost supra-mortal in its eloquence. His voice was modulated with astonishing skill, and his large and variably ex- pressive eyes looked repose or shot fiery tumult into theirs who listened, while his own face glowed, or was changeless in pallor, as his imagination quickened his blood or drew it back frozen to his heart. His imagery was from the worlds which no mortals can see but with the vision of genius. Suddenly starting from a proposition, exactly and sharply defined, in terms of utmost simplicity and clearness, he rejected the forms of customary logic, and by a crystalline process of accretion, built up his ocular demonstrations in forms of gloomiest and ghastliest grandeur, or in those of the most airy and delicious beauty — so minutely and distinctly, yet so rapidly, that the at- tention which was yielded to him was chained till it stood among his won- derful creations — till he himself dissolved the spell, and brought his hearers back to common and base existence, by vulgar fancies or exhibitions of the ignoblest passion. He was at all times a dreamer — dwelling in ideal realms — in heaven or hell — peopled with the creatures and the accidents of his brain. He walked the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lips moving in indistinct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionate prayer, (never for himself, for he felt, or professed to feel, that he was already damned, but) for their happiness who at the moment were objects of his idolatry ; — or, with his glances introverted to a heart gnawed with anguish, and with a face shrouded in gloom, he would brave the wildest storms ; and all night, with drenched garments and arms beating the winds and rains, would speak as if to spirits that at such times MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. only could be evoked by him from the Aidenn, close by whose portals his disturbed soul sought to forget the ills to which his constitution subjected him — close by the Aidenn where were those he loved — the Aidenn which he might never see, but in fitful glimpses, as its gates opened to receive the less fiery and more happy natures whose destiny to sin did not involve the doom of death. He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjugated his will and en- grossed his faculties, always to bear the memory of some controlling sorrow. The remarkable poem of " The Raven " was probably much more nearly than has been supposed, even by those who were very intimate with him, a reflection and an echo of his own history. He was that bird's *' unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one hurden bore — Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of ' Never — never more.' " Every genuine author, in a greater or less degree, leaves in his works, whatever their design, traces of his personal character : elements of his im- mortal being, in which the individual survives the person. While we read the pages of the " Fall of the House of Usher," or of " Mesmeric Revelations," we see in the solemn and stately gloom which invests one, and in the subtle metaphysical analysis of both, indications of the idiosyncracies — of what was most remarkable and peculiar — in the author's intellectual nature. But we see here only the better phases of his nature, only the symbols of his juster action, for his harsh experience had deprived him of all faith, in man or woman. He had made up his mind upon the numberless complexities of the social world, and the whole system with him was an imposture. This conviction gave a direction to his shrewd and naturally unamiable character. Still, though he regarded society as composed altogether of villains, the sharpness of his intellect was not of that kind which enabled him to cope with villany, while it continually caused him by overshots to fail of the suc- cess of honesty. He was in many respects like Francis Vivian, in Bulwer's novel of " The Caxtons." Passion, in him, comprehended many of the worst emotions which militate against human happiness. You could not contradict him, but you raised quick choler ; you could not speak of wealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing natural advantages of this poor boy — his beauty, his readiness, the daring spirit that breathed around him like a fiery atmosphere — had raised his constitutional self-confidence into an arrogance that turned his very claims to admiration into prejudices against him. Irascible, envious — bad enough, but not the worst, for these salient angles were all varnished over with a cold repellant synicism, his passions vented themselves in sneers. There seemed to him no moral sus- ceptibility ; and, what was more remarkable in a proud nature, little or no- thing of the true point of honor. He had, to a morbid excess, that desire to rise which is vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for the esteem of the love of his species ; only the hard wish to succeed — not shine, not serve — succeed, that he might have the right to despise a world which galled his self-conceit. THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite for consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems which best suit my own taste, or which, upon 'my own fancy, have left the most definite impres- sion. By " minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms. I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inas- much as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal necessity, transient. That degree of ex- citement which would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it flags — -fails — a revulsion ensues — and then the poem is, in effect, and in fact, no longer such. There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in recon- ciling the critical dictum that the " Paradise Lost" is to be de- voutly admired throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which Vol. III.— 2 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. that critical dictum would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical, only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity — its totality of effect or impression — we read it (as would be necessary) at a sin- gle sitting, the result is but a constant alternation of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true poe- try, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no critical pre-judgment can force us to admire ; but if, upon com- pleting the work, we read it again ; omitting the first book — that is to say, commencing with the second — we shall be surprised at now finding that admirable which we before condemned — that damnable which we had previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate, aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a nullity : — and this is pre- cisely the fact. In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics ; but, granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the suppositious ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem were popular in reality — which I doubt — it is at least clear that no very long poem will ever be popular again. That the extent of a poetical work is, ceteris paribus, the mea- sure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition sufficiently absurd — yet we are indebted for it to the quarterly Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere size, abstractly considered — there can be nothing in mere bulk, so far as a volume is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admira- tion from these saturnine pamphlets ! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of physical magnitude which it conveys, does impress us with a sense of the sublime — but no man is im- pressed after this fashion by the material grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us to be so impressed by it. As yet, they have not insisted on our esti- mating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by the pound — THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. but what else are we to infer from their continual prating about " sustained effort ?" If, by " sustained effort," any little gentle- man has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the effort — if this indeed be a thing commendable — but let us forbear praising the epic on the effort's account. It is to be hoped that common sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art, rather by the impression it makes — by the effect it produces — than by the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of " sustained effort" which had been found neces- sary in effecting the impression. The fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another — nor can all the Quarter- lies in Christendom confound them. By-and-by, this proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received as self- evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths. On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and spirit- stirring ; but, in general, they have been too imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention ; and thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whis- tled down the wind. A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depress- ing a poem — in keeping it out of the popular view — is afforded by the following exquisite little Serenade : I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me — who knows how ? — To thy chamber-window, sweet ! The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream — The champak odors fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, 0, beloved as thou art ! 0, lift me from the grass ! I die, I faint, I fail ! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas ! My heart beats loud and fast : Oh ! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last ! Very few, perhaps, are familiar with these lines — yet no /ess a poet than Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal imagination will be appreciated by all — but by none so thoroughly as by him who has himself arisen from iweet dreams of one beloved, to bathe in the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night. One of the finest poems by Willis — the very best, in my opinion, which he has ever written — has, no doubt, through this same defect of undue brevity, been kept back from its proper po- sition, not less in the critical than in the popular view. The shadows lay along Broadway, Twas near the twilight-tide — And slowly there a lady fair "Was walking in her pride. Alone walk'd she ; but, viewlessly, Walk'd spirits at her side. Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet, And Honor charm'd the air ; And all astir looked kind on her, And call'd her good as fair — For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care. She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true — For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo — But honor'd well are charms to sell If priests the selling do. Now walking there was one more fair — A slight girl, lily-pale ; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail — THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn, And nothing could avail. No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray ; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way ! — But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven By man is cursed alway I In this composition we find it difficult to recognise the Willis •who has written so many mere " verses of society." The lines are not only richly ideal, but full of energy ; while they breathe an earnestness — an evident sincerity of sentiment — for which we look in vain throughout all the other works of this author. While the epic mania — while the idea that, to merit in poetry, prolixity is indispensable — has, for some years past, been gradu- ally dying out of the public mind, by mere dint of its own absur- dity — we find it succeeded by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have accomplished more in the corrup- tion of our Poetical Literature than all its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of The Didactic. It has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that the ultimate object of all Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said, should in- culcate a moral ; and by this moral is the poetical merit of the work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy idea ; and we Bostonians, very especially, have de- veloped it in full. We have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem's sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to confess ourselves radically want- ing in the true Poetic dignity and force : — but the simple fact is, that, would we but permit ourselves to look into our own souls, we should immediately there discover that under the sun there neither exists nor can exist any work more thoroughly dignified — more supremely noble than this very poem — this poem per se — this poem which is a poem and nothing more — this poem written solely for the poem's sake. With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man, I would, nevertheless, limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I would limit to enforce them. I would THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. not enfeeble them by dissipation. The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles. All that which is so indispensable in Song, is precisely all that with which she has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a flaunting paradox, to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a truth, we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpas- sioned. In a word, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the poetical. He must be blind indeed who does not perceive the radical and chasmal differences between the truthful and the poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to reconcile the obsti- nate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth. Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately ob- vious distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I place Taste in the middle, because it is just this position which, in the mind, it occupies. It holds intimate rela- tions with either extreme ; but from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the virtues themselves. Neverthe- less, we find the offices of the trio marked with a sufficient dis- tinction. Just as the Intellect concerns itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful while the Moral Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with displaying the charms : — waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her deformity — her disproportion — her animosity to the fitting, to the ' appropriate, to the harmonious — in a word, to Beauty. An immortal instinct, deep within the spirit of man, is thus, plainly, a sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his dehght in the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors, and sen- timents amid which he exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments, a duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however vivid a truth THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and colors, and sentiments, which greet him in common with all mankind — he, I say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immor- tality of Man. It is at once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us — but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic pre- science of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle, by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time, to attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements, perhaps, apper- tain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry — or when by Music, the most entrancing of the Poetic moods — we find our- selves melted into tears — we weep then — not as the Abbate Gravina supposes — through excess of pleasure, but through a certain, petulant, impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever, those divine and rap- turous joys, of which through the poem, or through the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses. The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness — this strug- gle, on the part of souls fittingly constituted — has given to the world all that which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and to feel as poetic. ■ The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develope itself in various modes — in Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance — very especially in Music — and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic of rhythm. Content- ing myself with the certainty that Music, in its various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in Poetry as never to be wisely rejected — is so vitally important an adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music, per- haps, that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles — the creation THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. of supernal Beauty. It may be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and then, attained in fact. We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which cannot have been unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers had advantages which we do not possess — and Thomas Moore, singing his own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems. To recapitulate, then : — I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as The Rythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the Intellect or with the Conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern what- ever either with Duty or with Truth. A few words, however, in explanation. That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable elevation, or excitement, of the soul, which we recognise as the Poetic Sentiment, and which is so easily distin- guished from Truth, which is the satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of the heart. I make Beauty, therefore — using the word as inclusive of the sublime — I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as di- rectly as possible from their causes : — no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least most readily attainable in the poem. It by no means fol- lows, however, that the incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage ; for they may subserve, incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the work : — but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real essence of the poem. I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your consideration, than by the citation of the Proem to Mr. Longfellow's "Waif": THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night,* As a feather is wafted downward From an Eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist ; A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor ; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start ; Who through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired for their delicacy of expression. Some of the im- ages are very effective. Nothing can be better than — a* 10 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. The bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Down the corridors of Tune. The idea of the last quartrain is also very effective. The poem, on the whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful insouciance of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the sentiments, and especially for the ease of the general man- ner. This " ease," or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion to regard as ease in appearance alone — as a point of really difficult attainment. But not so : — a natural man- ner is difficult only to him who should never meddle with it — to the unnatural. It is but the result of writing with the under- standing, or with the instinct, that the tone, in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would adopt — and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The author who, after the fashion of " The North American Review," should be, upon all occasions, merely " quiet," must necessarily upon many occasions, be simply silly, or stupid ; and has no more right to be considered "easy," or "natural," than a Cockney exquisite, or than the sleeping Beauty in the wax-works. Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much im- pressed me as the one which he entitles " June." I quote only a portion of it : There, through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie, And thick, young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale, close beside my cell ; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife-bee and humming bird. And what, if cheerful shouts, at noon, Come, from the village sent, Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, With fairy laughter blent ? And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument ? I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight nor sound. I know, I know I should not see The season's glorious show, THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 11 Nor would its brightness shine for me, Nor its wild music flow ; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep, They might not haste to go. Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom Should keep them lingering by my tomb. These to their soften'd hearts should bear The thought of what has been, And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene ; Whose part in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills, _ Is — that his grave is green ; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice. The ryhthmical flow, here, is even voluptuous — nothing could be more melodious. The poem has always affected me in a re- markable manner. The intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to the soul — while there is the tru- est poetic elevation in the thrill. The impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the remaining compositions which. I shall introduce to you, there be more or less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless, A feeling of sadness and longing That is not akin to. pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full of brilliancy and spirit as the " Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney : I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon ; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words ; 12 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burden'd bee Forth issue from the rose. Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours ; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers ; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns, — The idol of past years ! Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, * And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain ; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers. I fill'd this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon — Her health ! and would on earth there stood, Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkhey to have been born too far south. Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he ■would have been ranked as the first of American lyrists, by that magnanimous cabal which has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting the thinp; called " The North American Review." The poem just cited is especially beautiful ; but the poetic elevation which it induces, we must refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon his hyper- boles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered. It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the merits of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves. Boccalini, in his " Advertisements from Parnassus," tells us that Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caus- tic criticism upon a very admirable book : — whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this, Apollo, hand- THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 18 ing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out all the chaff for his reward. Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics — but I am by no means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood. Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an axiom, which need only be properly put, to become self-evident. It is not excellence if it require to be demonstrated as such : — and thus, to point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that they are not merits altogether. Among the " Melodies" of Thomas Moore, is one whose distin- guished character as a poem proper, seems to have been singular- ly left out of view. I allude to his lines beginning — " Come rest in this bosom." The intense energy of their expression is not sur- passed by anything in Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the all in all of the divine passion of Love — a sentiment which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate, human hearts than, any other single sentiment ever embodied in words : Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here ; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh ! what was love made for, if 't is- not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame ? I know not, I ask not, if guilt 's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, — Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, — or perish there too ! It has been the fashion, of late days, to deny Moore Imagination, while granting him Fancy — a distinction originating with Cole- ridge — than whom no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very naturally, the idea that he is fanciful only. But never was there a greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet. In the compass of 14 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. the English language I can call to mind no poem more profound- ly — more wierdly imaginative, in the best sense, than the lines commencing — " I would I were by that dim lake'' — which are the composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them. One of the noblest — and, speaking of Fancy, one of the most singularly fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His " Fair Ines" had always, for me, an inexpressible charm : saw ye not fair Ines ? She's gone into the "West, To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest : She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast. turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivall'd bright ; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write ! "Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, "Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whisper'd thee so near ! Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear ? 1 saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners wav'd before ; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore ; It would have been a beauteous dream, — If it had been no more ! Alas, alas, fair Ines, She went away with song, With Music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng ; But some were sad and felt no mirth, But only Music's wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, To her you've loved so long. THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 15 Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, That vessel never bore So fair a lady on its deck, Nor danced so light before, — Alas for pleasure on the sea, And sorrow on the shore ! The smile that blest one lover's heart Has broken many more ! " The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever written — one of the truest — one of the most unexcep- tionable — one of the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is, moreover, powerfully ideal — imagina- tive. I regret that its length renders it unsuitable for the pur- poses of this Lecture. In place of it, permit me to offer the universally appreciated " Bridge of Sighs." One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death ! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair ! Look at her garments Clinging like cerements ; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing ; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. — Touch her not scornfully ; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly ; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now, is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful ; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family — Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses ; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home ? Who was her father ? Who was her mother ? Had she a sister ? Had she a brother ? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other ? Alas ! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the" sun ! Oh ! it was pitiful ! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly, Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence ; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. 16 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver ; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river : Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurl'd — Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world ! In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran, — Over the brink of it, Picture it, — think of it, Dissolute Man ! Lave in it, drink of it Then, if you can ! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair ! Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, — kindly, — Smooth, and compose them ; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly ! Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest, — Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast ! Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Savior ! The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is the thesis of the poem. Among the minor poems of Lord Byron, is one which has never received from the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves : Though the day of my destiny's over, And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could rind ; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, It shrunk not to share it with me, And the love which my spirit hath painted It never hath found but in thee. Then when nature around me is smiling, The last smile which answers to mine, I do not believe it beguiling, Because it reminds me of thine ; And when winds are at war with the ocean, As the breasts I believed in with me, If their billows excite an emotion, It ia that they bear me from thee. THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 17 Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain — it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me : They may crush, but they shall not contemn — They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 'Tis of thee that I think — not of them. Though human, thou didst not deceive me, Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, Though slandered, thou never couldst shake, — Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, Though parted, it was not to fly, Though watchful, 't was not to defame me, Nor mute, that the world might belie. Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, Nor the war of the many with one — If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 'T was folly not sooner to shun : And if dearly that error hath cost me, An,d more than I once could foresee, I have found that whatever it lost me, It could not deprive me of thee. From the wreck of the past, which hath perished, Thus much I at least may recall, It hath taught me that which I most cherished Deserved to be dearest of all : In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee. Although the rhythm, here, is one of the most difficult, the ver- sification could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever en- gaged the pen of poet. It is the soul-elevating idea, that no man can consider himself entitled to complain of Fate while, in his adversity, he still retains the unwavering love of woman. From Alfred Tennyson — although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the noblest poet that ever lived — I have left myself time to cite only a very brief specimen. I call him, and think him the noblest of poets — not because the impressions he produces are, at all times, the most profound — not because the poetical excite- ment which he induces is, at all times, the most intense — but be- cause it is, at all times, the most ethereal — in other words, the most elevating and the most pure. No poet is so little of the 18 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his last long poem, " The Princess :" Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge ; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others ; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; O Death in Life, the days that are no more. Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Princi- ple. It has been my purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is, strictly and simply, the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of the Principle is always found in an elevating excitement of the Soul — quite independent of that pas- sion which is the intoxication of the Heart — or of that Truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For, in regard to Pas- sion, alas ! its tendency is to degrade, rather than to elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary — Love — the true, the divine Eros — the Uranian, as distinguished from the Dionsean Venus — is un- questionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in regard to Truth — if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth, we are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we experience, at once, the true poetical effect — but this effect is referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least de- gree to the truth which merely served to render the harmony manifest. We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct concep- THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 19 tion of what the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which induce in the Poet himself the true poeti- cal effect. He recognises the ambrosia which nourishes his soul, in the bright orbs that shine in Heaven — in the volutes of the flower — in the clustering of low shrubberies — in the waving of the grain-fields — in the slanting of tall, Eastern trees — in the blue dis- tance of mountains — in the grouping of clouds — in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks — in the gleaming of silver rivers — in the repose of sequestered lakes — in the star-mirroring depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds — in the harp of u^Eolus — in the sighing of the night-wind — in the repining voice of the forest — in the surf that complains to the shore — in the fresh breath of the woods — in the scent of the violet — in the voluptuous perfume of the hyacinth — in the suggestive odor that comes to him, at eventide, from far-distant, undiscovered islands, over dim oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts — in all unworldly motives — in all holy impulses — in all chivalrous, generous, and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman — in the grace of her step — in the lustre of her eye — in the melody of her voice — in her soft laughter — in her sigh — in the harmony of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments — in her burning enthusiasms — in her gentle charities — in her meek and devotional endurances — but above all — ah, far above all — he kneels to it — he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the altogether divine majesty — of her love. Let me conclude — by the recitation of yet another brief poem — one very different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by Motherwell, and is called " The Song of the Cav- alier." With our modern and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare, we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the poem. To do this fully, we must identify ourselves, in fancy, with the soul of the old cavalier. Then mounte ! then mounte, brave gallants, all, And don your helmes amaine : Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call Us to the field againe. 20 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. No shrewish teares shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt 's in our hand, — Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land ; Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and puling crye, Our business is like men to fight, And hero-like to die I OF CRITICISM— PUBLIC AND PRIVATE. 21 OF CRITICISM-PUBLIC AND PRIVATE. [In 1846, Mr. Poe published in The Ladys Book a series of six articles, enti- tled " The Literati of New- York City," in which he professed to give " some honest opinions at random respecting their autorial merits, with occasional words of personality." The series was introduced by the fol- lowing paragraphs, and the personal sketches were given in the order in x which they are here reprinfed, from " George Bush" to " Richard Adams Locke." The qther notices of American and foreign writers, were con- tributed by Mr. Poe to various journals, chiefly in the last four or five years of his life.] In a criticism on Bryant I was at some pains in pointing out the distinction between the popular "opinion" of the merits of cotempo- rary authors, and that held and expressed of them in private literary society. The former species of " opinion" can be called " opinion" only by courtesy. It is the public's own, just as we consider a book our own when we have bought it. In general, this opinion is adopt- ed from the journals of the day, and I have endeavored to show that the cases are rare indeed in which these journals express any other sentiment about books than such as may be attributed directly or indirectly to the authors of the books. The most " popular," the most "successful" writers among us, (for a brief period, at least,) are, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, persons of mere address, perseverance, effrontery — in a word, busy-bodies, toadies, quacks. These people easily succeed in boring editors (whose attention is too often entirely^ engrossed by politics or other " business" mat- ter) into the admission of favorable notices written or caused to be written by interested parties — or, at least, into the admission of some notice where, under ordinary circumstances, no notice would be given at all. In this way ephemeral " reputations" are 22 OF CRITICISM— PUBLIC AND PRIVATE. manufactured, which, for the most part, serve all the purposes de- signed — that is to say, the putting money into the purse of the quack and the quack's publisher ; for there never was a quack who could be brought to comprehend the value of mere fame. Now, men of genius will not resort to these manoeuvres, because genius involves in its very essence a scorn of chicanery ; and thus for a time the quacks always get the advantage of them, both in respect to pecuniary profit and what appears to be public esteem. There is another point of view, too. Your literary quacks court, in especial, the personal acquaintance of those " connected with the press." Now these latter, even when penning a volun- tary, that is to say, an uninstigated notice of the book of an ac- quaintance, feel as if writing not so much for the eye of the public as for the eye of the acquaintance, and the notice is fashioned accordingly. The bad points of the work are slurred over, and the good ones brought out into the best light, all this through a feeling akin to that which makes it unpleasant to speak ill of one to one's face. In the case of men of genius, editors, as a general rule, have no such delicacy — for the simple reason that, as a gen- eral rule, they have no acquaintance with these men of genius, a class proverbial for shunning society. But the very editors who hesitate at saying in print an ill word of an author personally known, are usually the most frank in speaking about him privately. In literary society, they seem bent upon avenging the wrongs self-inflicted upon their own con- sciences. Here, accordingly, the quack is treated as he deserves — even a little more harshly than he deserves — by way of striking a balance. True merit, on the same principle, is apt to be slightly overrated ; but, upon the whole, there is a close approxi- mation to absolute honesty of opinion ; and this honesty is farther secured by the mere trouble to which it puts one in conversation to model one's countenance to a falsehood. We place on paper without hesitation a tissue of flatteries, to which in society we could not give utterance, for our lives, without either blushing or laughing outright. For these reasons there exists a very remarkable discrepancy between the apparent public opinion of any given author's merits, and the opinion which is expressed of him orally by those who OF CRITICISM— PUBLIC AND PRIVATE. 23 are best qualified to judge. For example, Mr. Hawthorne, the author of " Twice-Told Tales," is scarcely recognised by the press or by the public, and when noticed at all, is noticed merely to be damned by faint praise. Now, my own opinion of him is, that, although his walk is limited, and he is fairly to be charged with mannerism, treating all subjects in a similar tone of dreamy inu- endo, yet in this walk he evinces extraordinary genius, having no rival either in America or elsewhere — and this opinion I have never heard gainsaid by any one literary person in the country. That this opinion, however, is a spoken and not a written one, is referable to the facts, first, that Mr. Hawthorne is a poor man, and, second, that he is not an ubiquitous quack. Again, of Mr. Longfellow, who, although a little quacky per se, has, through his social and literary position as a man of property and a professor at Harvard, a whole legion of active quacks at his control — of him what is the apparent popular opinion ? Of course, that he 'is a poetical phenomenon, as entirely without fault, as is the luxurious paper upon which his poems are invariably borne to the public eye. In private society he is regarded with one voice as a poet of far more than usual ability, a skilful artist and a well-read man, but as less remarkable in either capacity than as a determined imitator and a dexterous adapter of the ideas of other people. For years I have conversed with no literary person who did not entertain precisely these ideas of Professor L. ; and, in fact, on all literary topics, there is in society a seemingly wonderful coincidence of opinion. The author accustomed to se- clusion, and mingling for the first time with those who have been associated with him only through their works, is astonished and delighted at finding common to all whom he meets, conclusions which he had blindly fancied were attained by himself alone, and in opposition to the judgment of mankind. In the series of papers which I now propose, my design is, in giving my own unbiased opinion of the literati (male and female) of New York, to give at the same time very closely, if not with absolute accuracy, that of conversational society in literary circles. It must be expected, of course, that, in innumerable particulars - , I shall differ from the voice, that is to say, from what appears to 24 GEORGE BUSH. be the voice of the public — but this is a matter of no consequence whatever. New York literature may be taken as a fair representation of that of the country at large. The city itself is the focus of Amer- ican letters. Its authors include, perhaps, one-fourth of all in America, and the influence they exert on their brethren, if seem- ingly silent, is not the less extensive and decisive. As I shall have to speak of many individuals, my limits will not permit me to speak of them otherwise than in brief; but this brevity will be merely consistent with the design, which is that of simple opinion, with little of either argument or detail. With one or two excep- tions, I am well acquainted with every author to be introduced, and I shall avail myself of the acquaintance to convey, generally, some idea of the personal appearance of all who, in this regard, would be likely to interest my readers. As any precise order or arrangement seems unnecessary and may be inconvenient, I shall maintain none. It will be understood that, without reference to supposed merit or demerit, each individual is introduced absolutely at random. GEORGE BUSH. The Rev. George Bush is Professor of Hebrew in the Uni- versity of New York, and has long been distinguished for the ex- tent and variety of his attainments in oriental literature ; indeed, as an oriental linguist, it is probable that he has no equal among us. He has published a great deal, and his books have always the good fortune to attract attention throughout the civilized world. His " Treatise on the Millenium" is, perhaps, that of his earlier compositions by which he is most extensively as well as most favorably known. Of late days he has created a singular commotion in the realm of theology, by his " Anastasis, or the Doctrine of the Resurrection : in which it is shown that the Doc- trine of the Resurrection of the Body is not sanctioned by Reason or Revelation." This work has been zealously attacked, and as zealously defended by the professor and his friends. There can be no doubt that, up to this period, the Bushites have had the GEORGE BUSH. 25 best of the battle. The " Anastasis" is lucidly, succinctly, vigor- ously, and logically written, and proves, in my opinion, every- thing that it attempts — provided we admit the imaginary axioms from which it starts ; and this is as much as can be well said of any theological disquisition under the sun. It might be hinted, too, in reference as well to Professor Bush as to his opponents, "que laplupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles nient." A subse- quent work on " The Soul," by the author of " Anastasis/' has made nearly as much noise as the " Anastasis" itself. Taylor, who wrote so ingeniously " The Natural History of En- thusiasm," might have derived many a valuable hint from the study of Professor Bush. No man is more ardent in his theories ; and these latter are neither few nor commonplace. He is a Mes- merist and a Swedenborgian — has lately been engaged in editing Swedenborg's works, publishing them in numbers. He converses with fervor, and often with eloquence. Very probably he will establish an independent church. He is one of the most amiable men in the world, universally respected and beloved. His frank, unpretending simplicity of demeanor, is especially winning. In person he is tall, nearly six feet, and spare, with large bones. His countenance expresses rather benevolence and profound earn- estness, than high intelligence. The eyes are piercing ; the other features, in general, massive. The forehead, phrenologically, indi- cates causality and comparison, with deficient ideality — the organ- ization which induces strict logicality from insufficient premises. He walks with a slouching gait and with an air of abstraction. His dress is exceedingly plain. In respect to the arrangement about his study, he has many of the Magliabechian habits. He is, perhaps, fifty-five years of age, and seems to enjoy good health. Vol. III.— 2 25 GEORGE H. COLTON. GEORGE H. COLTON. Mr. Colton is noted as the author of " Tecumseh," and as the originator and editor of " The American Review," a Whig magazine of the higher (that is to say, of the five dollar) class. I must not be understood as meaning any disrespect to the work. It is, in my opinion, by far the best of its order in this country, and is supported in the way of contribution by many of the very noblest intellects. Mr. Colton, if in nothing else, has shown him- self a man of genius in his successful establishment of the maga- zine within so brief a period. It is now commencing its second year, and I can say, from my own personal knowledge, that its circulation exceeds two thousand — it is probably about two thou- sand five hundred. So marked and immediate a success has never been attained by any of our five dollar magazines, with the exception of " The Southern Literary Messenger," which, in the course of nineteen months, (subsequent to the seventh from its commencement,) attained a circulation of rather more than five thousand. I cannot conscientiously call Mr. Colton a good editor, although I think that he will finally be so. He improves wonderfully with experience. His present defects ardHimidity and a lurking taint of partiality, amounting to positive prejudice (in the vulgar sense) for the literature of the Puritans. I do not think, however, that he is at all aware of such prepossession. His taste is rather un- exceptionable than positively good. He has not, perhaps, suffi- cient fire within himself to appreciate it in others. Nevertheless, he endeavors to do so, and in this endeavor is not inapt to take opinions at secondhand — to adopt, I mean, the opinions of others. He is nervous, and a very trifling difficulty disconcerts him, with- out getting the better of a sort of dogged perseverance, which will make a thoroughly successful man of him in the end. He is (classically) well educated. As a poet he. has done better things than " Tecumseh," in whose length he has committed a radical and irreparable error, sufficient in itself to destroy a far better book. Some portions of it are truly poetical ; very many portions belong to a high order N. P. WILLIS. 27 of eloquence ; it is invariably well versified, and has no glaring defects, but, upon the whole, is insufferably tedious. Some of the author's shorter compositions, published anonymously in his maga- zine, have afforded indications even of genius. Mr. Colton is marked in his personal appearance. He is proba- bly not more than thirty, but an air of constant thought (with a pair of spectacles) causes him to seem somewhat older. He is about five feet eight or nine in height, and fairly proportioned — neither stout nor thin. His forehead is quite intellectual. His mouth has a peculiar expression difficult to describe. Hair light and generally in disorder. He converses fluently, and, upon the whole, well, but grandiloquently, and with a tone half tragical half pulpital. In character he is in the highest degree estimable, a most sin- cere, high-minded, and altogether honorable man. He is un- married. N. P. WILLIS Whatever may be thought of Mr. Willis's talents, there can be no doubt about the fact that, both as an author and as a man, he has made a good deal of noise in the world — at least for an American. His literary life, in especial, has been one continual emeute ; but then his literary character is modified or impelled in a very remarkable degree by his personal one. His success (for in point of fame, if of nothing else, he has certainly been success- ful) is to be attributed, one-third to his mental ability and two- thirds to his physical temperament — the latter goading him into the accomplishment of what the former merely gave him the means of accomplishing. At a very early age Mr. Willis seems to have arrived at an un- derstanding that, in a republic such as ours, the mere man of letters must ever be a cipher, and endeavored, accordingly, to unite the eclat of the litterateur with that of the man of fashion or of society. He " pushed himself," went much into the world, made friends with the gentler sex, "delivered" poetical addresses, wrote "scriptural" poems, travelled, sought the intimacy of noted 28 N. P. WILLIS. women, and got into quarrels with notorious men. All these things served his purpose — if, indeed, I am right in supposing that he had any purpose at all. It is quite probable that, as be- fore hinted, he acted only in accordance with his physical tem- perament ; but, be this as it may, his personal greatly advanced, if it did not altogether establish his literary fame. I have often carefully considered whether, without the physique of which I speak, there is that in the absolute morale of Mr. Willis which would have earned him reputation as a man of letters, and my conclusion is, that he could not have failed to become noted in some degree under almost any circumstances, but that about two- thirds (as above stated) of his appreciation by the public should be attributed to those adventures which grew immediately out of his animal constitution. He received what is usually regarded as a " good education " — that is to say, he graduated at college ; but his education, in the path he pursued, was worth to him, on account of his extraor- dinary savoir /aire, fully twice as much as would have been its value in any common case. No man's knowledge is more availa- ble, no man has exhibited greater tact in the seemingly casual display of his wares. With him, at least, a little learning is no dangerous thing. He possessed at one time, I believe, the aver- age quantum of American collegiate lore — " a little Latin and less Greek," a smattering of physical and metaphysical science, and (I should judge) a very little of the mathematics — but all this must be considered as mere guess on my part. Mr. Willis speaks French with some fluency, and Italian not quite so well. Within the ordinary range of belles lettres authorship, he has evinced much versatility. If called on to designate him by any general literary title, I might term him a magazinist — for his compositions have invariably the species of effect, with the brevity which the magazine demands. We may view him as a para- graphist, an essayist, or rather " sketcher," a tale writer, and a poet. In the first capacity he fails. His points, however good when deliberately wrought, are too recherches to be put hurriedly before the public eye. Mr. W. has by no means the readiness which the editing a newspaper demands. He composes (as did Addison, N. P. WILLIS. 29 and as do many of the most brilliant and seemingly dashing writers of the present day,) with great labor and frequent erasure and interlineation. His MSS., in this regard, present a very sin- gular appearance, and indicate the vacillation which is, perhaps, the leading trait of his character. A newspaper, too, in its longer articles — its " leaders " — very frequently demands argumentation, and here Mr. W. is remarkably out of his element. His exuber- ant fancy leads him over hedge and ditch — anywhere from the main road ; and, besides, he is far too readily self-dispossessed. With time at command, however, his great tact stands him in- stead of all argumentative power, and enables him to overthrow an antagonist without permitting the latter to see how he is over- thrown. A fine example of this "management" is to be found in Mr. W.'s reply to a very inconsiderate attack upon his social standing, made by one of the editors of the New York " Courier and Inquirer." I have always regarded this reply as the highest evidence of its author's ability, as a masterpiece of ingenuity, if not of absolute genius. The skill of the whole lay in this — that, without troubling himself to refute the charges themselves brought against him by Mr. Raymond, he put forth his strength in ren- dering them null, to all intents and purposes, by obliterating, incidentally and without letting his design be perceived, all the impression these charges were calculated to convey. But this re- ply can be called a newspaper article only on the ground of its having appeared in a newspaper. As a writer of "sketches," properly so called, Mr. Willis is un- equalled. Sketches — especially of society — are his forte, and they are so for no other reason than that they afford Mm the best op- portunity of introducing the personal Willis — or, more distinctly, because this species of composition is most susceptible of im- pression from his personal character. The degage tone of this kind of writing, too, best admits and entourages that fancy which Mr. W. possesses in the most extraordinary degree ; it is in fancy that he reigns supreme : this, more than any one other quality, and, indeed, more than all his other literary qualities combined, has made him what he is. It is this which gives him the origi- nality, the freshness, the point, the piquancy, which appear to be 30 N. P. WILLIS. the immediate, but which are, in fact, the mediate sources of his popularity.* * As, by metaphysicians and in ordinary discourse, the word fancy is used with very little determinateness of meaning, I may be pardoned for re- peating here what I have elsewhere said on this topic. I shall thus be saved much misapprehension in regard to the term — one which will necessarily be often employed in the course of this series. " Fancy," says the author of " Aids to Reflection," (who aided reflection to much better purpose in his " Genevieve ") — " fancy combines — imagination creates." This was intended and has been received as a distinction, but it is a distinction without a difference — without a difference even of degree. The fancy as nearly creates as the imagination, and neither at all. Novel con- ceptions are merely unusual combinations. The mind of man can imagine nothing which does not really exist ; if it could, it would create not only ideally but substantially, as do the thoughts of God. It may be said, " We imagine a griffin, yet a griffin does not exist." Not the griffin, certainly, but its component parts. It is no more than a collation of known limbs, features, qualities. Thus with all which claims to be new, which appears to be a - creation of the intellect — all is re-soluble into the old. The wildest effort of the mind cannot stand the test of this analysis. Imagination, fancy, fantasy, and humor, have in common the elements combination and novelty. The imagination is the artist of the four. From novel arrangements of old forms which present themselves to it, it selects such only as are harmonious ; the result, of course, is beauty itself — using the word in its most extended sense and as inclusive of the sublime. The pure imagination chooses, from either beauty or deformity, only the most combina- ble things hitherto uncombined ; the compound, as a general rule, partaking in character of sublimity or beauty in the ratio of the respective sublimity or beauty of the things combined, which are themselves still to be considered as atomic — that is to say, as previous combinations. But, as often analo- gously happens in physical chemistry, so not unfrequently does it occur in this chemistry of*fhe intellect, that the admixture of two elements will re- sult in a something that shall have nothing of the quality of one of them — or even nothing of the qualities of either. The range of imagination is thus unlimited. Its materials extend throughout the universe. Even out of de- formities it fabricates that beauty which is at once its sole object and its in- evitable test. But, in genefbl, the richness of the matters combined, the facility of discovering combinable novelties worth combining, and the abso- lute " chemical combination " of the completed mass, are the particulars to be regarded in our estimate of imagination. It is this thorough harmony of an imaginative work which so often causes it to be undervalued by the un- discriminating, through the character of obviousness which is superinduced. We are apt to find ourselves asking why it is that these combinations have never been imagined before ? N. P. WILLIS. 31 In tales (written with deliberation for the magazines) he has shown greater constructiveness than I should have given him credit for had I not read his compositions of this order — for in this faculty all his other works indicate a singular deficiency. The chief charm even of these tales, however, is still referable to fancy. As a poet, Mr. Willis is not entitled, I think, to so high a rank as he may justly claim through his prose ; and this for the reason that, although fancy is not inconsistent with any of the demands of those classes of prose composition which he has attempted, and, indeed, is a vital element of most of them, still it is at war (as will be understood from what I have said in the foot note) with that purity and perfection of beauty which are the soul of the poem proper. I wish to be understood as saying this gener- ally of our author's poems. In some instances, seeming to feel the truth of my proposition, (that fancy should have no place in the loftier poesy,) he has denied it a place, as in " Melanie," and his Scriptural pieces ; but, unfortunately, he has been unable to supply the void with the true imagination, and these poems con- sequently are deficient in vigor, in stamen. The Scriptural pieces Now, when this question does not occur, when the harmony of the com- bination is comparatively neglected, and when, in addition to the element of novelty, there is introduced the sub-element of unexpectedness — when, for example, matters are brought into combination which not only have never been combined, but whose combination strikes us as a difficulty happily over- come, the result then appertains to the fancy, and is, to the majority of man- kind, more grateful than the purely harmonious one — although, absolutely, it is less beautiful (or grand) for the reason that it is less harmonious. Carrying its errors into excess — for, however enticing, they are errors still, or nature lies — fancy is at length found infringing upon the province of fan- tasy. The votaries of this latter delight not only in novelty and unexpected- ness of combination, but in the avoidance of proportion. The result is, therefore, abnormal, and, to a healthy mind, affords less of pleasure through its novelty than of pain through its incoherence. When, proceeding a step farther, however, fancy seeks not merely disproportionate but incongruous or antagonistic elements, the effect is rendered more pleasurable by its greater positiveness, there is a merry effort of truth to shake from her that which is no property of hers, and we laugh outright in recognising humor. The four faculties in question seems to me all of their class ; but when either fancy or humor is expressed to gain an end, is pointed at a purpose — whenever either becomes objective in place of subjective, then it becomes, also, pure wit or sarcasm, just as the purpose is benevolent or malevolent. 32 N. P. WILLIS. are quite " correct," as the French have it, and are much admired by a certain set of readers, who judge of a poem, not by its ef- fect on themselves, but by the effect which they imagine it might have upon themselves were they not unhappily soulless, and by the effect which they take it for granted it does have upon others. It cannot be denied, however, that these pieces are, in general, tame, or indebted for what force they possess to the Scriptural passages of which they are merely paraphrastic. I quote what, in my own opinion, and in that of nearly all my friends, is really the truest poem ever written by Mr. Willis. The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight tide, And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride — Alone walked she, yet viewlessly Walked spirits at her side. Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, And honor charmed the air, And all astir looked kind on her And called her good as fair — For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care. She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true, For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo. Ah, honored well are charms to sell When priests the selling do ! Now, walking there was one more fair — A slight girL lily-pale, And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail — 'Twixt want and scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail. No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray — For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way ; And the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway. There is about this little poem (evidently written in haste and through impulse) a true imagination. Its grace, dignity and pa- thos are impressive, and there is more in it of earnestness, of soul, N. P. WILLIS. than in anything I have seen from the pen of its author. His compositions, in general, have a taint of worldliness, of insincerity. The identical rhyme in the last stanza is very noticeable, and the whole finale is feeble. It would be improved by making the last two lines precede the first two of the stanza. In classifying Mr. W.'s writings I did not think it worth while to speak of him as a dramatist, because, although he has written plays, what they have of merit is altogether in their character of poem. Of his " Bianca Visconti " I have little to say ; — it de- served to fail, and did, although it abounded in eloquent passages. " Tortesa " abounded in the same, but had a great many dramatic points well calculated to tell with a conventional audience. Its characters, with the exception of Tomaso, a drunken buffoon, had no character at all, and the plot was a tissue of absurdities, incon- sequences and inconsistencies ; yet I cannot help thinking it, upon the whole, the best play ever written by an American. Mr. Willis has made very few attempts at criticism, and those few (chiefly newspaper articles) have not impressed me with a high idea of his analytic abilities, although with a very high idea of his taste and discrimination. His style proper may be called extravagant, bizarre, pointed, epigrammatic without being antithetical, (this is very rarely the case,) but, through all its whimsicalities, graceful, classic and ac- curate. He is very seldom to be caught tripping in the minor morals. His English is correct ; his most outrageous imagery is, at all events, unmixed. Mr. Willis's career has naturally made him enemies among the envious host of dunces whom he has outstripped in the race for fame ; and these his personal manner (a little tinctured with re- serve, brusquerie, or even haughtiness) is by no means adapted to conciliate. He has innumerable warm friends, however, and is himself a warm friend. He is impulsive, generous, bold, impet- uous, vacillating, irregularly energetic — apt to be hurried into error, but incapable of deliberate wrong. He is yet young, and, without being handsome, in the ordinary sense, is a remarkably well looking man. In height he is, perhaps, five feet eleven, and justly proportioned. His figure is put in the best light by the ease and assured grace of his carriage His whole person 2 # 34 WILLIAM L. GILLESPIE. and personal demeanor bear about them the traces of "good society." His face is somewhat too full, or rather heavy, in its lower por- tions. Neither his nose nor his forehead can be defended ; the latter would puzzle phrenology. His eyes are a dull bluish gray, and small. His hair is of a rich brown, curling naturally and luxuriantly. His mouth is well cut ; the teeth fine ; the expres- sion of the smile intellectual and winning. He converses little, well rather than fluently, and in a subdued tone. The portrait of him published about three years ago in " Graham's Magazine," conveys by no means so true an idea of the man as does the sketch (by Lawrence) inserted as frontispiece to a late collection of his poems. WILLIAM M. GILLESPIE. Mr. William M. Gillespie aided Mr. Park Benjamin, 1 be- lieve, some years ago, in the editorial conduct of "The New World," and has been otherwise connected with the periodical press of New York. He is more favorably known, however, as the author of a neat volume entitled " Rome as Seen by a New Yorker," — a good title to a good book. The endeavor to convey Rome only by those impressions which would naturally be made upon an American, gives the work a certain air of originality — the rarest of all qualities in descriptions of the Eternal City. The style is pure and sparkling, although occasionally flippant and dilletantesque. The love of remark is much in the usual way — selon les regies — never very exceptionable, and never very pro- found. Mr. Gillespie is not unaccomplished, converses readily on many topics, has some knowledge of Italian, French, and, I believe, of the classical tongues, with such proficiency in the mathematics as has obtained for him a professorship of civil engineering at Union College, Schenectady. In character he has much general amiability, is warm-hearted, excitable, nervous. His address is somewhat awkward, but " in- sinuating " from its warmth and vivacity. Speaks continuously and rapidly, with a lisp which, at times, is by no means unpleas- i CHARLES F. BRIGGS. 85 ing ; is fidgety, and never knows how to sit or to stand, or what to do with his hands and feet, or his hat. In the street walks irregularly, mutters to himself, and, in general, appears in a state of profound abstraction. In person he is about five feet seven inches high, neither stout nor thin, angularly proportioned ; eyes large and dark hazel, hair dark and curling, an ill-formed nose, fine teeth, and a smile of peculiar sweetness ; nothing remarkable about the forehead. The general expression of the countenance when in repose is rather unprepossessing, but animation very much alters its character. He is probably thirty years of age — unmarried. CHARLES F. BRIGGS. Mr. Briggs is better known as Harry Franco, a nom de plume assumed since the publication, in the " Knickerbocker Magazine," of his series of papers called " Adventures of Harry Franco." He also wrote for " The Knickerbocker " some articles entitled " The Haunted Merchant," which have been printed since as a novel, and from time to time subsequently has been a contributor to that journal. The two productions just mentioned have some merit. They depend for their effect upon the relation in a straightforward manner, just as one would talk, of the most commonplace events — - a kind of writing which, to ordinary, and especially to indolent intellects, has a very observable charm. To cultivated or to ac- tive minds it is in an equal degree distasteful, even when claiming the merit of originality. Mr. Briggs's manner, however, is an ob- vious imitation of Smollett, and, as usual with all imitation, pro- duces an unfavorable impression upon those conversant with the original. It is a common failing, also, with imitators, to out- Herod Herod in aping the peculiarities of the model, and too frequently the faults are more pertinaciously exaggerated than the merits. Thus, the author of " Harry Franco " carries the simplicity of Smollett sometimes to insipidity, and his picturesque low-life is made to degenerate into sheer vulgarity. If Mr. Briggs has a forte, it is a Flemish fidelity that omits CHARLES F. BRIGGS. nothing, whether agreeable or disagreeable ; but I cannot call this forte a virtue. He has also some humor, but nothing of an origi- nal character. Occasionally he has written good things. A mag- azine article, called " Dobbs and his Cantelope," was quite easy and clever in its way ; but the way is necessarily a small one. And I ought not to pass over without some allusion to it, his satirical novel of " Tom Pepper." As a novel, it really has not the slightest pretensions. To a genuine artist in literature, he is as Plumbe to Sully. Plumbe's daguerreotypes have more fidelity than any portrait ever put on canvass, and so Briggs's sketches of E. A. Duyckinck (Tibbings) and the author of Puffer Hopkins (Ferocious) are as lifelike as any portraits in words that have ever been drawn. But the subjects are little and mean, pretending and vulgar. Mr. Briggs would not succeed in delineating a gentleman. And some letters of his in Hiram Fuller's paper — perhaps for the reason that they run through a desert of stupidity — some letters of his, I say, under the apt signature of " Ferdinand Mendoza Pinto," are decidedly clever as examples of caricature — absurd, of course, but sharply absurd, so that, with a knowledge of their design, one could hardly avoid occasional laughter. I once thought Mr. Briggs could cause laughter only by his efforts at a serious kind of writing. In connexion with Mr. John Bisco, he was the originator of the late " Broadway Journal " — my editorial association with that work not having commenced until the sixth or seventh number, although I wrote for it occasionally from the first. Among the principal papers contributed by Mr. B., were those discussing the paintings at the preceding exhibition of the Academy of Fine Arts in New York. I may be permitted to say, that there was scarcely a point in his whole series of criticisms on this subject at which I did not radically disagree with him. Whatever taste he has in art is, like his taste in letters, Flemish. There is a portrait painter for whom he has an unlimited admiration. The unfortunate gen- tleman is Mr. Page. Mr. Briggs is about five feet six inches in height, somewhat slightly framed, with a sharp, thin face, narrow forehead, nose sufficiently prominent, mouth rather pleasant in expression, eyes not so good, gray and small, although occasionally brilliant. In WILLIAM KIRKLAND. S7 dress lie is apt to affect the artist, felicitating himself especially upon his personal acquaintance with artists and his general con- noisseurship. He walks with a quick, nervous step. His address is quite good, frank and insinuating. His conversation has now and then the merit of humor, and more frequently of a smartness, allied to wit, but he has a perfect mania for contradiction, and it is sometimes impossible to utter an uninterrupted sentence in his hearing. He has much warmth of feeling, and is not a person to be disliked, although very apt to irritate and annoy. Two of his most marked characteristics are vacillation of purpose and a pas- sion for being mysterious. He has, apparently, travelled ; has some knowledge of French ; has been engaged in a variety of em- ployments ; and now, I believe, occupies a lawyer's office in Nas- sau-street. He is from Cape Cod or Nantucket, is married, and is the centre of a little circle of rather intellectual people, of which the Kirklands, Lowell, and some other notabilities are honorary members. He goes little into general society, and seems about forty years of age. WILLIAM KIRKLAND. Mr. William Kirkland — husband of the author of " A New Home" — has written much for the magazines, but has made no collection of his works. A series of " Letters from Abroad" have been among his most popular compositions. He was in Europe for some time, and is well acquainted with the French language and literature, as also with the German. He aided Dr. Turner in the late translation of Von Raumer's " America," published by the Langleys. One of his best magazine papers appeared in " The Columbian" — a review of the London Foreign Quarterly for April, 1844. The 'arrogance, ignorance, and self-glorification of the Quarterly, with its gross injustice towards everything un-British, were severely and palpably exposed, and its narrow malignity shown to be especially mal-a-propos in a journal exclusively de- voted to foreign concerns, and therefore presumably imbued with 88 JOHN W. FRANCIS. something of a cosmopolitan spirit. An article on " English and American Monthlies" in Godey's Magazine, and one entitled " Our English Visitors," in " The Columbian," have also been extensively read and admired. A valuable essay on " The Tyranny of Public Opinion in the United States," (published in " The Columbian" for December, 1845,) demonstrates the truth of Jefferson's asser- tion, that in this country, which has set the world an example of physical liberty, the inquisition of popular sentiment overrules in practice the freedom asserted in theory by the laws. " The West, the Paradise of the Poor," and " The United States' Census for 1830," the former in "The Democratic Review," the latter in " Hunt's Merchants' Magazine," with sundry essays in the daily papers, complete the list of Mr. Kirkland's works. It will be seen that he has written little, but that little is entitled to respect for its simplicity, and the evidence which it affords of scholarship and diligent research. Whatever Mr. Kirkland does is done carefully. He is occasionally very caustic, but seldom without cause. His style is vigorous,, precise, and, notwithstanding his foreign acquire- ments, free from idiomatic peculiarities. Mr. Kirkland is beloved by all who know him ; in character mild, unassuming, benevolent, yet not without becoming energy at times ; in person rather short and slight ; features indistinctive ; converses well and zealously, although his hearing is defective. JOHN ¥. FRANCIS. Doctor Francis, although by no means a litterateur, cannot well be omitted in an account of the New York literati. In his capacity of physician and medical lecturer, he is far too well known to need comment. He was the pupil, friend and partner of Hossack — the pupil of Abernethy — connected in some manner with everything that has been well said or done medicinally in America. As a medical essayist he has always commanded the highest respect and attention. Among the points he has made at various times, I may mention his Anatomy of Drunkenness, his views of the Asiatic Cholera, his analysis of the Avon waters of the state, his establishment of the comparative immunity of tha JOHN W. FRANCIS. 39 constitution from a second attack of yellow fever, and bis patholo- gical propositions on the changes wrought in the system by spe- cific poisons through their assimilation — propositions remarkably sustained and enforced by recent discoveries of Liebig. In unprofessional letters Doctor Francis has also accomplished much, although necessarily in a discursive manner. His biogra- phy of Chancellor Livingston, his Horticultural Discourse, his Dis- course at the opening of the new hall of the New York Lyceum of Natural History, are (each in its way) models of fine writing, just sufficiently toned down by an indomitable common sense. I had nearly forgotten to mention his admirable sketch of the per- sonal associations of Bishop Berkley, of Newport. Doctor Francis is one of the old spirits of the New York His- torical Society. His philanthropy, his active, untiring beneficence, will for ever render his name a household word among the truly Christian of heart. His professional services and his purse are always at the command of the needy ; few of our wealthiest men have ever contributed to the relief of distress so bountifully — none certainly with greater readiness or with warmer sympathy. His person and manner are richly peculiar. He is short and stout, probably five feet eight in height, limbs of great muscularity and strength, the whole frame indicating prodigious vitality and energy — the latter is, in fact, the leading trait in his character. His head is large, massive — the features in keeping ; complexion dark florid ; eyes piercingly bright ; mouth exceedingly mobile and expressive ; hair gray, and worn in matted locks about the neck and shoulders — eyebrows to correspond, jagged and ponder- ous. His age is about fifty-eight. His general appearance is such as to arrest attention. His address is the most genial that can be conceived, its bon- hommie irresistible. He speaks in a loud, clear, hearty tone, dog- matically, with his head thrown back and his chest out ; never waits for an introduction to anybody ; slaps a perfect stranger on the back and calls him " Doctor" or " Learned Theban ;" pats every lady on the head, and (if she be pretty and petite) desig- nates her by some such title as " My Pocket Edition of the Lives of the Saints." His conversation proper is a sort of Roman punch made up of tragedy, comedy, and the broadest of all possible farce. 40 ANNA CORA MOWATT. He has a natural, felicitous flow of talk, always overswelling its boundaries and sweeping everything before it right and left. He is very earnest, intense, emphatic ; thumps the table with his fist ; shocks the nerves of the ladies. His forte, after all, is humor, the richest conceivable — a compound of Swift, Rabelais, and the clown in the pantomime. He is married. ANNA CORA MOWATT. Mrs. Mow att is in some respects a remarkable woman, and has undoubtedly wrought a deeper impression upon the public than any one of her sex in America. She became first known through her recitations. To these she drew large and discriminating audiences in Boston, New York, and elsewhere to the north and east. Her subjects were much in the usual way of these exhibitions, including comic as well as serious pieces, chiefly in verse. In her selections she evinced no very refined taste, but was probably influenced by the elocutionary rather than by the literary value of her programmes. She read well ; her voice was melodious ; her youth and general appear- ance excited interest, but, upon the whole, she produced no great effect, and the enterprise may be termed unsuccessful, although the press, as is its wont, spoke in the most sonorous tone of her success. It was during these recitations that her name, prefixed to occa- sional tales, sketches and brief poems in the magazines, first attract- ed an attention that, but for the recitations, it might not have attracted. Her sketches and tales may be said to be cleverly written. Thev are lively, easy, conventional, scintillating with a species of sarcastic wit, which might be termed good were it in any respect original. In point of style — that is to say, of mere English, they are very re- spectable. One of the best of her prose papers is entitled "Ennui and its Antidote," published in "The Columbian Magazine" for June, 1 845. The subject, however, is an exceedingly hackneyed one. In looking carefully over her poems, I find no one entitled to commendation as a whole ; in very few of them do I observe even noticeable passages, and I confess that I am surprised and disap- ANNA CORA MO WATT. 41 pointed at this result of my inquiry; nor can I make up my mind that there is not much latent poetical power in Mrs. Movvatt. From some lines addressed to Isabel M , I copy the opening stanza as the most favorable specimen which I have seen of her verse. Forever vanished from thy cheek Is life's unfolding rose — Forever quenched the flashing smile That conscious beauty knows ! Thine orbs are lustrous with a light Which ne'er illumes the eye Till heaven is bursting on the sight And earth is fleeting by." In this there is much force, and the idea in the concluding qua- train is so well put as to have the air of originality. Indeed, I am not sure that the thought of the last two lines is not original ; — at all events it is exceedingly natural and impressive. I say " nat- ural" because, in any imagined ascent from the orb we inhabit, when heaven should " burst on the sight" — in other words, when the attraction of the planet should be superseded by that of anoth- er sphere, then instantly would the "dearth" have the appearance of "fleeting by." The versification, also, is much better here than is usual with the poetess. In general she is rough, through excess of harsh consonants. The whole poem is of higher merit than any which I can find with her name attached ; but there is little of the spirit of poesy in anything she writes. She evinces more feeling than ideality. Her first decided success was with her comedy, " Fashion," although much of this success itself is referable to the interest felt in her as a beautiful woman and an authoress. The play is not without merit. It may be commended espe- cially for its simplicity of plot. What the Spanish playwrights mean by dramas of intrigue, are the worst acting dramas in the world ; the intellect of an audience can never safely be fatigued by complexity. The necessity for verbose explanation, however, on the part of Trueman, at the close of the play, is in this regard a serious defect. A denouement should in all cases be taken up with action — with nothing else. Whatever cannot be explained by such action should be communicated at the opening of the story. ANNA CORA MOWATT. In the plot, however estimable for simplicity, there is of course not a particle of originality of invention. Had it, indeed, been designed as a burlesque upon the arrant conventionality of stage incidents in general, it might have been received as a palpable hit. There is not an event, a character, a jest, which is not a well-under- stood thing, a matter of course, a stage-property time out of mind. The general tone is adopted from " The School for Scandal," to which, indeed, the whole composition bears just such an affinity as the shell of a locust to the locust that tenants it — as the spec- trum of a Congreve rocket to the Congreve rocket itself. In the management of her imitation, nevertheless, Mrs. Mowatt has, I think, evinced a sense of theatrical effect or point which may lead her, at no very distant day, to compose an exceedingly taking, although it can never much aid her in composing a very merito- rious drama. "Fashion," in a word, owes what it had of success to its being the work of a lovely woman who had already excited interest, and to the very commonplaceness or spirit of convention- ality which rendered it readily comprehensible and appreciable by the public proper. It was much indebted, too, to the carpets, the ottomans, the chandeliers and the conservatories, which gained so decided a popularity for that despicable mass of inanity, the " London Assurance" of Bourcicault. Since " Fashion," Mrs. Mowatt has published one or two brief novels in pamphlet form, but they have no particular merit, al- though they afford glimpses (I cannot help thinking) of a genius as yet unrevealed, except in her capacity of actress. In this capacity, if she be but true to herself, she will assuredly win a very enviable distinction. She has done well, wonderfully well, both in tragedy and comedy ; but if she knew her own strength, she would confine herself nearly altogether to the de- picting (in letters not less than on the stage) the more gentle sentiments and the most profound passions. Her sympathy with the latter is evidently intense. In the utterance of the truly generous, of the really noble, of the unaffectedly passionate, we see her bosom heave, her cheek grow pale, her limbs tremble, her lip quiver, and nature's own tear rush impetuously to the eye. It is this freshness of the heart which will provide for her the greenest laurels. It is this enthusiasm, this well of deep feeling, / ANNA CORA MOW ATT. 43 which should be made to prove for her an inexhaustible source of fame. As an actress, it is to her a mine of wealth worth all the dawdling instruction in the world. Mrs. Mowatt, on her first appearance as Pauline, was quite as able to give lessons in stage routine to any actor or actress in America, as was any actor or actress to give lessons to her. Now, at least, she should throw all " support " to the winds, trust proudly to her own sense of art, her own rich and natural elocution, her beauty, which is un- usual, her grace, which is queenly, and be assured that these qualities, as she now possesses them, are all sufficient to render her a great actress, when considered simply as the means by which the end of natural acting is to be attained, as the mere instru- ments by which she may effectively and unimpededly lay bare to the audience the movements of her own passionate heart. Indeed, the great charm of her manner is its naturalness. She looks, speaks, and moves, with a well-controlled impulsiveness, as different as can be conceived from the customary rant and cant, the hack conventionality of the stage. Her voice is rich and vo- luminous, and although by no means powerful, is so well managed as to seem so. Her utterance is singularly distinct, its sole blem- ish being an occasional Anglicism of accent, adopted probably from her instructor, Mr. Crisp. Her reading could scarcely be improved. Her action is distinguished by an ease and self-pos- session which would do credit to a veteran. Her step is the per- fection of grace. Often have I watched her for hours with the closest scrutiny, yet never for an instant did I observe her in an attitude of the least awkwardness or even constraint, while many of her seemingly impulsive gestures spoke in loud terms of the woman of genius, of the poet imbued with the profoundest sentiment of the beautiful in motion. Her figure is slight, even fragile. Her face is a remarkably fine one, and of that precise character best adapted to the stage. The forehead is, perhaps, the least prepossessing feature, although it is by no means an unintellectual one. Hair light auburn, in rich profusion, and always arranged with exquisite taste. The eyes are gray, brilliant and expressive, without being full. The nose is well formed, with the Roman curve, and indicative of energy. This quality is also shown in the somewhat excessive 44 GEORGE B. CHEEVER. prominence of the chin. The mouth is large, with brilliant an& even teeth and flexible lips, capable of the most instantaneous and effective variations of expression. A more radiantly beauti- ful smile it is quite impossible to conceive. GEORGE B. CHEEVER. The Reverend George B. Cheever created at one time some- thing of an excitement by the publication of a little brochure en- titled " Deacon Giles' Distillery." He is much better known, however, as the editor of " The Commonplace Book of American Poetry," a work which has at least the merit of not belying its title, and is exceedingly commonplace. I am ashamed to say that for several years this compilation afforded to Europeans the only material from which it was possible to form an estimate of the poetical ability of Americans. The selections appear to me exceedingly injudicious, and have all a marked leaning to the didactic. Dr. Cheever is not without a certain sort of negative ability as critic, but works of this character should be undertaken by poets or not at all. The verses which I have seen attributed to him are undeniably mediocres. His principal publications, in addition to those mentioned above, are "God's Hand in America," "Wanderings of a Pilgrim under the Shadow of Mont Blanc," " Wanderings of a Pilgrim under the Shadow of Jungfrau," and, lately, a "Defence of Capital Punishment." This " Defence " is at many points well reasoned, and as a clear resume of all that has been already said on its own side of the question, may be considered as commendable. It premises, however, (as well as those of all reasoners pro or con on this vexed topic,) are admitted only very partially by the world at large — a fact of which the author affects to be ignorant. Neither does he make the slightest attempt at bringing forward one novel argument. Any man of ordinary invention might have adduced and maintained a dozen. The two series of " Wanderings" are, perhaps, the best works of their writer. They are what is called "eloquent ;" a little too much in that way, perhaps, but nevertheless entertaining. CHARLES ANTHON. 45 Dr. Cheever is rather small in stature, and his countenance is vivacious ; in other respects, there is nothing very observable about his personal appearance. He has been recently married. CHARLES ANTHON. Doctor Charles Anthon is the well-known Jay-Professor of the Greek and Latin languages in Columbia College, New York, and Rector of the Grammar School. If not absolutely the best, he is at least generally considered the best classicist in America. In England, and in Europe at large, his scholastic acquirements are more sincerely respected than those of any of our countrymen. His additions to Lempriere are there justly regarded as evincing a nice perception of method, and accurate as well as extensive erudition, but his " Classical Dictionary " has superseded the work of the Frenchman altogether. Most of Professor Anthon's pub- lications have been adopted as text-books at Oxford and Cam- bridge — an honor to be properly understood only by those ac- quainted with the many high requisites for attaining it. As a commentator (if not exactly as a critic) he may rank with any of his day, and has evinced powers very unusual in men who de- vote their lives to classical lore. His accuracy is very remarkable ; in this particular he is always to be relied upon. The trait mani- fests itself eves in his MS., which is a model of neatness and symmetry, exceeding in these respects anything of the kind with which I am acquainted. It is somewhat too neat, perhaps, and too regular, as well as diminutive, to be called beautiful ; it might be mistaken at any time, however, for very elaborate copperplate engraving. But his chirography, although fully in keeping, so far as preci- sion is concerned, with his mental character, is, in its entire free- dom from flourish or superfluity, as much out of keeping with his verbal style. In his notes to the Classics he is singularly Cicero- nian — if, indeed, not positively Johnsonese. An attempt was made not long ago to prepossess the public against his "Classical Dictionary," the most important of his works, by getting up a hue and cry of plagiarism — in the case of 46 CHARLES ANTHON. all similar books the most preposterous accusation in the world, although, from its very preposterousness, one not easily rebutted. Obviously, the design in any such compilation is, in the first place, to make a useful school-book or book of reference, and the scholar who should be weak enough to neglect this indispensable point for the mere purpose of winning credit with a few bookish men for originality, would deserve to be dubbed, by the public at least, a dunce. There are very few points of classical scholarship which are not the common property of " the learned " throughout the world, and in composing any book of reference recourse is un- scrupulously and even necessarily had in all cases to similar books which have preceded. In availing themselves of these latter, however, it is the practise of quacks to paraphrase page after page, rearranging the order of paragraphs, making a slight alteration in point of fact here and there, but preserving the spirit of the whole, its information, erudition, etc., etc., while everything is so completely re-written as to leave no room for a direct charge of plagiarism ; and this is considered and lauded as originality. Now, he who, in availing himself of the labors of his predecessors (and it is clear that all scholars must avail themselves of such la- bors) — he who shall copy verbatim the passages to be desired, without attempt at palming off their spirit as original with him- self, is certainly no plagiarist, even if he fail to make direct ac- knowledgment of indebtedness — is unquestionably less of the plagiarist than the disingenuous and contemptible quack who wriggles himself, as above explained, into a reputation for origin- ality, a reputation quite out of place in a case of this kind — the public, of course, never caring a straw whether he be original or not. These attacks upon the New York professor are to be at- tributed to a clique of pedants in and about Boston, gentlemen envious of his success, and whose own compilations are noticeable only for the singular patience and ingenuity with which their dovetailing chicanery is concealed from the public eye. Doctor Anthon is, perhaps, forty-eight years of age; about five feet eight inches in height ; rather stout ; fair complexion ; hair light and inclined to curl ; forehead remarkably broad and high ; eye gray, clear and penetrating ; mouth well-formed, with excellent teeth — the lips having great flexibility, and consequent RALPH HOYT. 47 power of expression ; the smile particularly pleasing. His ad- dress in general is bold, frank, cordial, full of bonhommie. His whole air is distingue in the best understanding of the term — that is to say, he would impress any one at first sight with the idea of his -being no ordinary man. He has qualities, indeed, which would have insured him eminent success in almost any pursuit ; and there are times in which his friends are half dis- posed to regret his exclusive devotion to classical literature. He was one of the originators of the late " New York Review," his associates in the conduct and proprietorship being Doctor F. L. Hawks and Professor R. C. Henry. By far the most valuable papers, however, were those of Doctor A. RALPH HOYT. The Reverend Ralph Hoyt is known chiefly — at least to the world of letters — by " The Chaunt of Life and other Poems, with Sketches and Essays." The publication of this work, however, was never completed, only a portion of the poems having appeared, and none of the essays or sketches. It is hoped that we shall yet have these latter. Of the poems issued, one, entitled " Old," had so many pecu- liar excellences that I copied the whole of it, although quite long, in " The Broadway Journal" It will remind every reader of Du- rand's fine picture, " An Old Man's Recollections," although be- tween poem and painting there is no more than a very admissi- ble similarity. I quote a stanza from " Old" (the opening one) by way of bringing the piece to the remembrance of any who may have forgotten it. By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing ; Oft I marked him sitting there alone, All the landscape like a page perusing; Poor unknown, By the way side on a mossy stone. The quaintness aimed at here is, so far as a single stanza is con- cerned, to be defended as a legitimate effect, conferring high plea- 48 RALPH HOYT. sure on a numerous and cultivated class of minds. Mr. Hoyt, however, in his continuous and uniform repetition of the first line in the last of each stanza of twenty-five, has by much exceeded the proper limits of the quaint and impinged upon the ludicrous. The poem, nevertheless, abounds in lofty merit, and has, in espe- cial, some passages of rich imagination and exquisite pathos. For example — Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, No one sympathizing, no one heeding, None to love him for his thin gray hair. One sweet spirit broke the silent spell — Ah, to me her name was always Heaven ! She besought him all his grief to tell — (I was then thirteen and she eleven) Isabel ! One sweet spirit broke the silent spelL " Angel," said he, sadly, " I am old ; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow : Why I sit here thou shalt soon be told" — (Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow — Down it roiled — ) " Angel," said he, sadly, " / am old ! " It must be confessed that some portions of " Old" (which is by far the best of the collection) remind us forcibly of the " Old Man" of Oliver Wendell Holmes. " Proemus" is the concluding poem of the volume, and itself concludes with an exceedingly vigorous stanza, putting me not a little in mind of Campbell in his best days. " O'er all the silent sky A dark and scowling frown — But darker scowled each eye When all resolved to die — When {night of dread renown !) A thousand stars went down" Mr. Hoyt is about forty years of age, of the medium height, pale complexion, dark hair and eyes. His countenance expresses sensibility and benevolence. He converses slowly and with per- fect deliberation. He is married. GULIAN C. VEKPLANCK. 49 GULIAN C. VERPLANCK. Mr. Verplanck has acquired reputation — at least his literary reputation — less from what he has done than from what he has given indication of ability to do. His best if not his principal works, have been addresses, orations and contributions to the re- . views. His scholarship is more than respectable, and his taste and acumen are not to be disputed. His legal acquirements, it is admitted, are very considerable. When in Congress he was noted as the most industrious man in that assembly, and acted as a walking register or volume of refer- ence, ever at the service of that class of legislators who are too lofty-minded to burden their memories with mere business par- ticulars or matters of fact. Of late years the energy of his cha- racter appears to have abated, and many of his friends go so far as to accuse him of indolence. - His family is quite influential — one of the few old Dutch ones retaining their social position. Mr. Verplanck is short in stature, not more than five feet five inches in height, and compactly or stoutly built. The head is square, massive, and covered with thick, bushy and grizzly hair ; the cheeks are ruddy ; lips red and full, indicating a relish for good cheer ; nose short and straight ; eyebrows much arched ; eyes dark blue, with what seems, to a casual glance, a sleepy ex- pression — but they gather light and fire as we examine them. He must be sixty, but a vigorous constitution gives promise of a ripe and healthful old age. He is active ; walks firmly, with a short, quick step. His manner is affable, or (more accurately) sociable. He converses well, although with no great fluency, and has his hobbies of talk ; is especially fond of old English litera- ture. Altogether, his person, intellect, tastes and general peculiar- ities, bear a very striking resemblance to those of the late Nicho- las Biddle. Vol. HI.— 3 SO FREEMAN HUNT. FREEMAN HUNT. Mr. Hunt is the editor and proprietor of the well-known " Mer- chants' Magazine," one of the most useful of our monthly jour- nals, and decidedly the best " property" of any work of its class. In its establishment he evinced many remarkable traits of cha- racter. He was entirely without means, and even much in debt, and otherwise embarrassed, when by one of those intuitive per- ceptions which belong only to genius, but which are usually attri- buted to " good luck," the " happy" idea entered his head of get- ting up a magazine devoted to the interests of the influential class of merchants. The chief happiness of this idea, however, (which no doubt had been entertained and discarded by a hundred projectors before Mr. H.,) consisted in the method by which he proposed to carry it into operation. Neglecting the hackneyed modes of ad- vertising largely, circulating flashy prospectuses and sending out numerous " agents," who in general, merely serve the purpose of boring people into a very temporary support of the work in whose behalf they are employed, he took the whole matter resolutely into his own hands ; called personally, in the first place, upon his immediate mercantile friends ; explained to them, frankly and succinctly, his object ; put the value and necessity of the contem- plated publication in the best light — as he well knew how to do — and in this manner obtained to head his subscription list a good many of the most eminent business men in New York. Armed with their names and with recommendatory letters from many of them, he now pushed on to the other chief cities of the Union, and thus, in less time than is taken by ordinary men to make a preparatory flourish of trumpets, succeeded in building up for him- self a permanent fortune and for the public a journal of immense interest and value. In the whole proceeding he evinced a tact, a knowledge of mankind and a self-dependence which are the sta- ple of even greater achivements than the establishment of a five dollar magazine. In the subsequent conduct of the work he gave evidence of equal ability. Having without aid put the ma- gazine upon a satisfactory footing as regards its circulation, he FREEMAN HUNT. 51 also without aid undertook its editorial and business conduct — from the first germ of the conception to the present moment having kept the whole undertaking within his own hands. His subscribers and regular contributors are now among the most in- telligent and influential in America ; the journal is regarded as absolute authority in mercantile matters, circulates extensively not only in this country but in Europe, and even in regions more re- mote, affording its worthy and enterprising projector a large in- come, which no one knows better than himself how to put to good use. The strong points, the marked peculiarities of Mr. Hunt could not have failed in arresting the attention of all observers of cha- racter ; and Mr Willis in especial has made him the subject of repeated comment. I copy what follows from the " New York Mirror :" Hunt has been glorified in the " Hong-Kong Gazette," is regularly compli- mented by the English mercantile authorities, has every bank in the world for an eager subscriber, every consul, every ship-owner and navigator; is filed away as authority in every library, and thought of in half the countries of the world as early as No. 3 in their enumeration of distinguished Ameri- cans, yet who seeks to do him honor in the city he does honor to ? The " Merchants' Magazine," though a prodigy of perseverance and industry, is not an accidental development of Hunt's energies. He has always been singularly sagacious and original in devising new works and good ones. He was the founder of the first ' Ladies' Magazine,'* of the first children's pe- riodical ; he started the ' American Magazine of Useful and Entertaining Knowledge,' compiled the best known collection of American anecdotes and is an indefatigable writer — the author, among other things of " Letters About the Hudson." Hunt was a playfellow of ours in round-jacket days, and we have always looked at him with a reminiscent interest. His luminous, eager eyes, as he goes along the street, keenly bent on his errand, would impress any observer with an idea of his genius and determination, and we think it quite time his earnest head was in the engraver's hand and his daily passing by a mark for the digito monstrari. Few more worthy or more valuable citizens are among us. Much of Mr. Hunt's character is included in what I have al- ready said and quoted. He is " earnest," " eager," combining in a very singular manner general coolness and occasional excitability. He is a true friend, and the enemy of no man. His heart is full of the warmest sympathies and charities. No one in New York is more universally popular. * At this point Mr. Willis is, perhaps, in error. 52 PIERO MARONCELLI. He is about five feet eight inches in height, well proportioned ; complexion dark-florid ; forehead capacious ; chin massive and projecting, indicative (according to Lavater and general expe- rience) of that energy which is, in fact, the chief point of his cha" racter ; hair light brown, very fine, of a weblike texture, worn long and floating about the face ; eyes of wonderful brilliancy and intensity of expression ; the whole countenance beaming with sensibility and intelligence. He is married, and about thirty- eight years of age. PIERO MARONCELLI. During his twelve years' imprisonment, Maroncelli composed a number of poetical works, some of which were committed to pa- per, others lost for the want of it. In this country he has pub- lished a volume entitled "Additions to the Memoirs of Silvio Pellico," containing numerous anecdotes of the captivity not re- corded in Pellico's work, and an " Essay on the Classic and Ro- mantic Schools," the author proposing to divide them anew and designate them by novel distinctions. There is at least some scholarship and some originality in this essay. It is also brief. Maroncelli regards it as the best of his compositions. It is strongly tinctured with transcendentalism. The volume contains, likewise, some poems, of which the " Psalm of Life," and the " Psalm of the Dawn" have never been translated into English. " Winds of the Wakened Spring," one of the pieces included, has been hap- pily rendered by Mr. Halleck, and is the most favorable specimen that could have been selected. These " Additions" accompanied a Boston version of " My Prisons, by Silvio Pellico." Maroncelli is now about fifty years old, and bears on his person the marks of long suffering ; he has lost a leg ; his hair and beard became gray many years ago ; just now he is suffering from severe illness, and from this it can scarcely be expected that he will recover. In figure he is short and slight. His forehead is rather low, but broad. His eyes are light blue and weak. The nose and mouth are large. His features in general have all the Italian mo- LAUGHTON OSBORK 63 bility ; their expression is animated and full of intelligence. He speaks hurriedly and gesticulates to excess. He is irritable, frank, generous, chivalrous, warmly attached to his friends, and expect- ing from them equal devotion. His love of country is unbounded, and he is quite enthusiastic in his endeavors to circulate in Ame- rica the literature of Italy. LAUGHTON OSBORN. Personally, Mr. Osborn is little known as an author, either to the public or in literary society, but he has made a great many " sensations " anonymously, or with a mon de plume. I am not sure that he has published anything with his own name. One of his earliest works — if not his earliest — was " The Ad- ventures of Jeremy Levis, by Himself," in one volume, a kind of medley of fact, fiction, satire, criticism, and novel philosophy. It is a dashing, reckless brochure, brimful of talent and audacity. Of course it was covertly admired by the few, and loudly con- demned by all of the many who can fairly be said to have seen it at all. It had no great circulation. There was something wrong, I fancy, in the mode of its issue. "Jeremy Levis" was followed by "The Dream of Alla-Ad- Deen, from the romance of ' Anastasia,' by Charles Erskine White, D.D." This is a thin pamphlet of thirty-two pages, each page containing about a hundred and forty words. AllaAd-Deen is the son of Aladdin, of " wonderful lamp " memory, and the story is in the " Vision of Mirza," or " Rasselas " way. The design is to reconcile us to death and evil, on the somewhat uphilosophical ground that comparatively we are of little importance in the scale of creation. The author himself supposes this scale to be infinite, and thus his argument proves too much ; for if evil should be regarded by man as of no consequence because, " comparatively," he is of none, it must be regarded as of no consequence by the angels for a similar reason — and so on in a never-ending ascent. In other words, the only thing proved is the rather bull-ish pro- position that evil is no evil at all. I do not find that the " Dream " 54 LAUGHTON OSBORK elicited any attention. It would have been more appropriately published in one of our magazines. Next in order came, I believe, "The Confessions of a Poet, by Himself." This was in two volumes, of the ordinary novel form, but printed very openly. It made much noise in the literary world, and no little curiosity was excited in regard to its author, who was generally supposed to be John Neal. There were some grounds for this supposition, the tone and matter of the narrative bearing much resemblance to those of "Errata" and "Seventy- Six," especially in the points of boldness and vigor. The " Con- fessions," however, far surpassed any production of Mr. Neal's in a certain air of cultivation (if not exactly of scholarship) which pervaded it, as well as in the management of its construction — a particular in which the author of "The Battle of Niagara" in- variably fails ; there is no precision, no finish, about anything he does — always an excessive force but little of refined art. Mr. N. seems to be deficient in a sense of completeness. He begins well, vigorously, startlingly, and proceeds by fits, quite at random, now prosing, now exciting vivid interest, but his conclusions are sure to be hurried and indistinct, so that the reader perceives a failing off, and closes the book with dissatisfaction. He has done no- thing which, as a whole, is even respectable, and " The Confes- sions" are quite remarkable for their artistic unity and perfection. But in higher regards they are to be commended. I do not think, indeed, that a better book of its kind has been written in America. To be sure, it is not precisely the work to place in the hands of a lady, but its scenes of passion are intensely wrought, its incidents are striking and original, its sentiments audacious and suggestive at least, if not at all times tenable. In a word, it is that rare thing, a fiction of power without rudeness. Its spirit, in general, resembles that of "Miserrimus" and "Martin Faber." Partly on account of what most persons would term their li- centiousness, partly, also, on account of the prevalent idea that Mr. Neal (who was never very popular with the press) had written them, "The Confessions," by the newspapers, were most unscru- pulously misrepresented and abused. The " Commercial Adver- tiser" of New York was, it appears, foremost in condemnation, and Mr. Osborn thought proper to avenge his wrongs by the pub- LAUGHTON OSBORN. 55 lication of a bulky satirical poem, levelled at the critics in general, but more especially at Colonel Stone, the editor of the " Com- mercial." This satire (which was published in exquisite style as regards print and paper,) was entitled " The Vision of Rubeta." Owing to the high price necessarily set upon the book, no great many copies were sold, but the few that got into circulation made quite a hubbub, and with reason, for the satire was not only bitter but personal in the last degree. It was, moreover, very censur- ably indecent — filthy is, perhaps, the more appropriate word. The press, without exception, or nearly so, condemned it in loud terms, without taking the trouble to investigate its pretensions as a literary work. But as "The Confessions of a Poet" was one of the best novels of its kind ever written in this country, so "The Vision of Rubeta" was decidedly the best satire. For its vul- garity and gross personality there is no defence, but its mordacity cannot be gainsaid. In calling it, however, the best American satire, I do not intend any excessive commendation — for it is, in fact, the only satire composed by an American. Trumbull's clumsy work is nothing at all, and then we have Halleck's " Croakers," which is very feeble — but what is there besides ? " The Vision" is our best satire, and still a sadly deficient one. It was bold enough and bitter enough, and well constructed and decently versified, but it failed in sarcasm because its malignity was per- mitted to render itself evident. The author is never very severe because he is never sufficiently cool. . We laugh not so much at the objects of his satire as we do at himself for getting into so great a passion. But, perhaps, under no circumstances is wit the forte of Mr. Osborn. He has few equals at downright invective. The "Vision" was succeeded by "Arthur Carryl and other Poems," including an additional canto of the satire, and several happy although not in all cases accurate or comprehensive imita- tions in English of the Greek and Roman metres. "Arthur Carryl" is a fragment, in the manner of " Don Juan." I do not think it especially meritorious. It has, however, a truth-telling and discriminative preface, and its notes are well worthy perusal. Some opinions embraced in these latter on the topic of versifica- tion I have examined in one of the series of articles called " Mar- ginalia." 56 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. I am not aware that since " Arthur Carryl " Mr. Osborn has written anything more than a " Treatise on Oil Painting," issued not long ago by Messrs. Wiley and Putnam. This work is highly spoken of by those well qualified to judge, but is, I believe, prin- cipally a compilation or compendium. In personal character, Mr. 0. is one of the most remarkable men I ever yet had the pleasure of meeting. He is undoubtedly one of " Nature's own noblemen," full of generosity, courage, honor — chivalrous in every respect, but, unhappily, carrying his ideas of chivalry, or rather of independence, to the point of Quixotism, if not of absolute insanity. He has no doubt been misappre- hended, and therefore wronged by the world ; but he should not fail to remember that the source of the wrong lay in his own idiosyncrasy — one altogether unintelligible and unappreciable by the mass of mankind. He is a member of one of the oldest and most influential, for- merly one of the wealthiest families in New York. His acquire- ments and accomplishments are many and unusual. As poet, painter, and musician, he has succeeded nearly equally well, and absolutely succeeded as each. His scholarship is extensive. In the French and Italian languages, he is quits at home, and in every- thing he is thorough and accurate. His critical abilities are to be highly respected, although he is apt to swear somewhat too round- ly by Johnson and Pope. Imagination is not Mr. Osborn's forte. He is about thirty-two or three — certainly not more than thirty- five years of age. In person he is well made, probably five feet ten or eleven, muscular and active. Hair, eyes, and complexion, rather light ; fine teeth ; the whole expression of the countenance manly, frank, and prepossessing in the highest degree. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. The name of Halleck is at least as well established in the poetical world as that of any American. Our principal poets are, perhaps, most frequently named in this order — Bryant, Halleck, Dana, Sprague, Longfellow, Willis, and so on — Halleck coming FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 57 second in the series, but holding, in fact, a rank in the public opinion quite equal to that of Bryant. The accuracy of the ar- rangement as above made may, indeed, be questioned. For my own part, I should have it thus — Longfellow, Bryant, Halleck, "Willis, Sprague, Dana ; and, estimating rather the poetic capacity than the poems actually accomplished, there are three or four comparatively unknown writers whom I would place in the series between Bryant and Halleck, while there are about a dozen whom I should assign a position between Willis and Sprague. Two dozen at least might find room between Sprague and Dana — this latter, I fear, owing a very large portion of his reputation to his quondam editorial connexion with " The North American Re- view." One or two poets, now in my mind's eye, I should have no hesitation in posting above even Mr. Longfellow — still not in- tending this as very extravagant praise. It is noticeable, however, that, in the arrangement which I at- tribute to the popular understanding, the order observed is nearly, if not exactly, that of the ages — the poetic ages — of the individ- ual poets. Those rank first who were first known. The priority has established the strength of impression. Nor is this result to be accounted for by mere reference to the old saw — that first im- pressions are the strongest. Gratitude, surprise, and a species of hyper patriotic triumph have been blended, and finally confounded with admiration or appreciation in regard to the pioneers of American literature, among whom there is not one whose produc- tions have not been grossly overrated by his countrymen. Hith- erto we have been in no mood to view with calmness and discuss with discrimination the real claims of the few who were first in convincing the mother country that her sons were not all brain- less, as at one period she half affected and wholly wished to be- lieve. Is there any one so blind as not to see that Mr. Cooper, for example, owes much, and Mr. Paulding nearly all, of his rep- utation as a novelist to his early occupation of the field ? Is there any one so dull as not to know that fictions which neither of these gentlemen could have written are written daily by native authors, without attracting much more of commendation than can be in- cluded in a newspaper paragraph ? And, again, is there any one so prejudiced as not to acknowledge that all this happens because 3* 58 F1TZ-GREENE HALLECK. there is no longer either reason or wit in the query, " Who reads an American book ?" I mean to say, of course, that Mr. Halleck, in the apparent public estimate, maintains a somewhat better position than that to which, on absolute grounds, he is entitled. There is some- thing, too, in the bonhommie of certain of his compositions — something altogether distinct from poetic merit — which has aided to establish him ; and much, also, must be admitted on the score of his personal popularity, which is deservedly great. With all these allowances, however, there will still be found a large amount of poetical fame to which he is fairly entitled. He has written very little, although he began at an early age — when quite a boy, indeed. His "juvenile" works, however, have been kept very judiciously from the public eye. Attention was first called to him by his satires, signed " Croaker " and " Croaker & Co.," published in "The New York Evening Post," in 1819. Of these the pieces with the signature " Croaker ter capacity that I must be considered as placing him among lite- rary people. He writes little himself, the editorial scraps which usually appear in fine type at the end of " The Knickerbocker" being the joint composition of a great variety of gentlemen (most of them possessing shrewdness and talent,) connected with diverse journals about the city of New York. It is only in some such manner, as might be supposed, that so amusing and so heteroge- neous a medley of chit-chat could be put together. Were a little more pains taken in elevating the tone of this " Editors' Table," (which its best friends are forced to admit is at present a little Boweryish,) I should have no hesitation in commending it in general as a very creditable and very entertaining specimen of what may be termed easy writing and hard reading. It is not, of course, to be understood from anything I have here said, that Mr. Clark does not occasionally contribute edito- rial matter to the magazine. His compositions, however, are far from numerous, and are always to be distinguished by their style, 110 LEWIS GAYLORD CLARK which is more " easily to be imagined than described." It has its merit, beyond doubt, but I shall not undertake to say that either "vigor," "force" or " impressiveness" is the precise term by which that merit should be designated. Mr. Clark once did me the honor to review my poems, and 1 forgive him. " The Knickerbocker" has been long established, and seems to have in it some important elements of success. Its title, for a merely local one, is unquestionably good. Its contributors have usually been men of eminence. Washington Irving was at one period regularly engaged. Paulding, Bryant, Neal, and several others of nearly equal note have also at various times furnished articles, although none of these gentlemen, I believe, continue their communications. In general, the contributed matter has been praiseworthy ; the printing, paper, and so forth, have been excellent, and there certainly has been no lack of exertion in the way of what is termed "putting the work before the eye of the public ;" still some incomprehensible incubus has seemed always to sit heavily upon it, and it has never succeeded in attaining position among intelligent or educated readers. On account of the manner in which it is necessarily edited, the work is deficient in that absolutely indispensable element, individuality. As the editor has no precise character, the magazine, as a matter of course, can have none. When I say " no precise character," I mean that Mr. C, as a literary man, has about him no determi- nateness, no distinctiveness, no saliency of point ;— - an apple, in fact, or a pumpkin, has more angles. He is as smooth as oil or a sermon from Doctor Hawks ; he is noticeable for nothing in the world except for the markedness by which he is noticeable for nothing. What is the precise circulation of " The Knickerbocker'' at pre- sent I am unable to say; it has been variously stated at from eight to eighteen hundred subscribers. The former estimate is no doubt too low, and the latter, I presume, is far too high. There are, perhaps, some fifteen hundred copies printed. At the period of his brother's decease, Mr. Lewis G. Clark bore to him a striking resemblance, but within the last year or two there has been much alteration in the person of the editor of the " Knickerbocker." He is now, perhaps, forty-two or three, but ANNE C. LYNCH. m still good-looking. His forehead is, phrenologically, bad — round and what is termed " bullety." The mouth, however, is much better, although the smile is too constant and lacks expression ; the teeth are white and regular. His hair and whiskers are dark, the latter meeting voluminously beneath the chin. In height Mr. C. is about five feet ten or eleven, and in the street might be re- garded as quite a " personable man ;" in society I have never had the pleasure of meeting him. He is married, I believe. ANNE C. LYNCH. Miss Anne Charlotte Lynch has written little ; — her compo- sitions are even too few to be collected in volume form. Her prose has been, for the most part, anonymous — critical papers in " The New York Mirror" and elsewhere, with unacknowledged contributions to the annuals, especially " The Gift," and " The Diadem," both of Philadelphia. Her " Diary of a Recluse," pub- lished in the former work, is, perhaps, the best specimen of her prose manner and ability. I remember, also, a fair critique on Fanny Kemble's poems ; — this appeared in " The Democratic Review." In poetry, however, she has done better, and given evidence of at least unusual talent. Some of her compositions in this way are of merit, and one or two of excellence. In the former class I place her " Bones in the Desert," published in " The Opal" for 1846, her " Farewell to Ole Bull," first printed in " The Tribune," and one or two of her sonnets — not forgetting some graceful and touching lines on the death of Mrs. Willis. In the latter class I place two noble poems, " The Ideal" and " The Ideal Found." These should be considered as one, for each is by itself imperfect. In modulation and vigor of rhythm, in dignity and elevation of sentiment, in metaphorical appositeness and accuracy, and in energy of expression, I really do not know where to point out any- thing American much superior to them. Their ideality is not so manifest as their passion, but I think it an unusual indication of taste in Miss Lynch, or (more strictly) of an intuitive sense of poetry's true nature, that this passion is just sufficiently subdued 112 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAK to lie within the compass of the poetic art, within the limits of the beautiful. A step farther and it might have passed them. Mere passion, however exciting, prosaically excites ; it is in its very- essence homely, and -delights in homeliness : but the triumph over passion, as so finely depicted in the two poems mentioned, is one of the purest and most idealizing manifestations of moral beauty. In character Miss Lynch is enthusiastic, chivalric, self-sacrificing, " equal to any fate," capable of even martyrdom in whatever should seem to her a holy cause — a most exemplary daughter. She has her hobbies, however, (of which a very indefinite idea of " duty" is one,) and is, of course, readily imposed upon by any art- ful person who perceives and takes advantage of this most amia- ble failing. In person she is rather above the usual height, somewhat slen- der, with dark hair and eyes — the whole countenance at times full of intelligent expression. Her demeanor is dignified, graceful, and noticeable for repose. She goes much into literary society. CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. Mr. Charles Fenno Hoffman has been long known to the public as an author. He commenced his literary career (as is usually the case in America) by writing for the newspapers — for " The New York American" especially, in the editorial conduct of which he became in some manner associated, at a very early age, with Mr. Charles King. His first book, I believe, was a collection (entitled " A Winter in the West") of letters published in " The American" during a tour made by their author through the " far West." This work appeared in 1834, went through several editions, was reprinted in London, was very popular, and deserved its popularity. It conveys the natural enthusiasm of a true idealist, in the proper phrenological sense, of one sensitively alive to beauty in every development. Its scenic descriptions are vivid, because fresh, genuine, unforced. There is nothing of the cant of the tourist for the sake not of nature but of tourism. The author writes what he feels, and, clearly, because he feels it. The style, i\ CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 113 as well as that of all Mr. Hoffman's books, is easy, free from superfluities, and, although abundant in broad phrases, still singu- larly refined, gentlemanly. This ability to speak boldly without blackguardism, to use the tools of the rabble when necessary with- out soiling or roughening the hands with their employment, is a rare and unerring test of the natural in contradistinction from the artificial aristocrat. Mr. H.'s next work was " Wild Scenes in the Forest and Prai- rie," very similar to the preceding, but more diversified with anecdote and interspersed with poetry. " Greyslaer" followed, a romance based on the well known murder of Sharp, the Solicitor- General of Kentucky, by Beauchampe. W. Gilmore Simms, (who has far more power, more passion, more movement, more skill than Mr. Hoffman) has treated the same subject more effectively in his novel " Beauchampe ;" but the fact is that both gentlemen have positively failed, as might have been expected. That both books are interesting is no merit either of Mr. H. or of Mr. S. The real events were more impressive than are the fictitious ones. The facts of this remarkable tragedy, as arranged by actual cir- cumstance, would put to shame the skill of the most consummate artist. Nothing was left to the novelist but the amplification of character, and at this point neither the author of " Greyslaer" nor of " Beauchampe" is especially aufait. The incidents might be better woven into a tragedy. In the way of poetry, Mr. Hoffman has also written a good deal. " The Vigil of Faith and other Poems" is the title of a volume published several years ago. The subject of the leading poem is happy — whether originally conceived by Mr. H. or based on an actual superstition, I cannot say. Two Indian chiefs are rivals in love. The accepted lover is about to be made happy, when his betrothed is murdered by the discarded suitor. The revenge taken is the careful preservation of the life of the assassin, under the idea that the meeting the maiden in another world is the point most desired by both the survivors. The incidents in- terwoven are picturesque, and there are many quotable passages ; the descriptive portions are particularly good ; but the author has erred, first, in narrating the story in the first person, and secondly, in putting into the mouth of the narrator language and 114 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. sentiments above the nature of an Indian. I say that the narra- tion should not have been in the first person, because, although an Indian may and does fully experience a thousand delicate shades of sentiment, (the whole idea of the story is essentially sentimental,) still he has, clearly, no capacity for their various ex- pression. Mr. Hoffman's hero is made to discourse very much after the manner of Rousseau. Nevertheless, " The Vigil of Faith" is, upon the whole, one of our most meritorious poems. The shorter pieces in the collection have been more popular ; one or two of the songs particularly so — " Sparkling and Bright," for example, which is admirably adapted to song purposes, and is full of lyric feelings. It cannot be denied, however, that, in general, the whole tone, air and spirit of Mr. Hoffman's fugitive composi- tions are echoes of Moore. At times the very words and figures of the " British Anacreon" are unconsciously adopted. Neither can there be any doubt that this obvious similarity, if not positive imitation, is the source of the commendation bestowed upon our poet by " The Dublin University Magazine," which declares him " the best song writer in America," and does him also the honor to intimate its opinion that " he is a better fellow than the whole Yankee crew" of us taken together — after which there is very little to be said. Whatever may be the merits of Mr. Hoffman as a poet, it may be easily seen that these merits have been put in the worst possi- ble light by the indiscriminate and lavish approbation bestowed on them by Dr. Griswold in his " Poets and Poetry of America." The editor can find no blemish in Mr. H., agrees with every- thing and copies everything said in his praise — worse than all, gives him more space in the book than any two, or perhaps three, of our poets combined. All this is as much an insult to Mr. Hoffman as to the public, and has done the former irreparable injury — how or why, it is of course unnecessary to say. " Heaven save us from our friends !" Mr. Hoffman was the original editor of " The Knickerbocker Magazine," and gave it while under his control a tone and cha- racter, the weight of which may be best estimated by the con- sideration that the work thence received, an impetus which has sufficed to bear it on alive, although tottering, month after month, CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 115 through even that dense region of unmitigated and immitigable fog — that dreary realm of outer darkness, of utter and inconceiva- ble dunderheadism, over which has so long ruled King Log the Second, in the august person of one Lewis Gaylord Clark. Mr. Hoffman subsequently owned and edited " The American Monthly Magazine," one of the best journals we have ever had. He also for one year conducted " The New York Mirror," and has always ■been a very constant contributor to the periodicals of the day. He is the brother of Ogden Hoffman. Their father, whose family came to New York from Holland before the time of Peter Stuyvesant, was often brought into connexion or rivalry with such men as Pinckney, Hamilton and Burr. The character of no man is more universally esteemed and ad- mired than that of the subject of this memoir. He has a host of friends, and it is quite impossible that he should have an enemy in the world. He is chivalric to a fault, enthusiastic, frank with- out discourtesy, an ardent admirer of the beautiful, a gentleman of the best school — a gentleman by birth, by education and by instinct. His manners are graceful and winning in the extreme — quiei, affable and dignified, yet cordial and degages. He con- verses much, earnestly, accurately and well. In person he is remark- ably handsome. He is about five feet ten in height, somewhat stoutly made. His countenance is a noble one — a full index of the character. The features are somewhat massive but reo-ular. The eyes are blue, or light gray, and full of fire ; the mouth finely formed, although the lips have a slight expression of voluptuous- ness ; the forehead, to my surprise although high, gives no indi- cation, in the region of the temples, of that ideality (or love of the beautiful) which is the distinguishing trait of his moral na- ture. The hair curls, and is of a dark brown, interspersed with gray. He wears full whiskers. Is about forty years of age. Un- married. 116 MARY E. HEWITT. MARY E. HEWITT. I am not aware that Mrs. Hewitt has written any prose ; but her poems have been many, and occasionally excellent. A col- lection of them was published, in an exquisitely tasteful form, by Ticknor & Co., of Boston. The leading piece, entitled " Songs of our Land," although the longest, was by no means the most meritorious. In general, these compositions evince poetic fervor, classicism, and keen appreciation both of moral and physical beauty. No one of them, perhaps, can be judiciously commended as a whole ; but no one of them is without merit, and there are several which would do credit to any poet in the land. Still, even these latter are particularly rather than generally commendable. They lack unity, totality — ultimate effect, but abound in forcible passages. For example : Shall I portray thee in thy glorious seeming, Thou that the pharos of my darkness art ? ... . Like the blue lotos on its own clear river Lie thy soft eyes, beloved, upon my soul And there the slave, a slave no more, Hung reverent up the chain he wore Here 'mid your wild and dark defile O'erawed and wonder-whelmed I stand, And ask — " is this the fearful vale That opens on the shadowy land ?".... Oh friends ! we would be treasured still, Though Time's cold hand should cast His misty veil, in after years, Over the idol Past, Yet send to us some offering thought O'er Memory's ocean wide, Pure as the Hindoo's votive lamp On Ganga's sacred tide. Mrs. Hewitt has warm partialities for the sea and all that con- cerns it. Many of her best poems turn upon sea adventures or have reference to a maritime life. Some portions of her " Gc bless the Mariner" are naive and picturesque : e. g. — God bless the happy mariner ! A homely garb wears he, And he goeth with a rolling gait, Like a ship before the sea. « MARY E. HEWITT. 117 He hath piped the loud " ay, ay, Sir !" O'er the voices of the main Till his deep tones have the hoarseness Of the rising hurricane. But oh, a spirit looketh From out his clear blue eye, "With a truthful childlike earnestness, Like an angel from the sky. A venturous life the sailor leads Between the sky and sea, But, when the hour of dread is past, A merrier who than he ? The tone of some quatrains entitled " Alone," differs materially from that usual with Mrs. Hewitt. The idea is happy and well managed. Mrs. Hewitt's sonnets are upon the whole, her most praise- worthy compositions. One entitled " Hercules and Omphale " is noticeable for the vigor of its rhythm. Reclined, enervate, on the couch of ease, No more he pants for deeds of high emprize ; For Pleasure holds in soft voluptuous ties Enthralled, great Jove-descended Hercules. The hand that bound the Erymanthean boar, Hesperia's dragon slew with bold intent, That from his quivering side in triumph rent The skin the Gleonman lion wore, Holds forth the goblet — while the Lydian queen, Robed like a nymph, her brow enwreathed with vine, Lifts high the amphora brimmed with rosy wine, And pours the draught the crowned cup within. And thus the soul, abased to sensual sway, Its worth forsakes — its might foregoes for aye. The unusual force of the line italicized, will be observed. This force arises first, from the directness, or colloquialism without vul- garity, of its expression : — (the relative pronoun " which " is very happily omitted between " skin " and " the ") — and, secondly, to the musical repetition of the vowel in " Cleoneean", together with the alliterative terminations in " Cleonaean" and "liorc." The effect, also, is much aided by the sonorous conclusion " wore." Another and better instance of fine versification occurs in " For- gotten Heroes." And the peasant mother at her door, To the babe that climbed her knee, Sang aloud the land's heroic songs — Sang of Thermopylae — Sang of Mycale — of Marathon — 118 MARY E. HEWITT. Of proud Plataea's day — Till the wakened hills from peak to peak Echoed the glorious lay. Oh, godlike name ! — oh, godlike deed ! Song-borne afar on every breeze, Ye are sounds to thrill like a battle shout, Leonidas ! Miltiades ! The general intention here is a line of four iambuses alternating with a line of three ; but, less through rhythmical skill than a musical ear, the poetess has been led into some exceedingly happy variations of the theme. For example ; — in place of the ordinary iambus as the first foot of the first, of the second, and of the third line, a bastard iambus has been employed. These lines are thus scanned : And the peas I ant moth | er at | her door | 4 4 2 2 2 To the babe I that climbed | her knee | 4 4 2 2 Sang aloud I the land's | hero | ic songs | 4 4 2 2 2 The fourth line, Sang of I Thermo I pylse, 2 2 2 is well varied by a trochee, instead of an iambus, in the first foot ; and the variation expresses forcibly the enthusiasm excited by the topic of the supposed songs, " Thermopylae". The fifth line is scanned as the three first. The sixth is the general intention, and consists simply of iambuses. The seventh is like the three first and the fifth. The eighth is like the fourth ; and here again the opening trochee is admirably adapted to the movement of the topic. The ninth is the general intention, and is formed of four iambuses. The tenth is an alternating line and yet has four iam- buses, instead of the usual three ; as has also the final line — an i alternating one, too. A fuller volume is in this manner given to the close of the subject ; and this volume is fully in keeping with the rising enthusiasm. The last line but one has two bastard iambuses, thus : Ye are sounds I to thrill I like a bat I tie shout I . 4 4 2 4 4 2 Upon the whole, it may be said that the most skilful versifier could not have written lines better suited to the purposes of the MARY E. HEWITT. 119 poet. The errors of "Alone," however, and of Mrs. Hewitt's poems generally, show that we must regard the beauties pointed out above, merely in the light to which I have already alluded — that is to say, as occasional happiness to which the poetess is led by a musical ear. I should be doing this lady injustice were I not to mention that, at times, she rises into a higher and purer region of poetry than might be supposed, or inferred, from any of the passages which I have hitherto quoted. The conclusion of her " Ocean Tide to the Rivulet" puts me in mind of the rich spirit of Home's noble epic, " Orion." Sadly the flowers their faded petals close Where on thy banks they languidly repose, Waiting in vain to hear thee onward press ; And pale Narcissus by thy margin side Hath lingered for thy coming, drooped and died, Pining for thee amid the loneliness. Hasten, beloved ! — here ! 'neath the overhanging rock ! Hark ! from the deep, my anxious hope to mock, They call me back unto my parent main. Brighter than Thetis thou — and ah, more fleet ! I hear the rushing of thy fair vihite feet ! J°y '• j°y ' — m y breast receives its own again ! The personifications here are well managed. The " Here ! — ■ 'neath the o'erhanging rock !" has the. high merit of being truth- fully, by which I mean naturally, expressed, and imparts exceed- ing vigor to the whole stanza. The idea of the ebb-tide, convey- ed in the second line italicized, is one of the happiest imaginable ; and too much praise can scarcely be bestowed on the " rushing" of the " fair white feet." The passage altogether is full of fancy, earnestness, and the truest poetic strength. Mrs. Hewitt has given many such indications of a fire which, with more earnest endeavor, might be readily fanned into flame. In character, she is sincere, fervent, benevolent — sensitive to praise and to blame ; in temperament melancholy ; in manner subdued ; converses earnestly yet quietly. In person she is tall and slender, with black hair and full gray eyes ; complexion dark ; general expression of the countenance singularly interesting and agreeable. 120 RICHARD ADAMS LOCKE. RICHARD ADAMS LOCKE, About twelve years ago, I think, " The New York Sun," a daily paper, price one penny, was established in the city of New York by Mr. Moses Y. Beach, who engaged Mr. Richard Adams Locke as its editor. In a well-written prospectus, the object of the journal professed to be that of " supplying the public with the news of the day at so cheap a rate as to lie within the means of all." The consequences of the scheme, in their influence on the whole newspaper business of the country, and through this business on the interests of the country at large, are probably be- yond all calculation. Previous to " The Sun," there had been an unsuccessful attempt at publishing a penny paper in New York, and " The Sun " itself was originally projected and for a short time issued by Messrs. Day & Wisner ; its establishment, however, is altogether due to Mr. Beach, who purchased it of its disheartened originators. The first decided movement of the journal, nevertheless, is to be at- tributed to Mr. Locke ; and in so saying, I by no means intend any depreciation of Mr. Beach, since in the engagement of Mr. L. he had but given one of the earliest instances of that unusual sagacity for which I am inclined to yield him credit. At all events, " The Sun " was revolving in a comparatively narrow orbit when, one fine day, there appeared in its editorial columns a prefatory article announcing very remarkable astron- omical discoveries made at the Cape of Good Hope by Sir John Herschell. The information was said to have been received by " The Sun " from an early copy of " The Edinburgh Journal of Science," in which appeared a communication from Sir John him- self. This preparatory announcement took very well, (there had been no hoaxes in those days,) and was followed by full details of the reputed discoveries, which were now found to have been made chiefly in respect to the moon, and by means of a telescope to which the one lately constructed by the Earl of Rosse is a play- thing. As these discoveries were gradually spread before the public, the astonishment of that public grew out of all bounds ; / RICHARD ADAMS LOCKE. 121 but those who questioned the veracity of " The Sun " — the authenticity of the communication to " The Edinburgh Journal of Science " — were really very few indeed ; and this I am forced to look upon as a far more wonderful thing than any " man-bat " of them all. About six months before this occurrence, the Harpers had issued an American edition of Sir John Herschell's "Treatise on As- tronomy," and I have been much interested in what is there said respecting the possibility of future lunar investigations. The theme excited my fancy, and I longed to give free rein to it in depicting my day-dreams about the scenery of the moon — in short, I longed to write a story embodying these dreams. The obvious difficulty, of course, was that of accounting for the narra- tor's acquaintance with the satellite ; and the equally obvious mode of surmounting the difficulty was the supposition of an ex- traordinary telescope. I saw at once that the chief interest of such a narrative must depend upon the reader's yielding his credence in some measure as to details of actual fact. At this stage of my deliberations, I spoke of the design to one or two friends — to Mr. John P. Kennedy, the author of " Swallow Barn," among others — and the result of my conversations with them was that the optical difficulties of constructing such a telescope as I conceived were so rigid and so commonly understood, that it would be in vain to attempt giving due verisimilitude to any fic- tion having the telescope as a basis. Reluctantly, therefore, and only half convinced, (believing the public, in fact, more readily gullible than did my friends,) I gave up the idea of imparting very close verisimilitude to what I should write — that is to say, so close as really to deceive. I fell back upon a style half plausi- ble, half bantering, and resolved to give what interest I could to an actual passage from the earth to the moon, describing the lu- nar scenery as if surveyed and personally examined by the narra- tor. In this view I wrote a story which I called " Hans Phaall," publishing it about six months afterwards in " The Southern Lit- erary Messenger," of which I was then editor. It was three weeks after the issue of " The Messenger " con- taining "Hans Phaall," that the first of the "Moon-hoax" edi- torials made its appearance in " The Sun," and no sooner had I Vol. III.— 6 122 RICHARD ADAMS LOCKE. seen the paper than I understood the jest, which not for a mo- ment could I doubt had been suggested by my own jeu cPesprit. Some of the New York journals (" The Transcript" among others) saw the matter in the same light, and published the " Moon story" side by side with " Hans Phaall," thinking that the author of the one had been detected in the author of the other. Although the details are, with some exception, very dissimilar, still I maintain that the general features of the two compositions are nearly identical. Both are hoaxes, (although one is in a tone of mere banter, the other of downright earnest ;) both hoaxes are on one subject, astronomy ; both on the same point of that subject, the moon ; both professed to have derived exclusive information from a foreign country, and both attempt to give plausibility by minute- ness of scientific detail. Add to all this, that nothing of a similar nature had ever been attempted before these two hoaxes, the one of which followed immediately upon the heels of the other. Having stated the case, however, in this form, I am bound to do Mr. Locke the justice to say that he denies having seen my article prior to the publication of his own ; I am bound to add, also, that I believe him. Immediately on the completion of the " Moon story," (it was three or four days in getting finished,) I wrote an examination of its claims to credit, showing distinctly its fictitious character, but was astonished at finding that I could obtain few listeners, so really eager were all to be deceived, so magical were the charms of a style that served as the vehicle of an exceedingly clumsy invention. It may afford even now some amusement to see pointed out those particulars of the hoax which should have sufficed to estab- lish its real character. Indeed, however rich the imagination dis- played in this fiction, it wanted much of the force which might have been given it by a more scrupulous attention to general an- alogy and to fact. That the public were misled, even for an in- stant, merely proves the gross ignorance which (ten or twelve years ago) was so prevalent on astronomical topics. The moon's distance from the earth is, in round numbers, 240,000 miles. If we wish to ascertain how near, apparently, a lens would bring the satellite, (or any distant object,) we, of course, have but to divide the distance by the magnifying, or, more ,1 RICHARD ADAMS LOCKE. 123 strictly, by the space-penetrating power of the glass. Mr. Locke gives his lens a power of 42,000 times. By this divide 240,000, (the moon's real distance,) and we have five miles and five-sevenths as the apparent distance. No animal could be seen so far, much less the minute points particularized in the story. Mr. L. speaks about Sir John Herschell's perceiving flowers, (the papaver Hheas, etc.,) and even detecting the color and the shape of the eyes of small birds. Shortly before, too, the author himself observes that the lens would not render perceptible objects less than eighteen inches in diameter ; but even this, as I have said, is giving the glass far too great a power. On page 18, (of the pamphlet edition,) speaking of " a hairy veil " over the eyes of a species of bison, Mr. L. says — " It imme- diately occurred to the acute mind of Doctor Herschell that this was a providential contrivance to protect the eyes of the animal from the great extremes of light and darkness to which all the inhabitants of our side of the moon are periodically subjected." But this should not be thought a very "acute" observation of the Doctor's. The inhabitants of our side of the moon have, evi- dently, no darkness at all ; in the absence of the sun they have a light from the earth equal to that of thirteen full moons, so that there can be nothing of the extremes mentioned. The topography throughout, even when professing to accord with Blunt's Lunar Chart, is at variance with that and all other lunar charts, and even at variance with itself. The points of the compass, too, are in sad confusion ; the writer seeming to be un- aware that, on a lunar map, these are not in accordance with ter- restial points — the east being to the left, and so forth. Deceived, perhaps, by the vague titles Mare Nubium, Mare Tranquilitatis, Mare Fcecunditatis, etc., given by astronomers of former times to the dark patches on the moon's surface, Mr. L. has long details respecting oceans and other large bodies of water in the moon ; whereas there is no astronomical point more posi- tively ascertained than that no such bodies exist there. In ex- amining the boundary between light and darkness in a crescent or gibbous moon, where this boundary crosses any of the dark places, the line of division is found to be jagged ; but were these dark places liquid, they would evidently be even. 124 RICHARD ADAMS LOCKE. The description of the wings of the man-bat (on page 21) is but a literal copy of Peter Wilkins' account of the wings of his flying islanders. This simple fact should at least have induced suspicion. On page 23 we read thus — " What a prodigious influence must our thirteen times larger globe have exercised upon this satellite when an embryo in the womb of time, the passive subject of chem- ical affinity I" Now, this is very fine ; but it should be observed that no astronomer could have made such remark, especially to any " Journal of Science," for the earth in the sense intended (that of bulk) is not only thirteen but forty-nine times larger than the moon. A similar objection applies to the five or six concluding pages of the pamphlet, where, by way of introduction to some discoveries in Saturn, the philosophical correspondent is made to give a minute school-boy account of that planet — an account quite supererogatory, it might be presumed, in the case of " The Edin- burgh Journal of Science." But there is one point, in especial, which should have instantly betrayed the fiction. Let us imagine the power really possessed of seeing animals on the moon's surface — what in such case would first arrest the attention of an observer from the earth ? Certainly neither the shape, size, nor any other peculiarity in these animals so soon as their remarkable position — they would seem to be walking heels up and head down, after the fashion of flies on a ceiling. The real observer (however prepared by previous know- ledge) would have commented on this odd phenomenon before proceeding to other details ; the fictitious observer has not even alluded to the subject, but in the case of the man-bats speaks of seeing their entire bodies, when it is demonstrable that he could have seen little more than the apparently flat hemisphere of the head. I may as well observe, in conclusion, that the size, and espe- cially the powers of the man-bats, (for example, their ability to fly in so rare an atmosphere — if, indeed, the moon has any,) with most of the other fancies in regard to animal and vegetable exist- ence, are at variance generally with all analogical reasoning on these themes, and that analogy here will often amount to the most positive demonstration. The temperature of the moon, RICHARD ADAMS LOCKE. 125 for instance, is rather above that of boiling water, and Mr. Locke, consequently, has committed a serious oversight in not represent- ing his man-bats, his bisons, his game of all kinds — to say nothing of his vegetables — as each and all done to a turn. It is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to add, that all the suggestions attributed to Brewster and Herschell in the beginning of the hoax, about the " transfusion of artificial light through the focal object of vision," etc., etc., belong to that species of figurative writing which comes most properly under the head of rigmarole. There is a real and very definite limit to optical discovery among the stars, a limit whose nature need only be stated to be understood. If, indeed, the casting of large lenses were all that is required, the ingenuity of man would ultimately prove equal to the task, and we might have them of any size demanded ;* but, unhappily, in proportion to the increase of size in the lens, and consequently of space-penetrating power, is the diminution of light from the object by diffusion of the rays. And for this evil there is no remedy within human reach ; for an object is seen by means of that light alone, whether direct or reflected, which proceeds from the object itself. Thus the only artificial light which could avail Mr. Locke, would be such as he should be able to throw, not upon " the focal object of vision," but upon the moon. It has been easily calcu- lated that when the light proceeding from a heavenly body be- comes so diffused as to be as weak as the natural light given out by the stars collectively in a clear, moonless night, then the hea- venly body for any practical purpose is no longer visible. The singular blunders to which I have referred being properly understood, we shall have all the better reason for wonder at the prodigious success of the hoax. Not one person in ten discredited it, and (strangest point of all !) the doubters were chiefly those who doubted without being able to say why — the ignorant, those uninformed in astronomy, people who would not believe because the thing was so novel, so entirely " out of the usual way." A * Neither of the Herschells dreamed of the possibility of a speculum six feet in diameter, and now the marvel has been triumphantly accomplished by Lord Rosse. There is, in fact, no physical impossibiliiy in our casting lenses of even fifty feet diameter or more. A sufficiency of means and skill is all that is demanded. 126 RICHARD ADAMS LOCKE. grave professor of mathematics in a Virginian college told me seriously that he had no doubt of the truth of the whole affair ! The great effect wrought upon the public mind is referable, first, to the novelty of the idea ; secondly, to the fancy-exciting and reason-repressing character of the alledged discoveries ; thirdly, to the consummate tact with which the deception was brought forth ; fourthly, to the exquisite vraisemblance of the narration. The hoax was circulated to an immense extent, was translated into various languages — was even made the subject of (quizzical) discussion in astronomical societies ; drew down upon itself the grave denunciation of Dick, and was, upon the whole, decidedly the greatest hit in the way of sensation — of merely popular sensa- tion — ever made by any similar fiction either in America or in Europe. Having read the Moon story to an end, and found it anticipa- tive of all the main points of my " Hans Phaall," I suffered the latter to remain unfinished. The chief design in carrying my hero to the moon was to afford him an opportunity of describing the lunar scenery, but I found that he could add very little to the minute and authentic account of Sir John Herschell. The first part of " Hans Phaall," occupying about eighteen pages of " The Messenger," embraced merely a journal of the passage between the two orbs, and a few words of general observation on the most obvious features of the satellite ; the second part will most proba- bly never appear. I did not think it advisable even to bring my voyager back to his parent earth. He remains where I left him, and is still, I believe, " the man in the moon." From the epoch of the hoax " The Sun" shone with unmitigated splendor. The start thus given the paper insured it a triumph ; it has now a daily circulation of not far from fifty thousand copies, and is, therefore, probably, the most really influential journal of its kind in the world. Its success firmly established " the penny system" throughout the country, and {through " The Sun") conse- quently, we are indebted to the genius of Mr. Locke for one of the most important steps ever yet taken in the pathway of human progress. On dissolving, about a year afterwards, his connexion with Mr. Beach, Mr. Locke established a political daily paper, " The New RICHARD ADAMS LOCKE. 127 Era," conducting it with distinguished ability. In this journal he made, very unwisely, an attempt at a second hoax, giving the finale of the adventures of Mungo Park in Africa — the writer pre- tending to have come into possession, by some accident, of the lost MSS. of the traveller. No one, however, seemed to be de- ceived, (Mr. Locke's columns were a suspected district,) and the adventures were never brought to an end. They were richly imaginative. The next point made by their author was the getting up a book on magnetism as the primum mobile of the universe, in connexion with Doctor Sherwood, the practitioner of magnetic remedies. The more immediate purpose of the treatise was the setting forth a new magnetic method of obtaining the longitude. The matter was brought before Congress and received with favorable attention. What definite action was had I know not. A review of the work appeared in " The Army and Navy Chronicle," and made sad havoc of the whole project. It was enabled to do this, how- ever, by attacking in detail the accuracy of some calculations of no very radical importance. These and others Mr. Locke is now engaged in carefully revising ; and my own opinion is that his theory (which he has reached more by dint of imagination than of anything else) will finally be established, although, perhaps, never thoroughly by him. His prose style is noticeable for its concision, luminousness, completeness — each quality in its proper place. He has that method so generally characteristic of genius proper. Everything he writes is a model in its peculiar way, serving just the purposes intended and nothing to spare. He has written some poetry, which, through certain radical misapprehensions, is not very good. Like most men of true imagination, Mr. Locke & a seemingly paradoxical compound of coolness and excitability. He is about five feet seven inches in height, symmetrically formed ; there is an air of distinction about his whole person — the air noble of genius. His face is strongly pitted by the small- pox, and, perhaps from the same cause, there is a marked obliquity in the eyes ; a certain calm, clear luminousness, however, about these latter, amply compensates for the defect, and the forehead 128 ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. is truly beautiful in its intellectuality. I am acquainted with no person possessing so fine a forehead as Mr. Locke. He is married, and about forty-five years of age, although no one would suppose him to be more than thirty-eight. He is a lineal descendant from the immortal author of the "Essay on the Human Under- standinof." ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.* This is a very pretty little volume, neatly printed, handsomely bound, embracing some two hundred pages sixteen- mo. and in- troduced to the public, somewhat unnecessarily, in a preface by Dr. Rums W. Griswold. In this preface we find some few mem- oranda of the personal authoress, with some critical opinions in relation to her poems. The memoranda are meagre. A much more interesting account of Mrs. Smith is given by Mr. John Neal, and was included by Mr. John Keese in the introduction to a former collection of her works. The critical opinions may as well be here quoted, at least in part. Dr. Griswold says : Seeking expression, yet shrinking from notoriety, and with a full share of that respect for a just fame and appreciation which belongs to every high- toned mind, yet oppressed by its shadow when circumstance is the impelling motive of publication, the writings of Mrs. Smith might well be supposed to betray great inequality ; still in her many contributions to the magazines, it is remarkable how few of her pieces display the usual carelessness and haste of magazine articles. As an essayist especially, while graceful and lively, she is compact and vigorous ; while through poems, essays, tales, and criti- cisms, (for her industrious pen seems equally skilful and happy in each of these departments of literature,) through all her manifold writings, indeed, there runs the same beautiful vein of philosophy, viz. : — that truth and good- ness of themselves impart a holy light to the mind which gives it a power far above mere intellectuality ; that the highest order of human intelligence springs from the moral and not the reasoning faculties Mrs. Smith's most popular poem is " The Acorn," which, though inferior in high inspira- tion to " The Sinless Child," is by many preferred for its happy play of fancy and proper finish. Her sonnets, of which she has written many, have not yet been as much admired as the " April Rain," " The Brook," and other fugitive pieces, which we find in many popular collections. " The Sinless Child " was originally published in the " Southern Literary Messenger," where it at once attracted much attention * The Poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith. First complete edi- tion. ISTew York. J. S. Redfield. ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 129 from the novelty of its conception and the general grace and pu rity of its style. Undoubtedly it is one of the most original of American -poems — surpassed in this respect, we think, only by Maria del Occidente's " Bride of Seven." Of course, we speak merely of long poems. We have had in this country many brief fugitive pieces far excelling in this most important point (origi- nality) either "The Bride of Sevev," or "The Sinless Child " — far excelling, indeed, any translanac poems. After all, it is chiefly in works of what is absurdly termed "sustained effort" that we fall in any material respect behind our progenitors. " The Sinless Child " is quite long, including more than two hundred stanzas, generally of eight lines. The metre through- out is iambic tetrameter, alternating with trimeter — in other words, lines of four iambuses alternate with lines of three. The varia- tions from this order are rare. The design of the poem is very imperfectly made out. The conception is much better than the execution. " A simple cottage maiden, Eva, given to the world in the widowhood of one parent and the angelic existence of the other is found from her birth to be as meek and gentle as are those pale flowers that look imploringly upon us. . . . She is gifted with the power of interpreting the beautiful mysteries of our earth For her the song, of the bird is not merely the gushing forth of a nature too full of blessedness to be silent .... the humblest plant, the simplest insect, is each alive with truth. .... She sees the world not merely with mortal eyes, but looks within to the pure internal life of which the outward is but a type," etc., etc. These passages are taken from the Argument prefixed to Part I. The general thesis of the poetess may, per- haps, be stated as the demonstration that the superior wisdom is moral rather than intellectual ; but it may be doubted whether her subject was ever precisely apparent to herself. In a word, she seems to have vacillated between several conceptions — the only very definite idea being that of extreme beauty and purity in a child. At one time we fancy her, for example, attempting to show that the condition of absolute sanctity is one through which mortality may know all things and hold converse with the an- gels ; at another we suppose it her purpose to "create " (in criti- cal language) an entirely novel being, a something that is neither 6* ISO ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. angel nor mortal, nor yet fairy in the ordinary sense — in a word, ai>0*%iual ens. Besides these two prominent fancies, however, there are various others which seem continually flitting in and out of the poet's vision, so that her whole work has an indeter- minate air. Of this ~ she apparently becomes conscious towards the conclusion, and in the final stanza endeavors to remedy the difficulty by summing up he v design — The sinless child, with mission high, Awhile to earth was given, To show us that ou> world should be The vestibule of heaven. Did we but in the holy light Of truth and goodness rise, "We might communion hold with God And spirits from the skies. The conduct of the narrative is scarcely more determinate — if, indeed, " The Sinless Child " can be said to include a narrative at all. The poem is occupied in its first part with a description of the child, her saintly character, her lone wanderings, the lessons she deduces from all animal and vegetable things, and her com- munings with the angels. We have then discussions with her mother, who is made to introduce episodical tales, one of " Old Richard," another called " The Defrauded Heart," (a tale of a miser,) and another entitled " The Stepmother." Towards the end of the poem a lover, Alfred Linne, is brought upon the scene. He has been reckless and sinful, but is reclaimed by the heavenly nature of Eva. He finds her sleeping in a forest. At this point occur some of the finest and most characteristic passages of the poem. Unwonted thought, unwonted calm Upon his spirit fell ; For he unwittingly had sought Young Eva's hallowed dell, And breathed that atmosphere of love, Around her path that grew : That evil from her steps repelled The good unto her drew. Mem. — The last quatrain of this stanza would have been more readily comprehended if punctuated and written thus — And breathed that atmosphere of love Around her path that grew — That evil from her steps repelled — That good unto her drew. J ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 131 We may as well observe here, too, that although neatly printed, the volume abounds in typographical errors that very frequently mar the sense — as at page 66, for example, where come (near the bottom) is improperly used for came, and scorching (second line from the top) is substituted for searching. We proceed with Al- fred's discovery of Eva in the wood. Now Eva opes her child-like eyes And lifts her tranquil head ; And Albert, like a guilty thing, Had from her presence fled. But Eva marked his troubled brow, His sad and thoughtful eyes, As if they sought yet shrank to hold Their converse with the skies. Communion with the skies — would have been far better. It seems strange to us that any one should have overlooked the word. And all her kindly nature stirred, She prayed him to remain ; Well conscious that the pure have power To balm much human pain. There mingled too, as in a dream, About brave Albert Linne, A real and ideal form Her soul had formed within. We give the punctuation here as we find it ; — it is incorrect throughout, interfering materially with a proper understanding of the passage. There should be a comma after " And " in the first line, a comma in place of the semicolon at the end of the second line, no point at the end of the third line, a comma after " mingled," and none after " form." These seeming minutiw are of real importance ; but we refer to them, in case of " The Sin- less Child," because here the aggregate of this species of minor error is unusually remarkable. Of course it is the proof-reader or editor, and not Mrs. Smith, who is to blame. Her trusting hand fair Eva laid In that of Albert Linne, And for one trembling moment turned Her gentle thoughts within. Deep tenderness was in the glance That rested on his face, As if her woman-heart had found Its own abiding-place. 132 ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. And evermore to him it seemed Her voice more liquid grew — " Dear youth, thy soul and mine are one ; One source their being drew ! And they must mingle evermore — Thy thoughts of love and me Will, as a light, thy footsteps guide To life and mystery." There was a sadness in her tone, But love unfathomed deep ; As from the centre of the soul Where the divine may sleep ; Prophetic was the tone and look, And Albert's noble heart Sank with a strange foreboding dread Lest Eva should depart. And when she bent her timid eyes As she beside him knelt, The pressure of her sinless lips Upon his brow he felt, And all of earth and all of sin Fled from her sainted side ; She, the pure virgin of the soul, Ordained young Albert's bride. It would, perhaps, have been out of keeping with the more ob- vious plan of the poem to make Eva really the bride of Albert. She does not wed him, but dies tranquilly in bed, soon after the spiritual union in the forest. " Eva," says the Argument of Part VII., " hath fulfilled her destiny. Material things can no farther minister to the growth of her spirit. That waking of the soul to its own deep mysteries — its oneness with another — has been accomplished. A human soul is perfected." At this point the poem may be said to have its conclusion. In looking back at its general plan, we cannot fail to see traces of high poetic capacity. The first point to be commended is the reach or aim of the poetess. She is evidently discontented with the bald routine of common-place themes, and originality has been with her a principal object. In all cases of fictitious composition it should be the first object — by which we do not mean to say that it can ever be considered as the most important. But, certe- ris paribus, every class of fiction is the better for originality ; every writer is false to his own interest if he fails to avail himself, at the outset, of the effect which is certainly and invariably deri- vable from the great element, novelty. ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. The execution of " The Sinless Child" is, as we have already- said, inferior to its conception — that is, to its conception as it floated, rather than steadily existed, in the brain of the authoress. She enables us to see that she has very narrowly missed one of those happy " creations" which now and then immortalize the poet. With a good deal more of deliberate thought before put- ting pen to paper, with a good deal more of the constructive abili- ty, and with more rigorous discipline in the minor merits of style, and of what is termed in the school-prospectuses, composition, Mrs. Smith would have made of " The Sinless Child" one of the best, if not the very best of American poems. While speaking of the execution, or, more properly, the conduct of the work, we may as well mention, first, the obviousness with which the stories introduced by Eva's mother are interpolated, or episodical ; it is permitted every reader to see that they have no natural con- nexion with the true theme ; and, indeed, there can be no doubt that they were written long before the main narrative was pro- jected. In the second place, we must allude to the artificiality of the Arguments, or introductory prose passages, prefacing each Part of the poem. Mrs. Smith had no sounder reason for employ- ing them than Milton and the rest of the epicists have employe u them before. If it be said that they are necessary for the propel comprehension of a poem, we reply that this is saying nothing for them, but merely much against the poem which demands them as a necessity. Every work of art should contain within itself all that is required for its own comprehension. An " argument" is but another form of the " This is an ox" subjoined to the portrait of an animal with horns. But in making these objections to the management of " The Sinless Child," we must not be under- stood as insisting upon them as at all material, in view of the lofty merit of originality — a merit which pervades and invigorates the whole work, and which, in our opinion, at least, is far, very- far more than sufficient to compensate for every inartisticality of construction. A work of art may be admirably constructed, and yet be null as regards every essentiality of that truest art which is but the happiest development of nature ; but no work of art can embody within itself a proper originality without giving the plainest manifestations of the creative spirit, or, in more common 134 ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. parlance, of genius in its author. The originality of " The Sinless Child" would cover a multitude of greater defects than Mrs. Smith ever committed, and must forever entitle it to the admira- tion and respect of every competent critic. As regards detatched passages, we think that the episode of " The Stepmother" may be fairly cited as the best in the poem You speak of Hobert's second wife, a lofty dame and bold ; I like not her forbidding air, and forehead high and cold. The orphans have no cause for grief; she dare not give it now, Though nothing but a ghostly fear her heart of pride could bow. One night the boy his mother called ; they heard him weeping say, ■ Sweet mother, kiss poor Eddy's cheek and wipe his tears away." Red grew the lady's brow with rage, and yet she feels a strife Of anger and of terror, too, at thought of that dead wife. "Wild roars the wind ; the lights burn blue ; the watch-dog howls with fear ; Loud neighs the steed from out the stall. What form is gliding near ? No latch is raised, no step is heard, but a phantom fills the space — A sheeted spectre from the dead, with cold and leaden face. What boots it that no other eye beheld the shade appear ? The guilty lady's guilty soul beheld it plain and clear. It slowly glides within the room and sadly looks around, And, stooping, kissed her daughter's cheek with lips that gave no sound. Then softly on the step-dame's arm she laid a death-cold hand, Yet it hath scorched within the flesh like to a burning brand ; And gliding on with noiseless foot, o'er winding stair and hall, She nears the chamber where is heard her infant's trembling call. She smoothed the pillow where he lay, she warmly tucked the bed, She wiped his tears and stroked the curls that clustered round his head. The child, caressed, unknowing fear, hath nestled him to rest ; The mother folds her wings beside — the mother from the blest ! The metre of this episode has been altered from its original form, and, we think, improved by the alteration. Formerly, in place of four lines of seven iambuses, the stanza consisted of eight lines — a line of four iambuses alternating with one of three — a more ordinary and artificial, therefore a less desirable arrange- ment. In the three last quatrains there is an awkward vacillation between the present and perfect tenses, as in the words " beheld," "glides," "kissed," "laid," "hath scorched," "smoothed," " wiped," " hath nestled," " folds." These petty objections, of course, will by no means interfere with the reader's appreciation of the episode, with his admiration of its pathos, its delicacy and its grace — we had almost forgotten to say of its pure and high imagination. ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 135 We proceed to cull from " The Sinless Child," a few brief but happy passages at random. Gentle she was and full of love, With voice exceeding sweet, And eyes of dove-like tenderness Where joy and sadness meet. with calm and tranquil eye That turned instinctively to seek The blueness of the sky. Bright missals from angelic throngs In every bye-way left — How were the earth of glory shorn Were it of flowers bereft ! And wheresoe'er the weary heart Turns in its dim despair, The meek-eyed blossom upward looks, Inviting it to prayer. The very winds were hushed to peace Within the quiet dell. Or murmured through the rustling bough Like breathings of a shell. The mystery of life ; Its many hopes, its many fears, Its sorrow and its strife — A spirit to behold in all To guide, admonish, cheer, — Forever, in all time and place, To feel an angel near. I may not scorn the spirit's rights, For I have seen it rise, All written o'er with thought, thought, thought, As with a thousand eyes ! And there are things that blight the soul As with a mildew blight, And in the temple of the Lord Put out the blessed light. It is in the point of passages such as these, in their vigor, terse- ness and novelty, combined with exquisite delicacy, that the more obvious merit of the poem consists. A thousand such quotable paragraphs are interspersed through the work, and of themselves would be sufficient to insure its popularity. But we repeat that a far loftier excellence lies perdu amid the minor deficiencies of "The Sinless Child." 136 ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. The other poems of the volume are, as entire compositions, nearer perfection, but, in general, have less of the true poetical element. " The Acorn" is perfect as regards its construction — although, to be sure, the design is so simple that it could scarcely be marred in its execution. The idea is the old one of detailing the progress of a plant from its germ to its maturity, with the uses and general vicissitudes to which it is subjected. In this case of the acorn the vicissitudes are well imagined, and the exe- cution is more skilfully managed — is more definite, vigorous and pronounced, than in the longer poem. The chief of the minor objections is to the rhythm, which is imperfect, vacillating awk- wardly between iambuses and anapaests, after such fashion that it is impossible to decide whether the rhythm in itself — that is, whether the general intention is anapaestical or iambic. Ana- paests introduced, for the relief of monotone, into an iambic rhythm, are not only admissible but commendable, if not abso- lutely demanded ; but in this case they prevail to such an extent as to overpower the iambic intention, thus rendering the whole versification difficult of comprehension. We give, by way of ex- ample, a stanza with the scanning divisions and quantities : They came | with gifts | that should life | bestow ; | The dew | and the li | ving air — | The bane | that should work | its dead | ly wo, | The lit | tie men | had there ; | In the gray | moss cup | was the mil | dew brought, | The worm | in a rose- | leaf rolled, | And ma | ny things | with destruc j tion fraught | That its doom | were quick | ly told, j Here iambuses and anapaests are so nearly balanced that the ear hesitates to receive the rhythm as either anapaestic or iambic, that is, it hesitates to receive it as anything at all. A rhythm should always be distinctly marked by its first foot — that is to say, if the design is iambic, we should commence with an unmis- takeable iambus, and proceed with this foot until the ear gets fairly accustomed to it before we attempt variation ; for which, indeed, there is no necessity unless for the relief of monotone. When the rhythm is in this manner thoroughly recognised, we may sparingly vary with anapaests (or, if the rhythm be trochaic, ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 137 with dactyls). Spondees, still more sparingly, as absolute dis- cords, may be also introduced either in an iambic or trochaic rhythm. In common with a very large majority of American, and, indeed, of European poets, Mrs. Smith seems to be totally unacquainted with the principles of versification — by which, of course, we mean its rationale. Of technical rules on the subject .there are rather more than enough in our prosodies, and from these abundant rules are deduced the abundant blunders of our poets. There is not a prosody in existence which is worth the paper on which it is printed. Of the miscellaneous poems included in the volume before us, we greatly prefer " The Summons Answered." It has more of power, more of genuine imagination than anything written by its author. It is a story of three " bacchanals," who, on their way from the scene of their revelry, are arrested by the beckoning of a white hand from the partially unclosing door of a tomb. One of the party obeys the summons. It is the tomb of his wife. We quote the two concluding stanzas : This restless life with its little fears, Its hopes that fade so soon, With its yearning tenderness and tears, And the burning agony that sears — The sun gone down at noon — The spirit crushed to its prison wall, Mindless of all beside — This young Richard saw, and felt it all — Well might the dead abide ! The crimson light in the east is high, The hoar-frost coldly gleams, And Richard chilled to the heart well-nigh, Hath raised his wildered and bloodshot eye From that long night of dreams. He shudders to think of the reckless band And the fearful oath he swore — But most he thinks of the clay-cold hand, That opened the old tomb door. With the quotation of these really noble passages — noble, be- cause full of the truest poetic energy — we take leave of the fair authoress. She is entitled, beyond doubt, to all, and perhaps to much more than the commendation she has received. Her faults are among the peccadilloes, and her merits among the sterling excellencies of the muse. 13S J. G. C. BRAINARD. J. G. C BRAINARD. Among all the pioneers of American literature, whether prose or poetical, there is not one whose productions have not been much overrated by his countrymen. But this fact is more espe- cially obvious in respect to such of these pioneers as are no longer living, — nor is it a fact of so deeply transcendental a nature as only to be accounted for by the Emersons and Alcotts. In the first place, we have but to consider that gratitude, surprise, and a species of hyper-patriotic triumph have been blended, and finally confounded with mere admiration, or appreciation, in respect to the labors of our earlier writers ; and, in the second place, that Death has thrown his customary veil of the sacred over these commingled feelings, forbidding them, in a measure, to be now separated or subjected to analysis. " In speaking of the de- ceased," says that excellent old English Moralist, James Puckle, in his " Gray Cap for a Green Head," " so fold up your discourse that their virtues may be outwardly shown, while their vices are wrapped up in silence." And with somewhat too inconsiderate a promptitude have we followed the spirit of this quaint advice. The mass of American readers have been, hitherto, in no frame of mind to view with calmness, and to discuss with discrimination, the true claims of the few who wei'e Jirst in convincing the mother country that her sons were not all brainless, as, in the plenitude of her arrogance, she, at one period, half affected and half wished to believe ; and where any of these few have departed from among us, the difficulty of bringing their pretensions to the test of a proper criticism has been enhanced in a very remarkable de- gree. But even as concerns the living : is there any one so blind as not to see that Mr. Cooper, for example, owes much, and that Mr. Paulding owes all of his reputation as a novelist, to his early occupation of the field ? Is there any one so dull as not to know that fictions which neither Mr. Paulding nor Mr. Cooper could have written, are daily published by native authors without at- tracting more of commendation than can be crammed into a hack newspaper paragraph ? And, again, is there any one so preju- 1 J. G. C. BRAIN ARD. 139 diced as not to acknowledge that all this is because there is no longer either reason or wit in the query, — " Who reads an Ameri- can book ?" It is not because we lack the talent in which the days of Mr. Paulding exulted, but because such talent has shown itself to be common. It is not because we have no Mr. Coopers ; but because it has been demonstrated that we might, at any moment, have as many Mr. Coopers as we please. In fact we are now strong in our own resources. We have, at length, arrived at that epoch when our literature may and must stand on its own merits, or fall through its own defects. We have snapped asunder the leading-strings of our British Grandmamma, and, better still, we have survived the first hours of our novel freedom, —the first licentious hours of a hobbledehoy braggadocio and swagger. At last, then, we are in a condition to be criticised — even more, to be neglected ; and the journalist is no longer in danger of being impeached for lese majeste of the Democratic Spirit, who shall assert, with sufficient humility, that we have committed an error in mistaking " Kettell's Specimens" for the Pentateuch, or Joseph Rodman Drake for Apollo. The case of this latter gentleman is one which well illustrates what we have been saying. We believe it was about 1835 that Mr. Dearborn republished the " Culprit Fay," which then, as at the period of its original issue, was belauded by the universal American press, in a manner which must have appeared ludicrous — not to speak very plainly — in the eyes of all unprejudiced ob- servers. With a curiosity much excited by comments at once so grandiloquent and so general, we procured and read the poem. What we found it we ventured to express distinctly, and at some length, in the pages of the " Southern Messenger." It is a well- versified and sufficiently fluent composition, without high merit of any kind. Its defects are gross and superabundant. Its plot and conduct, considered in reference to its scene, are absurd. Its originality is none at all. Its imagination (and this was the great feature insisted upon by its admirers,) is but a " counterfeit pre- sentment," — but the shadow of the shade of that lofty quality which is, in fact, the soul of the Poetic Sentiment — but a drivel- ling effort to be fanciful — an effort resulting in a species of hop- skip- an d-go-merry rhodomontade, which the uninitiated feel it a 140 J. G. C. BRAINARD. duty to call ideality, and to admire as such, while lost in surprise at the impossibility of performing at least the latter half of the duty with any thing like satisfaction to themselves. And all this we not only asserted, but without difficulty proved. Dr. Drake has written some beautiful poems, but the " Culprit Fay," is not of them. We neither expected to hear any dissent from our opinions, nor did we hear any. On the contrary, the approving voice of every critic in the country whose dictum we had been accustomed to respect, was to us a sufficient assurance that we had not been very grossly in the wrong. In fact the public taste was then approaching the right. The truth indeed had not, as yet, made itself heard ; but we had reached a point at which it had but to be plainly and boldly put, to be, at least tacitly admitted. This habit of apotheosising our literary pioneers was a most indiscriminating one. Upon all who wrote, the applause was plastered with an impartiality really refreshing. Of course, the system favored the dunces at the expense of true merit ! and, since there existed a certain fixed standard of exao-o-erated commenda- So tion to which all were adapted after the fashion of Procrustes, it is clear that the most meritorious required the least stretching, — in other words, that although all were much overrated, the de- serving were overrated in a less degree than the unworthy. Thus with Brainard : — a man of indisputable genius, who, in any more discriminate system of panegyric, would have been long ago be- puffed into Demi-Deism ; for if " M'Fingal," for example, is in reality what we have been told, the commentators upon Trumbull, as a matter of the simplest consistency, should have exalted into the seventh heaven of poetical dominion the author of the many graceful and vigorous effusions which are now lying, in a very neat little volume, before us.* Yet we maintain that even these effusions have been over- praised, and materially so. It is not that Brainard has not writ- ten poems which may rank with those of any American, with the single exception of Longfellow — but that the general merit of our * The Poems of John Q. G. Brainard. A New and Authentic Collection, with an original Memoir of his Life. Hartford : Edward Hopkins. I J. G. C. BRAINARD. 141 whole national Muse has been estimated too highly, and that the author of " The Connecticut River" has, individually, shared in the exaggeration. No poet among us has composed what would deserve the tithe of that amount of approbation so innocently lavished upon Brainard. But it would not suit our purpose just now, to enter into any elaborate analysis of his productions. It so happens, however, that we open the book at a brief poem, an examination of which will stand us in good stead of this general analyses, since it is by this very poem that the admirers of its author are content to swear — since it is the fashion to cite it as his best — since thus, in short, it is the chief basis of his notoriety, if not the surest triumph of his feme. We allude to " The Fall of Niagara," and shall be pardoned for quoting it in full. The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain While I look upward to thee. It would seem As if God poured thee from his hollow hand, And hung his brow upon thy awful front, And spoke in that loud voice which seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake The " sound of many waters" and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks. Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we That hear the question of that voice sublime ? O, what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet by thy thundering side ? Yea, what is all the riot man can make In his short life to thy unceasing roar ? And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to him Who drowned a world and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains ? — a light wave That breaks and whispers of its Maker's might. It is a very usual thing to hear these verses called not merely the best of their author, but the best which have been written on the subject of Niagara. Its positive merit appears to us only partial. We have been informed that the poet had seen the great cataract before writing the lines ; but the Memoir prefixed to the present edition, denies what, for our own part, we never believed, for Brainard was truly a poet, and no poet could have looked upon Niagara, in the substance, and written thus about it. If he saw it at all, it must have been in fancy — " at a distance" — " rt ? — 142 J. G. C. BRAIN ARD. as the lying Pindar says lie saw Archilocus, who died ages before the villain was born. To the two opening verses we have no objection ; but it may be well observed, in passing, that had the mind of the poet been really " crowned with strange thoughts," and not merely engaged in an endeavor to think, he would have entered at once upon the thoughts themselves, without allusion to the state of his brain. His subject would have left him no room for self. The third line embodies an absurd, and impossible, not to say a contemptible image. We are called upon to conceive a similarity between the continuous downward sweep of Niagara, and the momentary splashing of some definite and of course trifling quan- tity of water from a hand ; for, although it is the hand of the Deity himself which is referred to, the mind is irresistibly led, by the words " poured from his hollow hand," to that idea which has been customarily attached to such phrase. It is needless to say, moreover, that the bestowing upon Deity a human form, is at best a low and most unideal conception.* In fact the poet has committed the grossest of errors in likening the fall to any mate- rial object ; for the human fancy can fashion nothing which shall not be inferior in majesty to the cataract itself. Thus bathos is inevitable ; and there is no better exemplification of bathos than Mr. Brainard has here given.f * The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as having really a human form — See Clarke's Sermons, vol. I. page 26, foL edit. " The drift of Milton's argument leads him to employ language which would appear, at first sight, to yerge upon their doctrine : but it will be seen immediately that he guards himself against the charge of having adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the church." — Dr. Summer's Notes on Milton's " Christian Doctrine." The opinion could never have been very general. Andens, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, who lived in the fourth century, was condemned for the doc- trine, as heretical. His few disciples were called Anthropmorphites. — &ee Du Pin. f It is remarkable that Drake, of whose " Culprit Fay" we have just spo- ken is, perhaps, the sole poet who has employed, in the description of Nia- gara, imagery which does not produce a pathetic impression. In one of his minor poems he has these magnificent lines : How sweet 'twould be, when all the air In moonlight swims, along the river I J. a C. BRAINARD. 143 The fourth line but renders the matter worse, for here the figure is most inartistically shifted. The handful of water be- comes animate ; for it has a front — that is, a forehead, and upon this forehead the Deity proceeds to hang a bow, that is, a rain- bow. At the same time he " speaks in that loud voice/' &c. ; and here it is obvious that the ideas of the writer are in a sad state of fluctuation ; for he transfers the idiosyncrasy of the fall itself (that is to say its sound) to the one who pours it from his hand. But not content with all this, Mr. Brainard commands the flood to keep a kind of tally ; for this is the low thought which the expression about " notching in the rocks" immediately and inevitably induces. The whole of this first division of the poem, embraces, we hesitate not to say, one of the most jarring, inappropriate, mean, and in every way monstrous assemblages of false imagery, which can be found out of the tragedies of Nat Lee, or the farces of Thomas Carlyle. In the latter division, the poet recovers himself, as if ashamed of his previous bombast. His natural instinct (for Brainard was no artist) has enabled him to feel that subjects which surpass in grandeur all efforts of the human imagination are well depicted only in the simplest and least metaphorical language — a proposi- tion as susceptible of demonstration as any in Euclid. Accord- ingly, we find a material sinking in tone ; although he does not at once discard all imagery. The " Deep calleth unto deep" is nevertheless a great improvement upon his previous rhetorician- ism. The personification of the waters above and below would be good in reference to any subject less august. The moral re- flections which immediately follow, have at least the merit of simplicity ; but the poet exhibits no very lofty imagination when he bases these reflections only upon the cataract's superiority to man in the noise it can create ; nor is the concluding idea more To couch upon the grass and hear Niagara's everlasting voice Far in the deep blue West away ; That dreamy and poetic noise "We mark not in the glare of day — Oh, how unlike its torrent-cry When o'er the brink the tide is driven As if the vast and sheeted sky In thunder fell from Heaven ! 144 J. G. C. BRAINARD. spirited, where the mere difference between the quantity of water which occasioned the flood, and the quantity which Niagara pre- cipitates, is made the measure of the Almighty Mind's superiority to that cataract which it called by a thought into existence. But although "The Fall of Niagara" does not deserve all the unmeaning commendation it has received, there are, nevertheless, many truly beautiful poems in this collection, and even more cer- tain evidences of poetic power. " To a Child, the Daughter of a Friend" is exceedingly graceful and terse. " To the Dead" has equal grace, with more vigor, and, moreover, a touching air of melancholy. Its melody is very rich, and in the monotonous repetition, at each stanza, of a certain rhyme, we recognise a fan- tastic yet true imagination. " Mr. Merry's Lament for Long Tom" would be worthy of all praise were not its unusually beau- tiful rhythm an imitation from Campbell, who would deserve his high poetical rank, if only for its construction. Of the merely humorous pieces we have little to say. Such things are not poetry. Mr. Brainard excelled in them, and they are very good in their place ; but that place is not in a collection of poems. The prevalent notions upon this head are extremely vague ; yet we see no reason why any ambiguity should exist. Humor, with an exception to be made hereafter, is directly antagonistical to that which is the soul of the Muse proper ; and the omni-prevalent belief, that melancholy is inseparable from the higher manifesta- tions of the beautiful, is not without a firm basis in nature and in reason. But it so happens that humor and that quality which we have termed the soul of the Muse (imagination) are both es- sentially aided in their development by the same adventitious assistance— that of rhythm and of rhyme. Thus the only bond between humorous verse and poetry, properly so called, is that they employ in common, a certain tool. But this single circum- stance has been sufficient to occasion, and to maintain through long ages, a confusion of two very distinct ideas in the brain of the unthinking critic. There is, nevertheless, an individual branch of humor which blends so happily with the ideal, that from the union result some of the finest effects of legitimate poesy. We allude to what is termed "archness" — a trait with which popular feeling, which is unfailingly poetic, has invested, for example, the RUFUS DAWES. H5 whole character of the fairy. In the volume before us there is a brief composition entitled " The Tree Toad" which will afford a fine exemplification of our idea. It seems to have been hurriedly constructed, as if its author had felt ashamed of his light labor. But that in his heart there was a secret exultation over these verses for which his reason found it difficult to account, we know ; and there is not a really imaginative man within sound of our voice to-day, who, upon perusal of this little " Tree Toad" will not admit it to be one of the truest poems ever written by Brainard. RUFUS DAWES. " As a poet," says Mr. Griswold, in his " Poets and Poetry of America," " the standing of Mr. Dawes is as yet unsettled ; there being a wide difference of opinion respecting his writings." The width of this difference is apparent ; and, while to many it is matter for wonder, to those who have the interest of our Litera- ture at heart, it is, more properly, a source of mortification and regret. That the author in question has long enjoyed what we term " a high poetical reputation," cannot be denied ; and in no manner is this point more strikingly evinced than in the choice of his works, some two years since, by one of our most enterpri- sing publishers, as the initial volume of a series, the avowed object of which was the setting forth, in the best array of paper, type, and pictorial embellishment, the elite of the American poets. As a writer of occasional stanzas he has been long before the public ; always eliciting, from a great variety of sources, unqualified com. mendation. "With the exception of a solitary remark, adventured by ourselves in " A Chapter on Autography," there has been no written dissent from the universal opinion in his favor — the uni- versal apparent opinion. Mr. Griswold's observation must be understood, we presume, as referring to the conversational opinion upon this topic ; or it is not impossible that he holds in view the difference between the criticism of the newspaper paragraphs and the private comment of the educated and intelligent. Be this as it may, the rapidly growing " reputation" of our poet was much Vol. in.— 7 146 RUFUS DAWES. enhanced by the publication of his first compositions " of length," and attained its climax, we believe, upon the public recitation, by himself, of a tragic drama, in five acts, entitled " Athenia of Da- mascus," to a large assembly of admiring and applauding friends, gathered together for the occasion in one of the halls of the Uni- versity of New- York. This popular decision, so frequent and so public, in regard to the poetical ability of Mr. Dawes, might be received as evidence of his actual merit (and by thousands it is so received) were it not too scandalously at variance with a species of criticism which will not be resisted — with the perfectly simple precepts of the very commonest common sense. The peculiarity of Mr. Gris- wold's observation has induced us to make inquiry into the true character of the volume to which we have before alluded, and which embraces, we believe, the chief portion of the published verse-compositions of its author.* This inquiry has but resulted in the confirmation of our previous opinion ; and we now hesitate not to say, that no man in America has been more shamefully over-estimated than the one who forms the subject of this article. We say shamefully ; for, though a better day is now dawning upon our literary interests, and a laudation so indiscriminate will never be sanctioned again — the laudation in this instance, as it stands upon record, must be regarded as a laughable although bitter satire upon the general zeal, accuracy and independence of that critical spirit which, but a few years ago, pervaded and de- graded the land. In what we shall say we have no intention of being profound. Here is a case in which anything like analysis would be utterly thrown away. Our purpose (which is truth) will be more fully answered by an unvarnished exposition of fact. It appears to us, indeed, that in excessive generalization lies one of the leading errors of a criticism employed upon a poetical literature so imma- ture as our own. We rhapsodize rather than discriminate ; de- lighting more in the dictation or discussion of a principle, than in its particular and methodical application. The wildest and most * " Geraldine," " Athenia of Damascus," and Miscellaneous Poems. By Rufus Dawes. Published by Samuel Colman, New- York. / RUFITS DAWES. 147 erratic effusion of the Muse, not utterly worthless, will be found more or less indebted to method for whatever of value it embo- dies ; and we shall discover, conversely, that, in any analysis of even the wildest effusion, we labor without method only to labor without end. There is little reason for that vagueness of com- ment which, of late, we so pertinaciously affect, and which has been brought into fashion, no doubt, through the proverbial facil- ity and security of merely ^general remark. In regard to the lead- ing principles of true poesy, these, we think, stand not at all in need of the elucidation hourly wasted upon them. Founded in the unerring instincts of our nature, they are enduring and immu- table. In a rigid scrutiny of any number of directly conflicting opinions upon a poetical topic, we will not fail to perceive that principles identical in every important point have been, in each opinion, either asserted, or intimated, or unwittingly allowed an influence. The differences of decision arose simply from those of application ; and from such variety in the applied, rather than in the conceived idea, sprang, undoubtedly, the absurd distinctions of the " schools." " Geraldine" is the title of the first and longest poem in the volume before us. It embraces some three hundred and fifty stanzas — the whole being a most servile imitation of the " Don Juan" of Lord Byron. The outrageous absurdity of the system- atic digression in the British original, was so managed as to form not a little portion of its infinite interest and humor ; and the fine discrimination of the writer pointed out to him a limit beyond which he never ventured with this tantalizing species of drollery. " Geraldine" may be regarded, however, as a simple embodiment of the whole soul of digression. It is a mere mass of irrelevancy, amid the mad farrago of which we detect with difficulty even the faintest vestige of a narrative, and where the continuous lapse from impertinence to impertinence is seldom justified by any shadow of appositeness or even of the commonest relation. To afford the reader any proper conception of the story, is of course a matter of difficulty ; we must content ourselves with a mere outline of the general conduct. This we shall endeavor to give without indulgence in those feelings of risibility stirred up in us by the primitive perusal. We shall rigorously avoid every US RUFUS DAWES. species of exaggeration, and confine ourselves, with perfect hon- esty, to the conveyance of a distinct image. " Geraldine," then, opens with some four or five stanzas descrip- tive of a sylvan scene in America. We could, perhaps, render Mr. Dawes' poetical reputation no greater service than by the quotation of these simple verses in full. I know a spot where poets fain would dwell, To gather flowers and food for after thought, As bees draw honey from the rose's cell, To hive among the treasures they have wrought ; And there a cottage from a sylvan screen Sent up a curling smoke amidst the green. Around that hermit home of quietude The elm trees whispered with the summer air, And nothing ever ventured to intrude But happy birds that caroled wildly there, Or honey-laden harvesters that flew Humming away to drink the morning dew. Around the door the honey-suckle climbed And Multa-flora spread her countless roses, And never poet sang nor minstrel rhymed Romantic scene where happiness reposes, Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell. Beneath the mountain's brow the cottage stood, Hard by a shelving lake whose pebbled bed Was skirted by the drapery of a wood That hung its festoon foliage over head, Where wild deer came at eve unharmed, to drink, While moonlight threw then* shadows from the brink. The green earth heaved her giant waves around, Where, through the mountain vista, one vast height Towered heavenward without peer, his forehead bound With gorgeous clouds, at times of changeful light, While, far below, the lake in bridal rest Slept with his glorious picture on her breast. Here is an air of quietude in good keeping with the theme ; the " giant waves" in the last stanzas redeem it from much excep- tion otherwise ; and perhaps we need say nothing at all of the suspicious-looking compound " multa-flora." Had Mr. Dawes always written even nearly so well, we should have been spared to-day the painful task imposed upon us by a stern sense of our critical duty. These passages are followed immediately by an I RUFUS DAWES. 149 address or invocation to " Peerless America," including apostro- phes to Allston and Claude Lorraine. We now learn the name of the tenant of the cottage, which is Wilton, and ascertain that he has an only daughter. A single stanza quoted at this juncture will aid the reader's conception of the queer tone of philosophical rhapsody with which the poem teems, and some specimen of which is invariably made to follow each little modicum of incident. How like the heart is to an instrument A touch can wake to gladness or to wo ! How like the circumambient element The spirit with its undulating flow ! The heart — the soul — Oh, Mother Nature, why This universal bond of sympathy. . After two pages much in this manner, we are told that Geral dine is the name of the maiden, and are informed, with compara- tively little circumlocution, of her character. She is beautiful, and kind-hearted, and somewhat romantic, and " some thought her reason touched" — for which we have little disposition to blame them. There is now much about Kant and Fichte ; about Schel- ling, Hegel and Cousin ; (which latter is made to rhyme with gang ;) about Milton, Byron, Homer, Spinoza, David Hume, and Mirabeau ; and a good deal, too, about the scribendi cacoethes, in which an evident misunderstanding of the quantity of cacoethes brings, again, into very disagreeable suspicion the writer's cogni- zance of the Latin tongue. At this point we may refer, also, to such absurdities as Truth with her thousand-folded robe of error Close shut in her sarcophagi of terror — And Where candelabri silver the white halls. Now, no one is presupposed to be cognizant of any language be- yond his own ; to be ignorant of Latin is no crime ; to pretend a knowledge is beneath contempt ; and the pretender will attempt in vain to utter or to write two consecutive phrases of a foreign idiom, without betraying his deficiency to those who are con- versant. At page 39, there is some prospect of a progress in the story. 150 RUFUS DAWES. Here we are introduced to a Mr. Acus and his fair daughter, Miss Alice. Acus had been a dashing Bond-street tailor Some few short years before, who took his measures So carefully he always cut the jailor And filled his coffers with exhaustless treasures ; Then with his wife, a son, and three fair daughters, He sunk the goose and straightway crossed the waters. His residence is in the immediate vicinity of Wilton. The daughter, Miss Alice, who is said to be quite a belle, is enamored of one Waldron, a foreigner, a lion, and a gentleman of question- able reputation. His character (which for our life and soul we cannot comprehend) is given within the space of some forty or fifty stanzas, made to include, at the same time, an essay on mo- tives, deduced from the text " whatever is must be," and illumi- nated by a long note at the end of the poem, wherein the systime (quere systeme ?) de la Nature is sturdily attacked. Let us speak the truth : this note (and the whole of them, for there are many,) may be regarded as a glorious specimen of the concentrated es- sence of rigmarole, and, to say nothing of their utter absurdity per se, are so ludicrously uncalled for, and grotesquely out of place, that we found it impossible to refrain, during their perusal, from a most unbecoming and uproarious guffaw. We will be pardoned for giving a specimen — selecting it for its brevity. Reason, he deemed, could measure everything, And reason told him that there was a law Of mental action which must ever fling A death-bolt at all faith, and this he saw "Was Transference. (14) Turning to Note 14, we read thus — " If any one has a curiosity to look into this subject, (does Mr. Dawes really think any one so great a fool ?) and wishes to see how far the force of reasoning and analysis may carry him, inde- pendently of revelation, I would suggest (thank you, sir,) such inquiries as the following : " Whether the first Philosophy, considered in relation to Phy- sics, was first in time ? " How far our moral perceptions have been influenced by natu- ral phenomena? "How far our metaphysical notions of cause and effect are RUFUS DAWES. 151 attributable to the transference of notions connected with logical language V And all this in a poem about Acus, a tailor ! Waldron prefers, unhappily, Geraldine to Alice, and Geraldine returns his love, exciting thus the deep indignation of the neglect- ed fair one, whom love and jealousy bear up To mingle poison in her rival's cup. Miss A. has among her adorers one of the genus loafer, whose appellation, not improperly, is Bore. B. is acquainted with a milliner — the milliner of the disconsolate lady. She made this milliner her friend, who swore, To work her full revenge through Mr. Bore. And now says the poet — I leave your sympathetic fancies, To fill the outline of this pencil sketch. This filling has been, with us at least, a matter of no little dif- culty. We believe, however, that the affair is intended to run thus : — Waldron is enticed to some vile sins by Bore, and the knowledge of these, on the part of Alice, places the former gen- tleman in her power. We are now introduced to a fete champetre at the residence of Acus, who, by the way, has a son, Clifford, a suitor to Geraldine with the approbation of her father — that good old gentleman, for whom our sympathies were excited in the beginning of things, being influenced by the consideration that this. scion of the house of the tailor will inherit a plum. The worst of the whole is, how- ever, that the romantic Geraldine, who should have known bet- ter, and who loves Waldron, loves also the young knight of the shears. The consequence is a rencontre of the rival suitors at the fete champetre ; Waldron knocking his antagonist on the head, and throwing him into the lake. The murderer, as well as we can make out the narrative, now joins a piratical band, among whom he alternately cuts throats and sings songs of his own com- position. In the mean time the deserted Geraldine mourns alone, till, upon a certain day, A shape stood by her like a thing of air — She started — Waldron's haggard face was there. 152 RUFUS DAWES. He laid her gently down, of sense bereft, And sunk his picture on her bosom's snow, And close beside these lines in blood he left : " Farewell forever, Geraldine, I go Another woman's victim — dare I tell ? Tis Alice ! — curse us, Geraldine ! — farewell !" There is no possibility of denying the fact : this is a droll piece of business. The lover brings forth a miniature, (Mr. Dawes has a passion for miniatures,) sinks it in the bosom of the lady, cuts his finger, and writes with the blood an epistle, (ivhere is not spe- cified, but we presume he indites it upon the bosom as it is " close beside" the picture,) in which epistle he announces that he is " another woman's victim," giving us to understand that he him- self is a woman after all, and concluding with the delicious bit of Billingsgate dare I tell? 'Tis Alice ! — curse us, Geraldine ! — farewell ! We suppose, however, that " curse us" is a misprint ; for why- should Geraldine curse both herself and her lover? — it should have been " curse it !" no doubt. The whole passage, perhaps, would have read better thus — oh, my eye ! 'Tis Alice ! — d — n it, Geraldine ! — good bye ! The remainder of the narrative may be briefly summed up. Waldron returns to his professional engagements with the pirates, while Geraldine, attended by her father, goes to sea for the bene- fit of her health. The consequence is inevitable. The vessels of the separated lovers meet and engage in the most diabolical of conflicts. Both are blown all to pieces. In a boat from one ves- sel, Waldron escapes — in a boat from the other, the lady Geral- dine. Now, as a second natural consequence, the parties meet again — Destiny is every thing in such cases. Well, the parties meet again. The lady Geraldine has " that miniature" about her neck, and the circumstance proves too much for the excited state of mind of Mr. Waldron. He just seizes her ladyship, therefore, by the small of the waist and incontinently leaps with her into the sea. However intolerably absurd this skeleton of the story may ap- pear, a thorough perusal will convince the reader that the entire RUFUS DAWES. 153 fabric is even more so. It is impossible to convey, in any such digest as we have given, a full idea of the niaiseries with which the narrative abounds. An utter want of keeping is especially manifest throughout. In the most solemnly serious passages we have, for example, incidents of the world of 1839, jumbled up with the distorted mythology of the Greeks. Our conclusion of the drama, as we just gave it, was perhaps ludicrous enough; but how much more preposterous does it appear in the grave language of the poet himself! And round her neck the miniature was hung Of him who gazed with Hell's unmingled wo ; He saw her, kissed her cheek, and wildly flung His arms around her with a mad'ning throw — Then plunged within the cold unfathomed deep While sirens sang their victim to his sleep ! Only think of a group of sirens singing to sleep a modern " mini- atured" flirt, kicking about in the water with a New York dandy in tight pantaloons ! But not even these stupidities would suffice to justify a total condemnation of the poetry of Mr. Dawes. We have known fol- lies very similar committed by men of real ability, and have been induced to disregard them in earnest admiration of the brilliancy of the minor beauty of style. Simplicity, perspicuity and vigor, or a well-disciplined ornateness of language, have done wonders for the reputation of many a writer really deficient in the higher and more essential qualities of the Muse. But upon these minor points of manner our poet has not even the shadow of a shadow to sustain him. His works, in this respect, may be regarded as a theatrical world of mere verbiage, somewhat speciously bediz- zened with a tinselly meaning well adapted to the eyes of the rab- ble. There is not a page of anything that he has written which will bear, for an instant, the scrutiny of a critical eye. Exceed- ingly fond of the glitter of metaphor, he has not the capacity to manage it, and, in the awkward attempt, jumbles together the most incongruous of ornament. Let us take any passage of " Ge- raldine" by way of exemplification. -Thy rivers swell the sea- In one eternal diapason pour Thy cataracts the hymn of liberty, Teaching the clouds to thunder. 7* 154 RUFUS DAWES. Here we have cataracts teaching clouds to thunder — and how? By means of a hymn. Why should chromatic discord charm the ear And smiles and tears stream o'er with troubled joy ? Tears may stream over, but not smiles. Then comes the breathing time of young Romance, The June of life, when summer's earliest ray Warms the red arteries, that bound and dance With soft voluptuous impulses at play, While the full heart sends forth as from a hive A thousand winged messengers alive. Let us reduce this to a simple statement, and we have — what ? The earliest ray of summer warming red arteries, which are bound- ing and dancing, and playing with a parcel of urchins, called vo- luptuous impulses, while the bee-hive of a heart attached to these dancing arteries is at the same time sending forth a swarm of its innocent little inhabitants. The eyes were like the sapphire of deep air, The garb that distance robes elysium in, But oh, so much of heaven lingered there The wayward heart forgot its blissful sin And worshipped all Religion well forbids Beneath the silken fringes of their lids. That distance is not the cause of the sapphire of the sky, is not to our present purpose. We wish merely to call attention to the verbiage of the stanza. It is impossible to put the latter portion of it into any thing like intelligible prose. So much of heaven lingered in the lady's eyes that the wayward heart forgot its bliss- ful sin, and worshiped everything which religion forbids, beneath the silken fringes of the lady's eyelids. This we cannot be com- pelled to understand, and shall therefore say nothing further about it. She loved to lend Imagination wing And link her heart with Juliet's in a dream, And feel the music of a sister string That thrilled the current of her vital stream. How delightful a picture we have here ! A lady is lending one of her wings to the spirit, or genius, called Imagination, who, of course, has lost one of his own. While thus employed with one hand, with the other she is chaining her heart to the heart of the fair Juliet. At the same time she is feeling the music of a sister string, and this string is thrilling the current of the lady's vital RUFUS DAWES. 155 stream. If this is downright nonsense we cannot be held respon- sible for its perpetration ; it is but the downright nonsense of Mr. Dawes. Again — Without the Palinurus of self-science Byron embarked upon the stormy sea, To adverse breezes hurling his defiance And dashing up the rainbows on his lee, And chasing those he made in wildest mirth, Or sending back their images to earth. This stanza we have more than once seen quoted as a fine spe- cimen of the poetical powers of our author. His lordship, no doubt, is herein made to cut a very remarkable figure. Let us imagine him, for one moment, embarked upon a stormy sea, hurl- ing his defiance, (literally throwing his gauntlet or glove,) to the adverse breezes, dashing up rainbows on his lee, laughing at them, and chasing them at the same time, and, in conclusion, " sending back their images to earth." But we have already wearied the reader with this abominable rigmarole. We shall be pardoned, (after the many specimens thus given at random,) for not carrying out the design we originally intended : that of commenting upon two or three successive pages of " Geraldine" with a view of showing, (in a spirit apparently more fair than that of particular selection,) the entireness with which the whole poem is pervaded by unintelligibility. To every thinking mind, however, this would seem a work of supererogation. In such matters, by such under- standings, the brick of the skolastikos will be received implicitly as a sample of the house. The writer capable, to any extent, of such absurdity as we have pointed out, cannot, by any possibility, produce a long article worth reading. We say this in the very teeth of the magnificent assembly which listened to the recital of Mr. Dawes, in the great hall of the University of New York. We shall leave " Athenia of Damascus," without comment, to the de- cision of those who may find time and temper for its perusal, and conclude our extracts by a quotation, from among the minor poems, of the following very respectable ANACREONTIC. Fill again the mantling bowl Nor fear to meet the morning breaking ! 156 RUFUS DAWES. None but slaves should bend the soul Beneath the chains of mortal making : Fill your beakers to the brim, Bacchus soon shall lull your sorrow ; Let delight But crown the night, And care may bring her clouds to-morrow. Mark this cup of rosy wine With virgin pureness deeply blushing ; Beauty pressed it from the vine While Love stood by to charm its gushing ; He who dares to drain it now Shall drink such bliss as seldom gladdens ; The Moslem's dream Would joyless seem To him whose brain its rapture maddens. Pleasure sparkles on the brim — Lethe lies far deeper in it — Both, enticing, wait for him Whose heart is warm enough to win it ; Hearts like ours, if e'er they chill Soon with love again must lighten. Skies may wear A darksome air Where sunshine most is known to brighten. Then fill, fill high the mantling bowl ! Nor fear to meet the morning breaking ; Care shall never cloud the soul While Beauty's beaming eyes are waking. Fill your beakers to the brim, Bacchus soon shall lull your sorrow ; Let delight But crown the night, And care may bring her clouds to-morrow. Whatever shall be, hereafter, the position of Mr. Dawes in the poetical world, he will be indebted for it altogether to his shorter compositions, some of which have the merit of tenderness ; others of melody and force. What seems to be the popular opinion in respect to his more voluminous effusions, has been brought about, in some measure, by a certain general tact, nearly amounting to taste, and more nearly the converse of talent. This tact has been especially displayed in the choice of not inelegant titles and other externals; in a peculiar imitative speciousness of manner, pervading the surface of his writings ; and, (here we have the anomaly of a positive benefit deduced from a radical defect,) in an absolute deficiency in basis, in stamen, in matter, or pungency, which, if even slightly evinced, might have invited the reader to an inti- i FLACCUS.— MR. WARD. 157 mate and understanding perusal, whose result would have been disgust. His poems have not been condemned, only because they have never been read. The glitter upon the surface has sufficed, with the newspaper critic, to justify his hyperboles of praise. Very few persons, we feel assured, have had sufficient nerve to wade through the entire volume now in question, except, as in our own case, with the single object of criticism in view. Mr. Dawes has, also, been aided to a poetical reputation by the ami- ability of his character as a man. How efficient such causes have before been in producing such effects, is a point but too thorough- ly understood. We have already spoken of the numerous friends of the poet; and we shall not here insist upon the fact, that we bear him no personal ill-will. With those who know us, such a declaration would appear supererogatory ; and by those who know us not, it would, doubtless, be received with incredulity. What we have said, however, is not in opposition to Mr. Dawes, nor even so much in opposition to the poems of Mr. Dawes, as in defence of the many true souls which, in Mr. Dawes' apotheosis, are aggrieved. The laudation of the unworthy is to the worthy the most bitter of all wrong. But it is unbecoming in him who merely demon- strates a truth, to offer reason or apology for the demonstration. FLACCUS. -THOMAS WARD. The poet now comprehended in the cognomen Flaccus, is by no means our ancient friend Quintus Horatius, nor even his ghost, but merely a Mr. Ward, of Gotham, once a contributor to the New York " American," and to the New York " Knicker- bocker " Magazine. He is characterized by Mr. Griswold, in his " Poets and Poetry of America," as a gentleman of elegant leisure. What there is in " elegant leisure " so much at war with the divine afflatus, it is not very difficult, but quite unnecessary, to say. The fact has been long apparent. Never sing the Nine so well as when penniless. The mens divinior is one thing, and the otium cum dignitate quite another. 158 FLACCUS.— MR. WARD. Of course Mr. Ward is not, as a poet, altogether destitute of merit. If so, the public had been spared these paragraphs. But the sum of his deserts has been footed up by a clique who are in the habit of reckoning units as tens in all cases where champagne and " elegant leisure " are concerned. We do not consider him, at all points, a Pop Emmons, but, with deference to the more matured opinions of the " Knickerbocker/' we may be permitted to entertain a doubt whether he is either Jupiter Tonans, or Phoe- bus Apollo. Justice is not, at all times, to all persons, the most desirable thing in the world, but then there is the old adage about the tumbling of the heavens, and simple justice is all that we propose in the case of Mr. Ward. We have no design to be bitter. We notice his book at all, only because it is an unusually large one of its kind, because it is here lying upon our table, and because, whether justly or unjustly, whether for good reason or for none, it has attracted some portion of the attention of the public. The volume is entitled, somewhat affectedly, " Passaic, a Group of Poems touching that river : with Other Musings, by Flaccus," and embodies, we believe, all the previously published effusions of its author. It commences with a very pretty " Sonnet to Pas- saic," and from the second poem, "Introductory Musings on Rivers," we are happy in being able to quote an entire page of even remarkable beauty. Beautiful Rivers ! that adown the vale With graceful passage journey to the deep, Let me along your grassy marge recline At ease, and, musing, meditate the strange Bright history of your life ; yes, from your birth Has beauty's shadow chased your every step : The blue sea was your mother, and the sun Your glorious sire, clouds your voluptuous cradle, Roofed with o'erarching rainbows ; and your fall To earth was cheered with shouts of happy birds, With brightened faces of reviving flowers, And meadows, while the sympathizing west Took holiday, and donn'd her richest robes. From deep mysterious wanderings your springs Break bubbling into beauty ; where they lie In infant helplessness awhile, but soon Gathering in tiny brooks, they gambol down The steep sides of the mountain, laughing, shouting, Teasing the wild flowers, and at every turn 1 FLACCUS.— MR. WARD. 159 Meeting new playmates still to swell their ranks ; Which, with the rich increase resistless grown, Shed foam and thunder, that the echoing wood Rings with the boisterous glee ; while, o'er their heads, Catching their spirit blithe, young rainbows sport, The frolic children of the wanton sun. Nor is your swelling prime, or green old age, Though calm, unlovely ; still, where'er ye move, Your train is beauty ; trees stand grouping by, To mark your graceful progress ; giddy flowers And vain, as beauties wont, stoop o'er the verge To greet their faces in your flattering glass ; The thirsty herd are following at your side ; And water-birds in clustering fleets convoy Your sea-bound tides ; and jaded man, released From worldly thraldom, here his dwelling plants — Here pauses in your pleasant neighborhood, Sure of repose along your tranquil shores ; And, when your end approaches, and ye blend With the eternal ocean, ye shall fade As placidly as when an infant dies, And the Death-Angel shall your powers withdraw Gently as twilight takes the parting day, And, with a soft and gradual decline That cheats the senses, lets it down to night. There is nothing very original in all this ; the general idea is, perhaps, the most absolutely trite in poetical literature ; but the theme is not the less just on this account, while we must confess that it is admirably handled. The picture embodied in the whole of the concluding paragraph is perfect. The seven final lines convey not only a novel but a highly appropriate and beautiful image. What follows, of this poem, however, is by no means worthy so fine a beginning. Instead of confining himself to the true poetical thesis, the Beauty or the Sublimity of river scenery, he descends into mere meteorology — into the uses and general phi- losophy of rain, &c. — matters which should be left to Mr. Espy, who knows something about them, as we are sorry to say Mr. Flaccus does not. The second and chief poem in the volume, is entitled " The Great Descender." We emphasize the " poem " merely by way of suggesting that the " Great Descender " is anything else. We never could understand what pleasure men of talent can take in concocting elaborate doggerel of this order. Least of all can we comprehend why, having perpetrated the atrocity, they should 160 FLACCUS.— MR. WARD. place it at the door of the Muse. We are at a loss to know by what right, human or divine, twattle of this character is intruded into a collection of what professes to be Poetry. We put it to Mr. Ward, in all earnestness, if the " Great Descender," which is a history of Sam Patch, has a single attribute, beyond that of mere versification, in common with what even Sam Patch himself would have had the hardihood to denominate a poem. Let us call this thing a rhymed jeu d 'esprit, a burlesque, or what not ? — and, even so called, and judged by its new name, we must still regard it as a failure. Even in the loosest compositions we demand a certain degree of keeping. But in the " Great De- scender " none is apparent. The tone is unsteady — fluctuating between the grave and the gay — and never being precisely either. Thus there is a failure in both. The intention being never rightly taken, we are, of course, never exactly in condition either to weep or to laugh. We do not pretend to be the Oracles of Dodona, but it does really appear to us that Mr. Flaccus intended the whole matter, in the first instance, as a solemnly serious thing ; and that, having composed it in a grave vein, he became apprehensive of its ex- citing derision, and so interwove sundry touches of the burlesque, behind whose equivocal aspect, he might shelter himself at need. In no other supposition can we reconcile the spotty appearance of the whole with a belief in the sanity of the author. It is difficult, also, in any other view of the case, to appreciate the air of positive gravity with which he descants upon the advantages to Science which have accrued from a man's making a frog of himself. Mr. Ward is frequently pleased to denominate Mr. Patch " a martyr of science," and appears very doggedly in earn- est in all passages such as the following : Through the glad Heavens, which tempests now conceal, Deep thunder-guns in quick succession peal, As if salutes were firing from the sky, To hail the triumph and the victory. Shout ! trump of Fame, till thy brass lungs burst out ! Shout ! mortal tongues ! deep-throated thunders, shout ! For lo ! electric genius, downward hurled, Has startled Science, and illumed the world ! That Mr. Patch was a genius we do not doubt ; so is Mr. Ward ; FLACCUS.— MR. WARD. 161 but the science displayed in jumping down the Falls, is a point above us. There might have been some science in jumping up. " The Worth of Beauty ; or a Lover's Journal," is the title of the poem next in place and importance. Of this composition Mr. W. thus speaks in a Note : " The individual to whom the present poem relates, and who had suffered severely all the pains and penalties which arise from the want of those personal charms so much admired by him in others, gave the author, many years since, some fragments of a journal kept in his early days, in which he had bared his heart, and set down all his thoughts and feelings. This prose journal has here been transplanted into the richer soil of verse." The narrative of the friend of Mr. Flaccus must, originally, have been a very good thing. By " originally," we mean before it had the misfortune to be " transplanted in the richer soil of verse" — which has by no means agreed with its constitution. But, even through the dense fog of our author's rhythm, we can get an occasional glimpse of its merit. It must have been the work of a heart on fire with passion, and the utter abandon of the details, reminds us even of Jean Jacques. But alas for this "richer soil !" Can we venture to present our readers with, a specimen ? Now roses blush, and violets' eyes, And seas reflect the glance of skies ; And now that frolic pencil streaks With quaintest tints the tulips' cheeks ; Now jewels bloom in secret worth, Like blossoms of the inner earth ; Now painted birds are pouring round The beauty and the wealth of sound ; Now sea-shells glance with quivering ray, Too rare to seize, too fleet to stay, And hues out-dazzling all the rest Are dashed profusely on the west, While rainbows seem to palettes changed, Whereon the motley tints are ranged. But soft the moon t fiat pencil tipped, As though, in liquid radiance dipped, A likeness of the sun it drew, But flattered him with pearlier hue ; Which haply spilhng runs astray, And blots with light the milky way ; While stars besprinkle all the air. Like spatterings of that pencil there. 162 FLACCUS.— MR. WARD. All this by way of exalting the subject. The moon is made a painter, and the rainbow a palette. And the moon has a pencil (that pencil !) which she dips, by way of a brush, in the liquid radiance (the colors on a palette are not liquid,) and then draws (not paints) a likeness of the sun ; but, in the attempt, plasters him too " pearly," puts it on too thick ; the consequence of which is that some of the paint is spilt, and " runs astray " and besmears the milky way, and " spatters " the rest of the sky with stars ! We can only say that a very singular picture was spoilt in the making. The versification of the " Worth of Beauty " proceeds much after this fashion ; we select a fair example of the whole from page 43. Yes ! pangs have cut my soul with grief So keen that gashes were relief, And racks have rung my spirit-frame To which the strain of joints were tame And battle strife itself were nought Beside the inner fight I've fought, etc., etc. Nor do we regard any portion of it (so far as rhythm is con- cerned) as at all comparable to some of the better ditties of Wil- liam Slater. Here, for example, from his Psalms, published in 1642: The righteous shall his sorrow scan And laugh at him, and say " behold What hath become of this here man That on his riches was so bold." And here, again, are lines from the edition of the same Psalms, by Archbishop Parker, which we most decidedly prefer : Who sticketh to God in sable trust As Sion's mount he stands full just, Which moveth no whit nor yet can reel, But standeth forever as stiff as steel. "The Martyr" and the " Retreat of Seventy-Six" are merely Revolutionary incidents " done into verse," and spoilt in the do- ing. " The Retreat " begins with the remarkable line, Tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! which is elsewhere introduced into the poem. We look in vain, here, for anything worth even qualified commendation. " The Diary " is a record of events occurring to the author during a voyage from New York to Havre. Of these events a fit of sea-sickness is the chief. Mr. Ward, we believe, is the first FLACCUS.— MR. WARD. 163 of the genus irritabile who has ventured to treat so delicate a subject with that grave dignity which is its due : Rejoice ! rejoice ! already on my sight Bright shores, gray towers, and coming wonders reel ; My brain grows giddy — is it with delight ? A swimming faintness, such as one might feel When stabbed and dying, gathers on my sense — It weighs me down — and now — help ! — horror ! — But the " horror," and indeed all that ensues, we must leave to the fancy of the poetical. Some pieces entitled " Humorous " next succeed, and one or two of them (for example, " The Graham System " and " The Bachelor's Lament ") are not so very contemptible in their way, but the way itself is beneath even contempt. " To an Infant in Heaven " embodies some striking thoughts ? and, although feeble as a whole, and terminating lamely, may be cited as the best composition in the volume. We quote two or three of the opening stanzas : Thou bright and star-like spirit ! That in my visions wild I see 'mid heaven's seraphic host — Oh ! canst thou be my child ? My grief is quenched in wonder, And pride arrests my sighs ; A branch from this unworthy stock Now blossoms in the skies. Our hopes of thee were lofty, But have we cause to grieve ? Oh ! could our fondest, proudest wish A nobler fate conceive ? The little weeper tearless 1 The sinner snatched from sin ! The babe to more than manhood grown, Ere childhood did begin 1 And I, thy earthly teacher, Would blush thy powers to see ! Thou art to me a parent now, And I a child to thee ! There are several other pieces in the book — but it is needless to speak of them in detail. Among them we note one or two political effusions, and one or two which are (satirically ?) termed satirical. All are worthless. Mr. Ward's imagery, at detached points, has occasional vigor and appropriateness ; we may go so far as to say that, at times, 164 FLACCUS.— MR. WARD. it is strikingly beautiful — by accident of course. Let us cite a few instances. At page 53 we read — O ! happy day ! — earth, sky is fair, And fragrance floats along the air ; For all the bloomy orchards glow As with a fall of rosy snow. At page 91- At page 92- How flashed the overloaded flowers With gems, a present from the showers ! No ! there is danger ; all the night I saw her like a starry light More lovely in my visions lone Than in my day-dreams truth she shone. 'T is naught when on the sun we gaze If only dazzled by his rays, But when our eyes his form retain Some wound to vision must remain. And again, at page 234, speaking of a slight shock of an earthquake, the earth is said to tremble As if some wing of passing angel, bound From sphere to sphere, had brushed the golden chain That hangs our planet to the throne of God. This latter passage, however, is, perhaps, not altogether original with Mr. Ward. In a poem now lying before us, entitled " Al Aaraaf,'' the composition of a gentleman of Philadelphia, we find what follows : A dome by link'd light from heaven let down Sat gently on these columns as a crown ; A window of one circular diamond there Looked out above into the purple air, And rays from God shot down that meteor chain And hallow'd all the beauty twice again, Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring, Some eager spirit flapped his dusky wing. But if Mr. Ward's imagery is, indeed, at rare intervals, good, it must be granted, on the other hand, that, in general, it is atro- ciously inappropriate, or low. For example : Thou gaping chasm ! whose wide devouring throat Swallows a river, while the gulping note Of monstrous deglutition gurgles loud, etc. Page 24. Bright Beauty ! child of starry birth, The grace, the gem, the flower of earth, The damask livery of Heaven ! Page 44. Here the mind wavers between gems, and stars, and taffety — between footmen and flowers. Again, at page 46 — FLACCUS.— MR. WARD. 165 All thornless flowers of wit, all chaste And delicate essays of taste, All playful fancies, winged wiles, That from their pinions scatter smiles, All prompt resource in stress or pain, Leap ready-armed from woman's brain. The idea of " thornless flowers," etc., leaping " ready-armed " could have entered few brains except those of Mr. Ward. Of the most ineffable bad taste we have instances without num- ber. For example — page 183 — And, straining, fastens on her lips a kiss That seemed to suck the life-blood from her heart ! And here, very gravely, at page 25 — Again he's rous'd, first cramming in his cheek The weed, though vile, that props the nerves when weak. Here again, at page 33 — Full well he knew where food does not refresh, The shrivel'd soul sinks inward with the flesh — That he's best armed for danger's rash career, Who's crammed so full there is no room for fear. But we doubt if the whole world of literature, poetical or pro- saic, can afford a picture more utterly disgusting than the follow- ing, which we quote from page 177 : But most of all good eating cheers the brain, Where other joys are rarely met — at sea — Unless, indeed, we lose as soon as gain — Ay, there's the rub, so baffling oft to me. Boiled, roast, and baked — what precious choice of dishes My generous throat has shared among the fishes ! 'T is sweet to leave, in .each forsaken spot, Our foot-prints there — if only in the sand ; 'T is sweet to feel we are not all forgot, That some will weep our flight from every land ; And sweet the knowledge, when the seas I cross, My briny messmates ! ye will mourn my loss. This passage alone should damn the book — ay, damn a dozen such. Of what may be termed the niaiseries — the sillinesses — of the volume, there is no end. Under this head we might quote two thirds of the work. For example : Now lightning, with convulsive spasm Splits heaven in many a fearful chasm It takes the high trees by the hair And, as with besoms, sweeps the air. .... 166 FLACCUS.— MR. WARD. Now breaks the gloom and through the chinks The moon, in search of opening, winks — All seriously urged, at different points of page 66. Again, on the very next page — Bees buzzed and wrens that throng'd the rushes Poured round incessant twittering gushes. And here, at page 129 — And now he leads her to the slippery brink Where ponderous tides headlong plunge down the horrid chink. And here, page 109 — And, like a ravenous vulture, peck The smoothness of that cheek and neck. And here, page 111 — While through the skin worms wriggling broke. And here, page 170 — And ride the skittish backs of untamed waves. And here, page 214 — Now clasps its mate in holy prayer Or tivangs a harp of gold. Mr. Ward, also, is constantly talking about " thunder-guns," " thunder-trumpets," and " thunder-shrieks." He has a bad hab- it, too, of styling an eye " a weeper," as for example, at page 208 — Oh, curl in smiles that mouth again And wipe that weeper dry. Somewhere else he calls two tears " two sparklers" — very much in the style of Mr. Richard Swiveller, who was fond of denomi- nating Madeira " the rosy." " In the nick," meaning in the height, or fulness, is likewise a pet expression of the author of " The Great Descender." Speaking of American forests, at page 286, for in- stance, he says, " let the doubter walk through them in the nick of their glory." A phrase which may be considered as in the very nick of good taste. We cannot pause to comment upon Mr. Ward's most extraor- dinary system of versification. Is it his own ? He has quite an original way of conglomerating consonants, and seems to have been experimenting whether it were not possible to do altogether without vowels. Sometimes he strings together quite a chain of impossibilities. The line, for example, at page 51, Or, only such as sea-shells flash, puts us much in mind of the schoolboy stumbling-block, begin- WILLIAM W. LORD. 167 ning, " The cat ran up the ladder with a lump of raw liver in her mouth," and we defy Sam Patch himself to pronounce it twice in succession without tumbling into a blunder. But we are fairly wearied with this absurd theme. Who calls Mr. Ward a poet ? He is a second-rate, or a third-rate, or per- haps a ninety-ninth-rate poetaster. He is a gentleman of " ele- gant leisure," and gentlemen of elegant leisure are, for the most part, neither men, women, nor Harriet Martineaus. Similar opin- ions, we believe, were expressed by somebody else — was it Mr. Benjamin ? — no very long while ago. But neither Mr. Ward nor "The Knickerbocker" would be convinced. The latter, by way of defence, went into a treatise upon Sam Patch, and Mr. Ward, " in the nick of his glory," wrote another poem against criticism in general, in which he called Mr. Benjamin " a wasp" and " an owl," and endeavored to prove him an ass. An owl is a wise bird — especially in spectacles — still, we do not look upon Mr. Ben- jamin as an owl. If all are owls who disbelieve in this book, (which we now throw to the pigs) then the world at large cuts a pretty figure, indeed, and should be burnt up in April, as Mr. Miller desires — for it is only one immense aviary of owls. WILLIAM ¥. LORD.* Of Mr. Lord we know nothing — although we believe that he is a student at Princeton College — or perhaps a graduate, or per- haps a Professor of that institution. Of his book, lately, we have heard a good deal — that is to say, we have heard it announced in every possible variation of phrase, as " forthcoming." For several months past, indeed, much amusement has been occasioned in the various literary coteries in New York, by the pertinacity and ob- viousness of an attempt made by the poet's friends to get up an anticipatory excitement in his favor. There were multitudinous dark rumors of something in posse — whispered insinuations that the sun had at length arisen or would certaily arise — that a book was really in press which would revolutionize the poetical world — * Poems. By William W. Lord. New York : D. Appleton There shall be a darker day ; And the stars, from heaven down-cast, Like red leaves be swept away ! Kyrie Eleyson ! Christie Eleyson ! THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing ; Toll ye the church-bell sad and low, And tread softly, and speak low, For the old year lies a dying. Old Year, you must not die, You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old Year, you shall not die. He lieth still : he doth not move ; He will not see the dawn of day ; He hath no other life above — He gave me a friend, and a true, true love, And the New Year will take 'em away. Old Year, you must not go, So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go. He frothed his bumpers to the brim ; A jolher year we shall not see ; But though his eyes are waxing dim, And though his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old Year you shall not die ; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old Year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er ; To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post haste, But he'll be dead before. MR. LONGFELLOW AND OTHER PLAGIARISTS. 325 Every one for his own ; The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New Year, blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes ! Over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro : The cricket chirps : the light burns low : 'Tis nearly one o'clock. Shake hands before you die ; Old Year, we'll dearly rue for you, What is it we can do for you ? Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin — Alack ! our friend is gone ! Close up his eyes ; tie up his chin ; Step from the corpse and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. I have no idea of commenting, at any length, upon this imita- tion, which is too palpable to be mistaken, and which belongs to the most barbarous class of literary piracy : that class in which, while the words of the wronged author are avoided, his most intangible, and therefore his least defensible and least reclaimable property, is appropriated. Here, with the exception of lapses which, however, speak volumes, (such for instance as the use of the capitalized " Old Year," the general peculiarity of the rhythm, and the absence of rhyme at the end of each stanza,) there is nothing of a visible or palpable nature by which the source of the American poem can be established. But then nearly all that is valuable in the piece of Tennyson, is the first conception of personifying the Old Year as a dying old man, with the singularly wild and fantastic manner in which that conception is carried out. Of this conception and of this manner he is robbed. What is here not taken from Tennyson, is made up mosaically, from the death scene of Cordelia, in "Lear" — to which I refer the curious reader. In "Graham's Magazine" for February, 1843, there appeared a poem, furnished by Professor Longfellow, entitled " The Good George Campbell," and purporting to be a translation from the 326 MR. LONGFELLOW AND OTHER PLAGIARISTS. German of 0. L. B. Wolff. In "Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern, by William Motherwell, published by John Wylie, Glasgow, 1827," is to be found a poem partly compiled and partly written by Motherwell himself. It is entitled " The Bonnie George Campbell." I give the two side by side : MOTHERWELL. Hie upon Hielands And low upon Tay, Bonnie George Campbell Rade out on a day. Saddled and bridled And gallant rade he ; Hame cam his gude horse, But never cam he. Out cam his auld mither Greeting fu' sair, And out cam his bonnie bride Rivin' her hair. Saddled and bridled And booted rade he ; Toom hame cam the saddle, But never cam he. " My meadow lies green, And my corn is unshorn; My barn is too big, And my baby's unborn." Saddled and bridled And booted rade he ; Toom hame cam the saddle, But never cam he. LONGFELLOW. High on the Highlands, And deep in the day, The good George Campbell Rode free and away. AU saddled, all bridled, Gay garments he wore ; Home his gude steed, But he nevermore. Out came his mother, Weeping so sadly ; Out came his beauteous bride Weeping so madly. All saddled, aU bridled, Strong armor he wore ; Home came the saddle, But he nevermore. My meadow lies green, Unreaped is my corn. My garner is empty, My child is unborn. All saddled, all bridled, Sharp weapons he bore : Home came the saddle, But he nevermore ! Professor Longfellow defends himself (I learn) from the charge of imitation in this case, by the assertion that he did translate from Wolff, but that Wolff copied from Motherwell. I am willing to believe almost anything rather than so gross a plagiar- ism as this seems to be — but there are difficulties which should be cleared up. In the first place how happens it that, in the transmission from the Scotch into the German, and again from the German into the English, not only the versification should have been rigidly preserved, but the rhymes, and alliterations ? Again; how are we to imagine that Mr. Longfellow with his known intimate acquaintance with Motherwell's "Minstrelsy" did not at once recognise so remarkable a poem when he met it MR. LONGFELLOW AND OTHER PLAGIARISTS. 327 in Wolff? I have now before me a large volume of songs, ballads, etc. collected by Wolff; but there is here no such poem — and, to be sure, it should not be sought in such a collection. No collection of his own poems has been published, and the piece of which we are in search of must be fugitive — unless, indeed, it is included in a volume of translations from various tongues, of which 0. L. B. Wolff is also the author — but of which I am unable to obtain a copy.* It is by no means improbable that here the poem in question is to be found — but in this case it must have been plainly acknowledged as a translation, with its original designated. How, then, could Professor Longfellow have trans- lated it as original with Wolft"? These are mysteries yet to be solved. It is observable — peculiarly so —that the Scotch " Toom " is left untranslated in the version of Graham's Magazine. Will it be found that the same omission occurs in Wolff's version? In "The Spanish Student" of Mr. Longfellow, at page 80, will be found what follows : Scene IV. — Preciosa's chamber. She is sitting with a book in her hand near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in its cage. The Count of Lara enters behind, unperceived. Preciosa reads. All are sleeping, weary heart . Thou, thou only sleepless art ! Heigho ! I wish Victorian were here. I know not what it is makes me so restless ! Thou little prisoner with thy motly coat, That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, I have a gentle gaoler. Lack-a-day ! All are sleeping, weary heart! Thou, thou only sleepless art ! All this throbbing, all this aching, Evermore shall keep thee waking, For a heart in sorrow breaking Thinketh ever of its smart ! Thou speakest truly, poet ! and methinks More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish. * Sammlung vorzuglicher Volkslieder der bekanntesten Nationen, gros- tentheils zun ersten male, metrisch in das Deutche ubertragen. Frankfurt, 1837. 328 MR. LONGFELLOW AND OTHER PLAGIARISTS. "Who hears the falling of the forest leaf ? Or who takes note of every flower that dies ? Heigho ! I wish Victorian would come. Dolores! [Turns to lay down her book, and perceives the Count] Ha! Lara. Senora, pardon me. Preeiosa. How's this ? Dolores ! Lara. Pardon me — Preeiosa. Dolores ! Lara. Be not alarmed ; I found no one in waiting. If I have been too bold Preeiosa [turning her back upon him]. You are too bold ! Retire ! retire, and leave me ! Lara. My dear lady, First hear me ! I beseech you, let me speak ! 'Tis for your good I come. Preeiosa [turning toward him with indignation] Begone ! begone ! You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds Would make the statues of your ancestors Blush on their tombs ! Is it Castilian honor, Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong ? shame ! shame ! shame ! that you, a nobleman, Should be so little noble in your thoughts As to send jewels here to win my love, And think to buy my honor with your gold ! 1 have no words to tell you how I scorn you ! Begone ! Ihe sight of you is hateful to me ! Begone, I say I A few passages farther on, in the same scene, we meet the fol- lowing stage directions : — " He tries to embrace her, she starts back and draws a dagger from her bosom" A little farther still and " Victorian enters behind." Compare all this with a " Scene from Politian, an Unpublished Tragedy by Edgar A. Poe," to be found in the second volume of the " Southern Literary Messenger." The scene opens with the following stage directions : A lady's apartment, with a windoio open and looking into a garden. Lalage in deep mourning, reading at a table, on which lis some books and a hand mirror. Ln the back ground, Jacinta leans carelessly on the back of a chair Lalage reading. " It in another climate, so he said, Bore a bright golden flower but not i' this soil. [Pauses, turns over some leaves, and then resumes] No ling' ring winters there, nor snow, nor shower, But ocean ever, to refresh mankind, Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind." Oh, beautiful ! most beautiful ! how like To what my fever'd soul doth dream of Heaven ! O happy land ! [ pauses] She died — the maiden died — O still more happy maiden who could'nt die. Jacinta ! [Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes] MR. LONGFELLOW AND OTHER PLAGIARISTS. 329 Again a similar tale, Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea ! Thus speaketh one Ferdinand i' the words of the play, " She died full young " — one Bossola answers him " I think not so ; her infelicity Seemed to have years too many." Ah luckless lady ! Jacinta ! [Still no answer.] Here's a far sterner story But like, oh very like in its despair, — Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily A thousand hearts, losing at length her own. She died. Thus endeth the history, and her maids Lean over her and weep — two gentle maids With gentle names, Eiros and Charmion. Rainbow and Dove — Jacinta ! [Jacinta finally in a discussion about certain jewels, insults her mis- tress, who bursts into tears.] Lalaye. Poor Lalage ! and is it come to this ? Thy servant maid ! but courage ! — 'tis but a viper Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul ! [Taking up the mirror] Ha ! here at least 's a friend — too much a friend In earlier days — a friend will not deceive thee. Fair mirror and true ! now tell me, for thou canst, A tale — a pretty tale — and heed thou not Though it be rife with wo. It answers me, It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks, And beauty long deceased — remembers me Of Joy departed — Hope, the Seraph Hope Inurned and entombed ! — now, in a tone Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible Whispers of early grave untimely yawning For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true ! thou liest not ! Thou hast no end to gain — no heart to break. Castiglione bed who said he loved — Thou true — he false ! — false ! — false ! [While she speaks a Monk enters her apartment, and approaches unobserved.] Monk. Refuge thou hast Sweet daughter ! in Heaven. Think of eternal things ! Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray. Lalage. I cannot pray ! — my soul is at war with God ! [Arising hurriedly.] The frightful sounds of merriment below Disturb my senses — go, I cannot pray ! The sweet airs from the garden worry me ! Thy presence grieves me — go ! — thy priestly raiment Fills me with dread — thy ebony crucifix With horror and awe ! Monk. Think of thy precious soul ! Lalage. Think of my early days ! — think of my father And mother in Heaven ! think of our quiet home And the rivulet that ran before the door ! Think of my little sisters ! — think of them ! And think of me ! — tlrink of my trusting love 330 MR. LONGFELLOW AND OTHER PLAGIARISTS. And confidence — his vows — my ruin — think — think Of my unspeakable misery ! — begone ! Yet stay ! yet stay ! what was it thou saidst of prayer And penitence ? Didst thou not speak of faith And vows before the throne ? Monk. I did. Lalage. 'Tis well. There is a vow were fitting should be made — A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent — A solemn vow. Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well. Lalage. Father ! this zeal is anything but well. Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing ? A crucifix whereon to register A pious vow ? [He hands her his own.'] Not that — oh ! no ! — no ! no ! [Shuddering.] Not that ! not that ! I tell thee, holy man, Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me ! Stand back ! I have a crucifix myself — / have a crucifix ! Methinks 'twere fitting The deed — the vow — the symbol of the deed — ■ And the deed's register should tally, father ! Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine Is written in Heaven ! [Draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high.] Monk. Thy words are madness, daughter ! And speak a purpose unholy — thy lips are livid — Thine eyes are wild — tempt not the wrath divine — Pause ere too late ! — oh ! be not — be not rash ! Swear not the oath — oh ! swear it not ! Lalage. 'Tis sworn ! The coincidences here are too markedly peculiar to be gain- sayed. The sitting at the table with books, etc. — the flowers on the one hand, and the garden on the other — the presence of the pert maid — the reading aloud from the book — the pausing and commenting — the plaintiveness of what is read, in accordance with the sorrow of the reader — the abstraction — the frequent calling of the maid by name — the refusal of the maid to an- swer — the jewels — the " begone" — the unseen entrance of a third person from behind — and the drawing of the dagger — are points sufficiently noticeable to establish at least the imitation beyond all doubt. Let us now compare the concluding lines of Mr. Long- fellow's "Autumn" with that of Mr. Bryant's " Thanatopsis." Mr. B. has it thus : So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of Death, MR. LONGFELLOW AND OTHER PLAGIARISTS. 331 Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave. Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. Mr. L. thus : To him the wind, aye and the yellow leaves Shall have a voice and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear. Again, in his "Prelude to the Voices of the Night," Mr. Long- fellow says : Look then into thine heart and write ! Sir Philip Sidney in the " Astrophal and Stella" has : Foole, said my Muse to me, looke in thy heart and write ! Again — in Longfellow's " Midnight Mass " we read : And the hooded clouds like friars. The Lady in Milton's "Comus" says: "When the gray-hooded even Like a sad votarist in palmer's weeds. And again : — these lines by Professor Longfellow will be re- membered by everybody : 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. But if any one will turn to page 6Q of John Sharpe's edition of Henry Headley's " Select Beauties of Ancient English Poetry," published at London in 1810, he will there find an Exequy on the death of his wife by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester, and therein also the following lines, where the author is speaking of following his wife to the grave : But hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach — tells thee I come ! And slow howe'er my marches be, I shall at last sit down by thee. Were I disposed, indeed, to push this subject any farther, I should have little difficulty in culling, from the works of the au- thor of "Outre Mer," a score or two of imitations quite as pal- pable- as any upon which I have insisted. The fact of the matter 332 MR. LONGFELLOW AND OTHER PLAGIARISTS. is, that the friends of Mr. Longfellow, so far from undertaking to talk about rny " carping littleness " in charging Mr. Longfellow with imitation, should have given me credit, under the circum- stances, for great moderation in charging him with imitation alone. Had I accused him, in loud terms, of manifest and con- tinuous plagiarism, I should but have echoed the sentiment of every man of letters in the land beyond the immediate influence of the Longfellow coterie. And since I, " knowing what I know and seeing what I have seen " — submitting in my own person to accusations of plagiarism for the very sins of this gentleman against myself — since I contented myself, nevertheless, with simply setting forth the merits of the poet in the strongest light, whenever an opportunity was afforded me, can it be considered either decorous or equitable on the part of Professor Longfellow to beset me, upon my first adventuring an infinitesimal sentence of dispraise, with ridiculous anonymous letters from his friends, and moreover, with malice prepense, to instigate against me the pretty little witch entitled " Miss Walter ;" advising her and in- structing her to pierce me to death with the needles of innu- merable epigrams, rendered unnecessarily and therefore cruelly painful to my feelings, by being first carefully deprived of the point ? It should not be supposed that I feel myself individually aggrieved in the letter of Outis. He has praised me even more than he has blamed. In replying to him, my design has been to place fairly and distinctly before the literary public certain princi- ples of criticism for which I have been long contending, and which, through sheer misrepresentation, were in danger of being misunderstood. Having brought the subject, in this view, to a close, I now feel at liberty to add a few words, by way of freeing myself of any suspicion of malevolence or discourtesy. The thesis of my argu- ment, in general, has been the definition of the grounds on which a charge of plagiarism may be based, and of the species of ratio- cination by which it is to be established : that is all. It will be seen by any one who shall take the trouble to read what I have written, that I make no charge of moral delinquency against either Mr. Longfellow, Mr. Aldrich, or Mr. Hood : — indeed, lest in the MR. LONGFELLOW AND OTHER PLAGIARISTS. 333 heat of argument, I may have uttered any words which may admit of being tortured into such an interpretation, I here fully disclaim them upon the spot. In fact, the one strong point of defence for his friends has been unaccountably neglected by Outis. To attempt the rebutting of a charge of plagiarism by the broad assertion that no such thing as plagiarism exists, is a sotticism, and no more — but there would have been nothing of unreason in rebutting the charge as urged either against Mr. Longfellow, Mr. Aldrich, or Mr. Hood, by the proposition that no true poet can be guilty of a meanness — that the converse of the proposition is a contradiction in terms. Should there be found any one willing to dispute with me this point, I would decline the disputation on the ground that my arguments are no arguments to him. It appears to me that what seems to be the gross inconsistency of plagiarism as perpetrated by a poet, is very easily thus resolv- ed : — the poetic sentiment (even without reference to the poetic power) implies a peculiarly, perhaps an abnormally keen appre- ciation of the beautiful, with a longing for its assimilation, or absorption, into the poetic identity. What the poet intensely admires, becomes thus, in very fact, although only partially, a por- tion of his own intellect. It has a secondary origination within his own soul — an origination altogether apart, although springing, from its primary origination from without. The poet is thus pos- sessed by another's thought, and cannot be said to take of it, pos- session. But, in either view, he thoroughly feels it as his own — and this feeling is counteracted only by the sensible presence of its true, palpable origin in the volume from which he has derived it — an origin which, in the long lapse of years it is almost im- possible not to forget — for in the meantime the thought itself is forgotten. But the frailest association will regenerate it — it springs up with all the vigor of a new birth — its absolute origi- nality is not even a matter of suspicion — and when the poet has written it and printed it, and on its account is charged with plagiarism, there will be no one in the world more entirely as- tounded than himself. Now from what I have said it will be evi- dent that the liability to accidents of this character is in the direct ratio of the poetic sentiment — of the susceptibility to the poetic 334 MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. impression ; and in fact all literary history demonstrates that, for the most frequent and palpable plagiarisms, we must search the works of the most eminent poets. MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. A Biographist of Berryer calls him " Vhomme qui dans sa description, demande le plus grande quantite possible d 1 antitheses — but that ever recurring topic, the decline of the drama, seems to have consumed, of late, more of the material in question than would have sufficed for a dozen prime ministers — even admitting them to be French. Every trick of thought, and every harlequin- ade of phrase have been put in operation for the purpose " de nier ce qui est, et d' expliquer ce qui rCest pasS Ce qui rfest pas : — for the drama has not declined. The facts and the philosophy of the case seem to be these. The great op- ponent to Progress is Conservatism. In other words — the great adversary of Invention is Imitation : — the propositions are in spirit identical. Just as an art is imitative, is it stationary. The most imitative arts are the most prone to repose — and the con- verse. Upon the utilitarian — upon the business arts, where Ne- cessity impels, Invention, Necessity's well-understood offspring, is ever in attendance. And the less we see of the mother the less we behold of the child. No one complains of the decline of the art of Engineering. Here the Reason, which never retrogrades, or reposes, is called into play. But let us glance at Sculpture. We are not worse, here, than the ancients, let pedantry say what it may, (the Venus of Canova is worth, at any time, two of that of Cleomenes,) but it is equally certain that we have made, in gen- eral, no advances ; and Sculpture, properly considered, is perhaps the most imitative of all arts which have a right to the title of Art at all. Looking next at Painting, we find that we have to boast of progress only in the ratio of the inferior imitativeness of Painting, when compared with Sculpture. As far indeed as we have any means of judging, our improvement has been exceeding- ly little, and did we know anything of ancient Art, in this depart- ment, we might be astonished at discovering that we had MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. 335 advanced even far less than we suppose. As regards Architecture, whatever progress we have made, has been precisely in those par- ticulars which have no reference to imitation : — that is to say we have improved the utilitarian and not the ornamental provinces of the art. Where Reason predominated, we advanced ; where mere Feeling or Taste was the guide, we remained as we were. Coming to the Drama, we shall see that in its mechanisms we have made progress, while in its spirituality we have done little or nothing for centuries certainly — and, perhaps, little or nothing for thousands of years. And this is because what we term the spirituality of the drama is precisely its imitative portion — is ex- actly that portion which distinguishes it as one of the principal of the imitative arts. Sculptors, painters, dramatists, are, from the very nature of their material, — their spiritual material — imitators — conservatists — prone to repose in old Feeling and in antique Taste. For this reason — and for this reason only — the arts of Sculpture, Painting and the Drama have not advanced — or have advanced feebly, and inversely in the ratio of their imitativeness. But it by no means follows that either has declined. All seem to have declined, because they have remained stationary while the multitudinous other arts (of reason) have flitted so rapidly by them. In the same manner the traveller by railroad can imagine that the trees by the wayside are retrograding. The trees in this case are absolutely stationary — but the Drama has not been alto- gether so, although its progress has been so slight as not to interfere with the general effect — that of seeming retrogradation or decline. This seeming retrogradation, however, is to all practical intents an absolute one. Whether the drama has declined, or whether it has merely remained stationary, is a point of no importance, so far as concerns the public encouragement of the drama. It is unsupported, in either case, because it does not deserve support. But if this stagnation, or deterioration, grows out of the very idiosyncrasy of the drama itself, as one of the principal of the imitative arts, how is it possible that a remedy shall be applied — since it is clearly impossible to alter the nature of the art, and yet leave it the art which it now is ? 336 MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. We have already spoken of the improvements effected in Archi- tecture, in all its utilitarian departments, and in the Drama, at all the points of its mechanism. " Wherever Reason predominates we advance ; where mere Feeling or Taste is the guide, we re- main as we are." We wish now to suggest that, by the engraft- ing of Reason upon Feeling and Taste, we shall be able, and thus alone shall be able, to force the modern drama into the produc- tion of any profitable fruit. At present, what is it we do ? We are content if, with Feeling and Taste, a dramatist does as other dramatists have done. The most successful of the more immediately modern playwrights has been Sheridan Knowles, and to play Sheridan Knowles seems to be the highest ambition of our writers for the stage. Now the author of " The Hunchback,'' possesses what we are weak enough to term the true " dramatic feeling," and this true dramatic feel- ing he has manifested in the most preposterous series of imitations of the Elizabethan drama, by which ever mankind were insulted and beguiled. Not only did he adhere to the old plots, the old characters, the old stage conventionalities throughout ; but, he went even so far as to persist in the obsolete phraseologies of the Elizabethan period — and just in proportion to his obstinacy and absurdity at all points, did we pretend to like him the better, and pretend to consider him a great dramatist. Pretend — for every particle of it was pretence. Never was en- thusiasm more utterly false than that which so many " respectable audiences" endeavored to get up for these plays — endeavored to get up, first, because there was a general desire to see the drama revive, and secondly, because we had been all along entertaining the fancy that " the decline of the drama" meant little, if any- thing, else than its deviation from the Elizabethan routine — and that, consequently, the return to the Elizabethan routine was, and of necessity must be, the revival of the drama. But if the principles we have been at some trouble in explain- ing, are true — and most profoundly do we feel them to be so — if the spirit of imitation is, in fact, the real source of drama's stagna- tion — and if it is so because of the tendency in all imitation to render Reason subservient to Feeling and to Taste — it is clear that only by deliberate counteracting of the spirit, and of the MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. 337 tendency of the spirit, we can hope to succeed in the drama's revival. The first thing necessary is to burn or bury the " old models," and to forget, as quickly as possible, that ever a play has been penned. The second thing is to consider de novo what are the capabilities of the drama — not merely what hitherto have been its conventional purposes. The third and last point has reference to the composition of a play (showing to the fullest extent these ca- pabilities) conceived and constructed with Feeling and with Taste, but with Feeling and Taste guided and controlled in every par- ticular by the details of Reason — of Common Sense — in a word, of a Natural Art. It is obvious, in the meantime, that towards the good end in view, much may be effected by discriminative criticism on what has already been done. The field, thus stated, is of course, prac- tically illimitable — and to Americans the American drama is the special point of interest. We propose, therefore, in a series of papers, to take a somewhat deliberate survey of some few of the most noticeable American plays. We shall do this without refer- ence either to the date of the composition, or its adaptation for the closet or the stage. W T e shall speak with absolute frankness both of merits and defects — our principal object being understood not as that of mere commentary on the individual play — but on the drama in general, and on the American drama in especial, of which each individual play is a constituent part. We will com- mence at once with TORTESA, THE USURER. This is the third dramatic attempt of Mr. Willis, and may be regarded as particularly successful, since it has received, both on the stage and in the closet, no stinted measure of commendation. This success, as well as the high reputation of the author, will justify us in a more extended notice of the play than might, un- der other circumstances, be desirable. The story runs thus : — Tortesa, an usurer of Florence, and whose character is a mingled web of good and evil feelings, gets into his possession the palace and lands of a certain Count Fal- cone. The usurer would wed the daughter (Isabella) of Falcone not through love, but, in his own words, Vol. III.— 15. 388 MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. To please a devil that inhabits him — in fact, to mortify the pride of the nobility, and avenge himself of their scorn. He therefore bargains with Falcone [a narrow- souled villain] for the hand of Isabella. The deed of the Falcone property is restored to the Count, upon an agreement that the lady shall marry the usurer — this contract being invalid should Falcone change his mind in regard to the marriage, or should the maiden demur — but valid should the wedding be prevented through any fault of Tortesa, or through any accident not. spring- ing from the will of the father or child. The first scene makes us aware of this bargain, and introduces us to Zippa, a glover's daughter, who resolves, with a view of befriending Isabella, to feign a love for Tortesa, [which, in fact, she partially feels,] hoping thus to break off the match. The second scene makes us acquainted with a young painter, (Angelo,) poor, but of high talents and ambition, and with his servant, (Tomaso,) an old bottle-loving rascal, entertaining no very exalted opinion of his master's abilities. Tomaso does some injury to a picture, and Angelo is about to run him through the body, when he is interrupted by a sudden visit from the Duke of Florence, attended by Falcone. The Duke is enraged at the mur- derous attempt, but admires the paintings in the studio. Finding that the rage of the great man will prevent his patronage if he knows the aggressor as the artist, Angelo passes off Tomaso as himself, (Angelo,) making an exchange of names. This is a point of some importance, as it introduces the true Angelo to a job which he had long coveted — the painting of the portrait of Isa- bella, of whose beauty he had become enamored through report. The Duke wishes the portrait painted. Falcone, however, on account of a promise to Tortesa, would have objected to admit to his daughter's presence the handsome Angelo, but in regard to Tomaso, has no scruple. Supposing Tomaso to be Angelo and the artist, the count writes a note to Isabella, requiring her "to admit the painter Angelo." The real Angelo is thus admitted. He and the lady love at first sight, (much in the manner of Romeo and Juliet,) each ignorant of the other's attachment. The third scene of the second act is occupied with a conversa- tion between Falcone and Tortesa, during which a letter arrives MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. 339 from the Duke, who, having heard of the intended sacrifice of Isabella, offers to redeem the Count's lands and palace, and desires him to preserve his daughter for a certain Count Julian. But Isabella, — who, before seeing Angelo, had been willing to sacrifice herself for her father's sake, and who, since seeing him, had en- tertained hopes of escaping the hateful match through means of a plot entered into by herself and Zippa — Isabella, we say, is now in despair. To gain time, she at once feigns a love for the usurer, and indignantly rejects the proposal of the Duke. The hour for the wedding draws near. The lady has prepared a sleeping potion, whose effects resemble those of death. (Romeo and Juliet.) She swallows it — knowing that her supposed corpse would lie at night, pursuant to an old custom, in the sanctuary of the cathedral ; and believing that Angelo — whose love for herself she has elicited, by a stratagem, from his own lips — will watch by the body, in the strength of his devotion. Her ultimate design (we may suppose, for it is not told,) is to confess all to her lover, on her revival, and throw herself upon his protection — their marriage being conceal- ed, and herself regarded as dead by the world. Zippa, who really loves Angelo — (her love for Tortesa, it must be understood, is a very equivocal feeling, for the fact cannot be denied that Mr. Willis makes her love both at the same time) — Zippa, who really loves Angelo — who has discovered his passion for Isabella — and who, as well as that lady, believes that the painter will watch the corpse in the cathedral, — determines, through jealousy, to prevent his so doing, and with this view informs Tortesa that she has learned it to be Angelo's design to steal the body, for artistical purposes, — in short as a model to be used in his studio. The usurer, in con- sequence, sets a guard at the doors of the cathedral. This guard does, in fact, prevent the lover from watching the corpse, but, it appears, does not prevent the lady, on her revival and disappoint- ment in not seeing the one she sought, from passing unperceived from the church. Weakened by her long sleep, she wanders aimlessly through the streets, and at length finds herself, when just sinking with exhaustion, at the door of her father. She has no resourse but to knock. The Count, who here, we must say, acts very much as Thimble of old — the knight, we mean, of the " scolding wife " — maintains that she is dead, and shuts the door 340 MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. in her face. In other words, he supposes it to be the ghost of his daughter who speaks ; and so the lady is left to perish on the steps. Meantime Angelo is absent from fcome, attempting to get access to the cathedral ; and his servant Tom aso, takes the oppor- tunity of absenting himself also, and of indulging his bibulous propensities while perambulating the town. He finds Isabella as we left her ; and through motives which we will leave Mr. Willis to explain, conducts her unresistingly to Angelo's residence, and — deposits her in Angelo's bed. The artist now returns — Tomaso is kicked out of doors — and we are not told, but left to presume, that a full explanation and perfect understanding are brought about between the lady and her lover. We find them, next morning, in the studio, where stands lean- ing against an easel, the portrait (a full length) of Isabella, with curtains adjusted before it. The stage-directions, moreover, in- form us that " the back wall of the room is such as to form a natural ground for the picture." While Angelo is occupied in retouching it, he is interrupted by the arrival of Tortesa with a guard, and is accused of having stolen the corpse from the sanc- tuary — the lady, meanwhile, having stepped behind the curtain. The usurer insists upon seeing the painting, with a view of ascer- taining whether any new touches had been put upon it, which would argue an examination, post mortem, of those charms of neck and bosom which the living Isabella would not have unveil- ed. Resistance is vain — the curtain is torn down ; but to the surprise of Angelo, the lady herself is discovered, " with her hands crossed on her breast, and her eyes fixed on the ground, standing motionless in the frame which had contained the picture." The tableau, we are to believe, deceives Tortesa, who steps back to contemplate what he supposes to be the portrait of his betroth- ed. In the meantime the guards, having searched the house, find the veil which had been thrown over the imagined corpse in the sanctuary ; and, upon this evidence, the artist is carried before the Duke. Here he is accused, not only of sacrilege, but of the mur- der of Isabella, and is about to be condemned to death, when his mistress comes forward in person ; thus resigning herself to the usurer to save the life of her lover. But the nobler nature of Tortesa now breaks forth ; and, smitten with admiration of the MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. 341 lady's conduct, as well as convinced that her love for himself was feigned, he resigns her to Angelo — although now feeling and acknowledging for the first time that a fervent love has, in his own bosom, assumed the place of this misanthropic ambition which, hitherto, had alone actuated him in seeking her hand. Moreover, lie endows Isabella with the lands of her father Falcone. The lovers are thus made happy. The usurer weds Zippa ; and the curtain drops upon the promise of the Duke to honor the double nuptials with his presence. This story, as we have given it, hangs better together (Mr. Willis will pardon our modesty) and is altogether more easily compre- hended, than in the words of the play itself. We have really put the best face upon the matter, and presented the whole in the simplest and clearest light in our power. We mean to say that " Tortesa" (partaking largely, in this respect, of the drama of Cervantes and Calderon) is over-clouded — rendered misty — by a world of unnecessary and impertinent intrigue. This folly was adopted by the Spanish comedy, and is imitated by us, with the idea of imparting -" action," "business," "vivacity." But viva- city, however desirable, can be attained in many other ways, and is dearly purchased, indeed, when the price is intelligibility. The truth is that cant has never attained a more owl-like dig- nity than in the discussion of dramatic principle. A modern stage critic is nothing, if not a lofty contemner of all things sim- ple and direct. He delights in mystery — revels in mystification — has transcendental notions concerning P. S. and O. P., and talks about " stage business and stage effect," as if he were dis- cussing the differential calculus. For much of all this, we are indebted to the somewhat over-profound criticisms of Augustus William Schlegel. But the dicta of common sense are of universal application, and, touching this matter of intrigue, if, from its superabundance, we are compelled, even in the quiet and critical perusal of a play, to pause frequently and reflect long — to re-read passages over and over again, for the purpose of gathering their bearing upon the whole — of maintaining in our mind a general connexion — what but fatigue can result from the exertion ? How then when we come to the representation ? — when these passages — trifling, per- 342 MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. haps, in themselves, but important when considered in relation to the plot — are hurried and blurred over in the stuttering- enunci- ation of some miserable rantipole, or omitted altogether through the constitutional lapse of memory so peculiar to those lights of the age and stage, bedight (from being of no conceivable use) su- pernumeraries ? For it must be borne in mind that these bits of intrigue (we use the term in the sense of the German critics) appertain generally, indeed altogether, to the after-thoughts of the drama — to the underplots — are met with, consequently, in the mouth of the lacquies and chamber-maids — and are thus con- signed to the tender mercies of the stellce minores. Of course we get but an imperfect idea of what is going on before our eyes. Action after action ensues whose mystery we cannot unlock with- out the little key which these barbarians have thrown away and lost. Our weariness increases in proportion to the number of these embarrassments, and if the play escape damnation at all, it escapes in spite of that intrigue to which, in nine cases out of ten, the author attributes his success, and which he xoill persist in valuing exactly in proportion to the misapplied labor it has cost him. But dramas of this kind are said, in our customary parlance, to " abound in plot." We have never yet met any one, however, who could tell us what precise ideas he connected with the phrase. A mere succession of incidents, even the most spirited, will no more constitute a plot, than a multiplication of zeros, even the most infinite, will result in the production of a unit. This all will admit — but few trouble themselves to think farther. The com- mon notion seems to be in favor of mere complexity; but a plot, properly understood, is perfect only inasmuch as we shall find ourselves unable to detach from it or disarrange any single inci- dent involved, without destruction to the mass. This we say is the point of perfection — a point never yet attained, but not on that account unattainable. Practically, we may consider a plot as of high excellence, when no one of its component parts shall be susceptible of removal without detriment to the whole. Here, in- deed, is a vast lowering of the demand — and with less than this no writer of refined taste should content himself. As this subject is not only in itself of great importance, but MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. 343 will have at all points a bearing upon what we shall say hereafter, in the examination of various plays, we shall be pardoned for quoting from the "Democratic Review" some passages (of our own) which enter more particularly into the rationale of the sub- ject: " All the Bridge water treatises have failed in noticing the great idiosyncrasy in the Divine system of adaptation : — that idiosyn- crasy which stamps the adaptation as divine, in distinction from that which is the work of merely human constructiveness. I speak of the complete mutuality of adaptation. For example : — in human constructions, a particular cause has a particular effect — a particular purpose brings about a particular object ; but we see no reciprocity. The effect does not re-act upon the cause — the object does not change relations with the purpose. In Divine constructions, the object is either object or purpose as we choose to regard it, while the purpose is either purpose or object ; so that we can never (abstractly — without concretion — without reference to facts of the moment) decide which is which. " For secondary example: — In polar climates, the human frame, to maintain its animal heat, requires, for combustion in the capil- lary system, an abundant supply of highly azotized food, such as train oil. Again : — in polar climates nearly the sole food afforded man is the oil of abundant seals and whales. JSTow whether is oil at hand because imperatively demanded? or whether is it the only thing demanded because the only thing to be obtained? It is impossible to say : — there is an absolute reciprocity of adaptation for which we seek in vain among the works of man. " The Bridgewater tractists may have avoided this point, on account of its apparent tendency to overthrow the idea of cause in general — consequently of a First Cause — of God. But it is more probable that they have failed to perceive what no one pre- ceding them has, to my knowledge, perceived. " The pleasure which we derive from any exertion of human ingenuity, is in the direct ratio of the approach to this species of reciprocity between cause and effect. In the construction of plot, for example, in fictitious literature, we should aim at so arranging the points, or incidents, that we cannot distinctly see, in respect to any one of them, whether that one depends from any one other 344 MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. or upholds it. In this sense, of course, perfection of plot is unat- tainable in fact — because Man is the constructor. The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a plot of God." The pleasure derived from the contemplation of the unity re- sulting from plot, is far more intense than is ordinarily supposed, and, as in Nature we meet with no such combination of incident, appertains to a very lofty region of the ideal. In speaking thus we have not said that plot is more than an adjunct to the drama — more than a perfectly distinct and separable source of pleasure. It is not an essential. In its intense artificiality it may even be conceived injurious in a certain degree (unless constructed with consummate skill) to that real life-likeness which is the soul of the drama of character. Good dramas have been written with very little plot — capital dramas might be written with none at all. Some plays of high merit, having plot, abound in irrelevant inci- dent — in incident, we mean, which could be displaced or removed altogether without effect upon the plot itself, and yet are by no means objectionable as dramas; and for this reason — that the incidents are evidently irrelevant — obviously episodical. Of their digressive nature the spectator is so immediately aware, that he views them, as they arise, in the simple light of interlude, and does not fatigue his attention by attempting to establish for them a connexion, or more than an illustrative connexion, with the great interests of the subject. Such are the plays of Shakspeare. But all this is very different from that irrelevancy of intrigue which disfigures and very usually damns the work of the unskil- ful artist. With him the great error lies in inconsequence. Un- derplot is piled upon underplot, (the very word is a paradox,) and all to no purpose — to no end. The interposed incidents have no ultimate effect upon the main ones. They may hang upon the mass — they may even coalesce with it, or, as in some intri- cate cases, they may be so intimately blended as to be lost amid the chaos which they have been instrumental in bringing about — but still they have no portion in the plot, which exits, if at all, independently of their influence. Yet the attempt is made by the author to establish and demonstrate a dependence — an identity; and it is the obviousness of this attempt which is the cause of weariness in the spectator, who, of course, cannot at once see that MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. 345 his attention is challenged to no purpose — that intrigues so ob- trusively forced upon it, are to be found, in the end, without effect upon the leading interests of the play. " Tortesa" will afford us plentiful examples of this irrelevancy of intrigue — of this misconception of the nature and of the capa- cities of plot. We have said that our digest of the story is more easy of comprehension than the detail of Mr. Willis. If so, it is because we have forborne to give such portions as had no influence upon the whole. These served but to embarrass the narrative and fatigue the attention. How much was irrelevant is shown by the brevity of the space in which we have recorded, somewhat at length, all the influential incidents of a drama of five acts. There is scarcely a scene in which is not to be found the germ of an un- derplot — a germ, however, which seldom proceeds beyond the condition of a bud, or, if so fortunate as to swell into a flower, arrives, in no single instance, at the dignity of fruit. Zippa, a lady altogether without character (dramatic) is the most pertina- cious of all conceivable concoctors of plans never to be matured — of vast designs that terminate in nothing — of cul-de-sac machi- nations. She plots in one page and counterplots in the next. She schemes her way from P. S. to 0. P., and intrigues persever- ingly from the footlights to the slips. A very singular instance of the inconsequence of her manoeuvres is found towards the con- clusion of the play. The whole of the second scene, (occupying five pages,) in the fifth act, is obviously introduced for the pur- pose of giving her information, through Tomaso's means, of An- gelo's arrest for the murder of Isabella. Upon learning his dan- ger she rushes from the stage, to be present at the trial, exclaiming that her evidence can save his life. We, the audience, of course applaud, and now look with interest to her movements in the scene of the judgment hall. She, Zippa, we think, is somebody after all ; she will be the means of Angelo's salvation ; she will thus be the chief unraveller of the plot. All eyes are bent, there- fore, upon Zippa — but alas, upon the point at issue, Zippa does not so much as open her mouth. It is scarcely too much to say that not a single action of this impertinent little busybody has any real influence upon the play ; — yet she appears upon every occa- sion — appearing only to perplex. 15* 346 MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. Similar things abound ; we should not have space even to allude to them all. The whole conclusion of the play is supererogatory. The immensity of pure fuss with which it is overloaded, forces us to the reflection that all of it might have been avoided by one word of explanation to the duke — an amiable man who admires the talents of Angelo, and who, to prevent Isabella's marrying against her will, had previously offered to free Falcone of his bonds to the usurer. That he would free him now, and thus set all matters straight, the spectator cannot doubt for an instant, and he can conceive no better reason why explanations are not made, than that Mr. Willis does not think proper they should be. In fact, the whole drama is exceedingly ill motivirt. We have already mentioned an inadvertence, in the fourth act, where Isabella is made to escape from the sanctuary through the midst of guards who prevented the ingress of Angelo. Another occurs where Falcone's conscience is made to reprove him, upon the appearance of his daughter's supposed ghost, for having occasioned her death by forcing her to marry against her will. The author had forgotten that Falcone submitted to the wedding, after the duke's interposition, only upon Isabella's assurance that she really loved the usurer. In the third scene, too, of the first act, the imagination of the spectator is no doubt a little taxed, when he finds Angelo, in the first moment of his introduction to the palace of Isabella, commencing her portrait by laying on color after color, before he has made any attempt at an outline. In the last act, moreover, Tortesa gives to Isabella a deed Of the Falcone palaces and lands, And all the money forfeit by Falcone. This' is a terrible blunder, and the more important as upon this act of the usurer depends the development of his new-born sentiments of honor and virtue — depends, in fact, the most salient point of the play. Tortesa, we say, gives to Isabella the lands forfeited by Falcone ; but Tortesa was surely not very generous in giving what, clearly, was not his own to give. Falcone had not forfeited the deed, which had been restored to him by the usurer, and which was then in his (Falcone's) possession. Hear Tortesa : He put it in the bond, That if, by any humor of my own, MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. 347 Or acident that came not from himself, Or from his daughter's will, the match were marred, His tenure stood intact. Now Falcone is still resolute for the match; but this new generous " humor " of Tortesa induces him (Tortesa) to decline it. Falcone's tenure is then intact ; he retains the deed, the usurer is giving away property not his own. As a drama of character, " Tortesa " is by no means open to so many objections as when we view it in the light of its plot ; but it is still faulty. The merits are so exceedingly negative, that it is difficult to say anything about them. The Duke is nobody ; Falcone, nothing; Zippa, less than nothing. Angelo may be regarded simply as the medium through which Mr. Willis conveys to the reader his own glowing feelings — his own refined and deli- cate fancy — (delicate, yet bold) — his own rich voluptuousness of sentiment — a voluptuousness which would offend in almost any other language than that in which it is so skilfully apparelled. Isabella is — the heroine of the Hunchback. The revolution in the character of Tortesa — or rather the final triumph of his innate virtue — is a dramatic point far older than the hills. It may be observed, too, that although the representation of no human character should be quarrelled with for its inconsistency, we yet require that the inconsistencies be not absolute antagonisms to the extent of neutralization : they may be permitted to be oils and waters, but they must not be alkalies and acids. When, in the course of the denouement, the usurer bursts forth into an eloquence virtue-inspired, we canmot sympathize very heartily in his fine speeches, since they proceed from the mouth of the self-same egotist who, urged by a disgusting vanity, uttered so many sotticisms (about his fine legs, &c.) in the earlier passages of the play. Tomaso is, upon the whole, the best personage. We recognise some originality in his conception, and conception was seldom more admirably carried out. One or two observations at random. In the third scene of the fifth act, Tomaso, the buffoon, is made to assume paternal authority over Isabella, (as usual, without sufficient purpose,) by virtue of a law which Tortesa thus expounds : My gracious liege, there is a law in Florence, That if a farther, for no guilt or shame, 348 MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. Disown and shut his door upon his daughter, She is the child of him who succors her, Who by the shelter of a single night, Becomes endowed with the authority Lost by the other. No one, of course, can be made to believe that any such stupid law as this ever existed either in Florence or Timbuctoo ; but, on the ground que le vrai riest pas toujours le vraisemblable, we say that even its real existence would be no justification of Mr. Willis. It has an air of the far-fetched — of the desperate — which a fine taste will avoid as a pestilence. Very much of the same nature is the attempt of Tortesa to extort a second bond from Falcone. The evidence which convicts Angelo of murder is ridiculously frail. The idea of Isabella's assuming the place of the portrait, and so deceiving the usurer, is not only glaringly improbable, but seems adopted from the "Winter's Tale." But in this latter play, the deception is at least possible, for the human figure but imitates a statue. What, however, are we to make of Mr. W's stage direction about the back wall's being " so arranged as to form a natural ground for the picture ?" Of course, the very slightest movement of Tortesa (and he makes many) would have annihilated the illusion by disarranging the perspective; and in no manner could this latter have been arranged at all for more than one particular point of view — in other words, for more than one particular person in the whole audience. The " asides/' moreover, are unjustifiably frequent. The prevalence of this folly (of speaking aside) detracts as much from the acting merit of our drama generally, as any other inartisticality. It utterly destroys verisimilitude. People are not in the habit of soliloqui- zing aloud — at least, not to any positive extent; and why should an author have to be told, what the slightest reflection would teach him, that an audience, by dint of no imagination, can or will conceive that what is sonorous in their own ears at the distance of fifty feet, cannot be heard by an actor at the distance of one or two ? Having spoken thus of "Tortesa" in terms of nearly unmiti- gated censure — our readers may be surprised to hear us say that we think highly of the drama as a whole — and have little hesita- tion in ranking it before most of the dramas of Sheridan Knowles. MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. 349 Its leading faults are those of the modern drama generally — they are not peculiar to itself — while its great merits are. If in sup- port of our opinion, we do not cite points of commendation, it is because those form the mass of the work. And were we to speak of fine passages, we should srjeak of the entire play. Nor by "fine passages" do we mean passages of merely fine language, embodying fine sentiment, but such as are replete with truthful- ness, and teem with the loftiest qualities of the dramatic art. Points — capital points abound ; and these have far more to do with the general excellence of a play, than a too speculative criti- cism has been willing to admit. Upon the whole, we are proud of "Tortesa" — and here again, for the fiftieth time at least, re- cord our warm admiration of the abilities of Mr. "Willis. We proceed now to Mr. Longfellow's SPANISH STUDENT. The reputation of its author as a poet, and as a graceful writer of prose, is, of course, long and deservedly established — but as a dramatist he was unknown before the publication of this play. Upon its original appearance, in "Graham's Magazine," the gen- eral opinion was greatly in favor— if not exactly of " The Spanish Student" — at all events of the writer of Outre-Mer. But this general opinion is the most equivocal thing in the world. It is never self-formed. It has very seldom indeed an original develop- ment. In regard to the work of an already famous or infamous author it decides, to be sure, with a laudable promptitude ; making up all the mind that it has, by reference to the reception of the author's immediately previous publication ; — making up thus the ghost of a mind pro tern. — a species of critical shadow, that fully answers, nevertheless, all the purposes of a substance itself, until the substance itself shall be forthcoming. But, beyond this point, the general opinion can only be considered that of the public, as a man may call a book his, having bought it. When a new writer arises, the shop of the true, thoughtful, or critical opinion, is not simultaneously thrown away — is not immediately set up. Some weeks elapse ; and, during this interval, the public, at a loss where to procure an opinion of the debutante, have necessarily no opinion of him at all, for the nonce. The popular voice, then, which ran so much in favor of " The 350 MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. Spanish Student," upon its original issue, should be looked upon as merely the ghost pro tern. — as based upon critical decisions re- specting the previous works of the author — as having reference in no manner to "The Spanish Student" itself — and thus as utterly- meaningless and valueless per se. The few — by which we mean those who think, in contradistinc- tion from the many who think they think — the few who think at first hand, and thus twice before speaking at all — these received the play with a commendation somewhat less prononcee — some- what more guardedly qualified — than Professor Longfellow might have desired, or may have been taught to expect. Still the com- position was approved upon the whole. The few words of censure were very far, indeed, from amounting to condemnation. The chief defect insisted upon, was the feebleness of the denouement, and, generally, of the concluding scenes, as compared with the opening passages. We are not sure, however, that anything like detailed criticism has been attempted in the case — nor do we pro- pose now to attempt it. Nevertheless, the work has interest, not only within itself, but as the first dramatic effort of an author who has remarkably succeeded in almost every other department of light literature than that of the drama. It may be as well, there- fore, to speak of it, if not analytically, at least somewhat in de- tail ; and we cannot, perhaps, more suitably commence than by a quotation, without comment, of some of the finer passages : And, though she is a virgin outwardly, Within she is a sinner ; like those panels Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary On the outside, and on the inside Venus I believe That woman, in her deepest degradation, Holds something sacred, something undefiled, Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature, And, like the diamond in the dark, retains Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light. . . . And we shall sit together unmolested, And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue, As singing birds from one bough to another. . . . Our feelings and our thoughts Tend ever on and rest not in the Present. As drops of rain fall into some dark well, And from below comes a scarce audible sound, MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. 351 So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter, And their mysterious echo reaches us. . . . Her tender limbs are still, and, on her breast, The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep, Rises or falls with the soft tide of dreams, Like a light barge safe moored. . . . Hark ! how the large and ponderous mace of Time Knocks at the golden portals of the day ! . . . . The lady Violante, bathed in tears Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love, Desertest for this Glauce. . . . I read or sit in reverie and watch The changing color of the waves that break Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind I will forget her. All dear recollections Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book, Shall be torn out and scattered to the winds.. . . O yes ! I see it now — Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes, So faint it is. And all my thoughts sail thither, Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged Against all stress of accident, as, in The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, Which are the dreams of Love ! Out of the heart Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, As from some woodland fount a spirit rises And sinks again into its silent deeps, Ere the enamored knight can touch her robe ! 'Tis this ideal that the soul of Man, Like the enamored knight beside the fountain, Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream ; Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, Clad in a mortal shape ! Alas, how many Must wait in vain ! The stream flows evermore, But from its silent deeps no spirit rises ! Yet I, born under a propitious star, Have found the bright ideal of my dreams Yes ; by the Darro's side My childhood passed. I can remember still The river, and the mountains capped with snow ; The villages where, yet a little child, I told the traveller's fortune in the street ; The smuggler's horse ; the brigand and the shepherd ; The march across the moor ; the halt at noon ; The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted The forest where we slept ; and, farther back, 352 MR LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. As in a dream, or in some former life, Gardens and palace walls 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 ocean, Whistles the quail These extracts will be universally admired. They are graceful, well expressed, imaginative, and altogether replete with the true poetic feeling. We quote them now, at the beginning of our re- view, by way of justice to the poet, and because, in what follows, we are not sure that we have more than a very few words of what may be termed commendation to bestow. The " Spanish Student " has an unfortunate beginning, in a most unpardonable, and yet, to render the matter worse, in a most indispensable " Preface :" The subject of the following play, [says Mr. L.,] is taken in part from the beautiful play of Cervantes, La Gitanilla. To this source, however, I am indebted for the main incident only, the love of a Spanish student for a Gipsy girl, and the name of the heroine, Preciosa. I have not followed the story in any of its details. In Spain this subject has been twice handled dramatically ; first by Juan Perez de Montalvan, in La Gitanilla, and after- wards by Antonio de Solis y Rivadeneira in La Gitanilla de Madrid. The same subject has also been made use of by Thomas Middleton, an English dramatist of the seventeenth century. His play is called The Spanish Gipsy. The main plot is the same as in the Spanish pieces ; but there runs through it a tragic underplot of the loves of Rodrigo and Dona Clara, which is taken from another tale of Cervantes, La Fuerza de la Sangre. The reader who is acquainted with La Gitanilla of Cervantes, and the plays of Montalvan, Solis, and Middleton, will perceive that my treatment of the subject differs entirely from theirs. Now the autorial originality, properly considered, is threefold. There is, first, the originality of the general thesis ; secondly, that of the several incidents, or thoughts, by which the thesis is devel- oped ; and, thirdly, that of manner, or tone, by which means alone, an old subject, even when developed through hackneyed incidents, or thoughts, may be made to produce a fully original effect — which, after all, is the end truly in view. But originality, as it is one of the highest, is also one of the rarest of merits. In America it is especially, and very remarka- bly rare : — this through causes sufficiently well understood. We are content per force, therefore, as a general thing, with either of the lower branches of originality mentioned above, and would re- MR, LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. 353 gard with high favor, indeed, any author who should supply the great desideratum in combining the three. Still the three should be combined ; and from whom, if not fromsuch men as Professor Longfellow — if not from those who occupy the chief niches in our Literary Temple — shall we expect the combination ? But in the present instance, what has Professor Long-fellow accomplished ? Is he original at any one point ? Is he original in respect to the first and most important of our three divisions ? " The subject of the following play," he says himself, " is taken in part from the beautiful play of Cervantes, La Gitanilla." " To this source, how- ever, I am indebted for the main incident only, the love of the Spanish student for a Gipsy girl, and the name of the heroine, Preciosa." The italics are our own, and the words italicized involve an ob- vious contradiction. We cannot understand how " the love of the Spanish student for the Gipsy girl" can be called an "inci- dent," or even a " main incident," at all. In fact, this love — this discordant and therefore eventful or incidentful love — is the true thesis of the drama of Cervantes. It is this anomalous "love" which originates the incidents .by means of which, itself, this "love," the thesis, is developed. Having based his play, then, upon this " love," we cannot admit his claim to originality upon our first count ; nor has he any right to say that he has adopted his "subject" "in part." It is clear that he has adopted it alto- gether. Nor would he have been entitled to claim originality of subject, even had he based his story upon any variety of love arising between parties naturally separated by prejudices of caste — such, for example, as those which divide the Brahmin from the Pariah, the Ammonite from the African, or even the Christian from the Jew. For here in its ultimate analysis, is the real thesis of the Spaniard. But when the drama is founded, not merely upon this general thesis, but upon this general thesis in the iden- tical application given it by Cervantes — that is to say, upon the prejudice of caste exemplified in the case of a Catholic, and this Catholic a Spaniard, and this Spaniard a student, and this stu- dent loving a Gipsy, and this Gipsy a dancing-girl, and this danc- ing-girl bearing the name Preciosa — we are not altogether pre- pared to be informed by Professor Longfellow that he is indebted 354 MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. for an " incident only" to the " beautiful Gitanilla of Cervan- tes." Whether our author is original upon our second and third points — in the true incidents of his story, or in the manner and tone of their handling — will be more distinctly seen as we proceed. It is to be regretted that " The Spanish Student" was not sub- entitled " A Dramatic Poem," rather than " A Play." The for- mer title would have more fully conveyed the intention of the poet ; for, of course, we shall not do Mr. Longfellow the injustice to suppose that his design has been, in any respect, a play, in the ordinary acceptation of the term. Whatever may be its merits in a merely poetical view, " The Spanish Student" could not be en- dured upon the stage. Its plot runs thus : — Preciosa, the daughter of a Spanish gen- tleman, is stolen, while an infant, by Gipsies ; brought up as his own daughter, and as a dancing-girl, by a Gipsy leader, Crusado ; and by him betrothed to a young Gipsy, Bartolome. At Madrid, Preciosa loves and is beloved by Victorian, a student of Alcalda, who resolves to marry her, notwithstanding her caste, rumors in- volving her purity, the dissuasions of his friends, and his betrothal to an heiress of Madrid. Preciosa is also sought by the Count of Lara, a roue. She rejects him. He forces his way into her chamber, and is there seen by Victorian, who, misinterpreting some words overheard, doubts the fidelity of his mistress, and leaves her in anger, after challenging the Count of Lara. In the duel, the Count receives his life at the hands of Victorian ; de- clares his ignorance of the understanding between Victorian and Preciosa ; boasts of favors received from the latter ; and, to make good his words, produces a ring which she gave him, he asserts, as a pledge of her love. This ring is a duplicate of one previous- ly given the girl by Victorian, and known to have been so given, by the Count. Victorian mistakes it for his own, believes all that has been said, and abandons the field to his rival, who, immedi- ately afterwards, while attempting to procure access to the Gipsy, is assassinated by Bartolome. Meanwhile, Victorian, wandering through the country, reaches Guadarrama. Here he receives a letter from Madrid, disclosing the treachery practised by Lara, MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. 355 and telling that Preciosa, rejecting his addresses, had been, through his instrumentality hissed from the stage, and now again roamed with the Gipsies. He goes in search of her ; finds her in a wood near Guadarrama ; approaches her, disguising his voice ; she recognises him, pretending she does not, and unaware that he knows her innocence ; a conversation of equivoque ensues ; he sees his ring upon her ringer ; offers to purchase it ; she refuses to part with it ; a full eclaircissement takes places ; at this junc- ture, a servant of Victorian's arrives with " news from court," giving the first intimation of the true parentage of Preciosa. The lovers set out, forthwith, for Madrid, to see the newly-discovered father. On the route, Bartolome dogs their steps ; fires at Pre- ciosa; misses her; the shot is returned; he falls; and "The Spanish Student" is concluded. This plot, however, like that of " Tortesa," looks better in our naked digest than amidst the details which develope only to dis- figure it. The reader of the play itself will be astonished, when he remembers the name of the author, at the inconsequence of the incidents — at the utter want of skill — of art — manifested in their conception and introduction. In dramatic writing, no principle is more clear than that nothing should be said or done which has not a tendency to develope the catastrophe, or the characters. But Mr. Longfellow's play abounds in events and conversations that have no ostensible purpose, and certainly answer no end. In what light, for example, since we cannot suppose this drama intended for the stage, are we to regard the second scene of the second act, where a long dialogue between an Archbishop and a Cardinal is wound up by a dance from Preciosa ? The Pope thinks of abol- ishing public dances in Spain, and the priests in question have been delegated to examine, personally, the proprieties or impro- prieties of such exhibitions. With this view, Preciosa is sum- moned and required to give a specimen of her skill. Now this, in a mere spectacle, would do very well ; for here all that is demanded is an occasion or an excuse for a dance ; but what business has it in a pure drama ? or in what regard does it fur- ther the end of a dramatic poem, intended only to be read? In the same manner, the whole of scene the eighth, in the same act, is occupied with six lines of stage directions, as follows : 356 MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. T?ie Tlieatre. The orchestra plays the Cachuca. Sound of castanets behind the scenes. The curtain rises and discovers Preciosa in the attitude of commencing the dance. The Cachuca. Tumult. Hisses. Cries of Brava ! and Aguera ! She falters and pauses. The music stops. General confu- sion. Preciosa faints. But the inconsequence of which we complain will be best exem- plified by an entire scene. We take scene the fourth, act the first : An inn on the road to Alcald. Baltasar asleep on a bench. Enter Chispa. Chispa. And here we are, half way to Alcala, between cocks and mid- night. Body o' me ! what an inn this is ! The light out and the landlord asleep ! Hola ! ancient Baltasar ! Baltasar [waking]. Here I am. Chispa. Yes, there you are, like a one-eyed alcade in a town without in- habitants. Bring a light, and let me have supper. Baltasar. Where is your master ? Chispa. Do not trouble yourself about him. We have stopped a moment to breathe our horses ; and if he chooses to walk up and down in the open air, looking into the sky as one who hears it rain, that does not satisfy my hunger, you know. But be quick, for I am in a hurry, and every one stretches his legs according to the length of his coverlet. What have we here ? Baltasar [setting a light on the table]. Stewed rabbit. Chisjja [eating]. Conscience of Portalegre ! stewed kitten, you mean ! Baltasar. And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, with a roasted pear in it. Chispa [drinking]. Ancient Baltasar, amigo ! You know how to cry wine and sell vinegar. I tell you this is nothing but vino tinto of La Mau- cha, with a tang of the swine-skin. Baltasar. I swear to you by Saint Simon and Judas, it is all as I say. Chispa. And I swear to you by Saint Peter and Saint Paul, that it is no such thing. Moreover, your supper is like the hidalgo's dinner — very little meat and a great deal of table-cloth. Baltasar. Ha! ha! ha! Chispa. And more noise that nuts. Baltasar. Ha ! ha ! ha ! You must have your joke, Master Chispa. But shall I not ask Don Victorian in to take a draught of the Pedro Ximenes ? Chispa. No ; you might as well say, " Don't you want some ?" to a dead man. Baltasar. Why does he go so often to Madrid ? Chispa. For the same reason that he eats no supper. He is in love. Were you ever in love, Baltasar ? Baltasar. I was never out of it, good Chispa. It has been the torment of my life. Chispa. What ! are you on fire, too, old hay-stack ? Why, we shall never be able to put you out. Victorian [without], Chispa ! Chispa. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for the cocks are crowing. Victorian. Ea ! Chispa ! Chispa ! Chispa. Ea ! Senor. Come with me, ancient Baltasar, and bring water for the horses. I will pay for the supper to-morrow. [Exeunt^] Now here the question occurs — what is accomplished ? How has the subject been forwarded ? We did not need to learn that Victorian was in love — that was known before ; and all that we MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. 357 glean is that a stupid imitation of Sancho Panza drinks, in the course of two minutes, (the time occupied in the perusal of the scene,) a bottle of vino tinto, by way of Pedro Ximenes, and de- vours a stewed kitten in place of a rabbit. In the beginning of the play this Chispa is the valet of Victo- rian ; subsequently we find him the servant of another ; and near the denouement, he returns to his original master. No cause is assigned, and not even the shadow of an object is attained ; the whole tergiversation being but another instance of the gross in- consequence which abounds in the play. The author's deficiency of skill is especially evinced in the scene of the eclaircissement between Victorian and Preciosa. The for- mer having been enlighted respecting the true character of the latter, by means of a letter received at Guadarrama, from a friend at Madrid, (how wofully inartistical is this !) resolves to go in search of her forthwith, and forthwith, also, discovers her in a wood close at hand. Whereupon he approaches, disguising his voice : — yes, we are required to believe that a lover may so dis- guise his voice from his mistress, as even to render his person in full view, irrecognisable ! He approaches, and each knowing the other, a conversation ensues under the hypothesis that each to the other is unknown — a very unoriginal, and, of course, a very silly source of equivoque, fit only for the gum-elastic imagination of an infant. But what we especially complain of here, is that our poet should have taken so many and so obvious pains to bring about this position of equivoque, when it was impossible that it could have served any other purpose than that of injuring his intended effect ! Read, for example this passage : Victorian. I never loved a maid ; For she I loved was then a maid no more. Preciosa. How know you that ? Victorian. A little bird in the air Whispered the secret. Preciosa. There, take back your gold ! Your hand is cold like a deceiver's hand ! There is no blessing in its charity ! Make her your wife, for you have been abused ; And you shall mend your fortunes mending hers. Victorian. How like an angel's speaks the tongue of woman, When pleading in another's cause her own ! 858 MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. ignorant of Victorian's identity, the " pleading in another's cause her own," would create a favorable impression upon the reader, or spectator. But the advice — " Make her your wife," &c, takes an interested and selfish turn when we remember that she knows to whom she speaks. Again, when Victorian says, That is a pretty ring upon your finger, Pray give it me ! And when she replies : No, never from my hand Shall that be taken, we are inclined to think her only an artful coquette, knowing, as we do, the extent of her knowledge ; on the other hand, we should have applauded her constancy (as the author intended) had she been represented ignorant of Victorian's presence. The effect upon the audience, in a word, would be pleasant in place of dis- agreeable were the case altered as we suggest, while the effect upon Victorian would remain altogether untouched. A still more remarkable instance of deficiency in the dramatic tact is to be found in the mode of bringing about the discovery of Preciosa's parentage. In the very moment of the eclaircisse- ment between the lovers, Chispa arrives almost as a matter of course, and settles the point in a sentence : Good news from Court ; Good news ! Beltran Cruzado, The Count of the Cales is not your father, But your true father has returned to Spain Laden with wealth. You are no more a Gipsy. Now here are three points: — first, the extreme baldness, plati- tude, and independence of the incident narrated by Chispa. The opportune return of the father (we are tempted to say the exces- sively opportune) stands by itself — has no relation to any other event in the play — does not appear to arise, in the way of result, from any incident or incidents that have arisen before. It has the air of a happy chance, of a God-send, of an ultra-accident, in- vented by the playwright by way of compromise for his lack of invention. Nee Deus intersit, &c. — but here the god has inter- posed, and the knot is laughably unworthy of the god. The second point concerns the return of the father " laden with wealth." The lover has abandoned his mistress in her poverty, MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. 359 and, while yet the words of his proffered reconciliation hang upon his lips, comes his own servant with the news that the mistress' father has returned " laden with wealth." Now, so far as regards the audience, who are behind the scenes and know the fidelity of the lover — so far as regards the audience, all is right ; but the poet had no business to place his heroine in the sad predicament of being forced, provided she is not a fool, to suspect both the ig- norance and the disinterestedness of the hero. The third point has reference to the words — " You are now no more a Gipsy." The thesis of this drama, as we have already said, is love disregarding the prejudices of caste, and in the de- velopment of this thesis, the powers of the dramatist have been engaged, or should have been engaged, during the whole of the three acts of the play. The interest excited lies in our admira- tion of the sacrifice, and of the love that could make it ; but this interest immediately and disagreeably subsides when we find that the sacrifice has been made to no purpose. " You are no more a Gipsy" dissolves the charm, and obliterates the whole impression which the author has been at so much labor to convey. Our ro- mantic sense of the hero's chivalry declines into a complacent satisfaction with his fate. We drop our enthusiasm, with the en- thusiast, and jovially shake by the hand the mere man of good luck. But is not the latter feeling the more comfortable of the two? Perhaps so; but "comfortable" is not exactly the word Mr. Longfellow might wish applied to the end of his drama, and then why be at the trouble of building up an effect through a hundred and eighty pages, merely to knock it down at the end of the hundred and eighty-first ? We have already given, at some length, our conceptions of the nature of plot — and of that of "The Spanish Student," it seems almost superfluous to speak at all. It has nothing of construc- tion about it. Indeed there is scarcely a single incident which has any necessary dependence upon any one other. Not only might we take away two-thirds of the whole without ruin — but without detriment — indeed with a positive benefit to the mass. And, even as regards the mere order of arrangement, we might with a very decided chance of improvement, put the scenes in a bag, give them a shake or two by way of shuffle, and tumble STO MR. LONGFELLOW, MR. WILLIS, AND THE DRAMA. them out. The whole mode of collocation — not to speak of the feebleness of the incidents in themselves — evinces, on the part of the author, an utter and radical want of the adapting or con- structive power which the drama so imperatively demands. Of the unoriginality of the thesis we have already spoken ; and now, to the unoriginality of the events by which the thesis is developed, we need do little more than allude. What, indeed, could we say of such incidents as the child stolen by gipsies — as her education as a danseuse — as her betrothal to a Gipsy — as her preference for a gentleman — as the rumors against her purity — as her persecution by a roue — as the inruption of the roue into her chamber — as the consequent misunderstanding between her and her lover — as the duel — as the defeat of the roue — as the receipt of his life from the hero — as his boasts of success with the girl — as the ruse of the duplicate ring — as the field, in consequence, abandoned by the lover — as the assassination of Lara while scaling the girl's bed-chamber — as the disconsolate peregrination of Vic- torian — as the equivoque scene with Preciosa — as the offering to purchase the ring and the refusal to part with it — as the " news from court" telling of the Gipsy's true parentage — what could we say of all these ridiculous things, except that we have met them, each and all, some two or three hundred times before, and that they have formed, in a greater or less degree, the staple ma- terial of every Hop-O'My-Thumb tragedy since the flood ? There is not an incident, from the first page of " The Spanish Student" to the last and most satisfactory, which we would not undertake to find boldly, at ten minutes' notice, in some one of the thou- sand and one comedies of intrigue attributed to Calderon and Lope de Vega. But if our poet is grossly unoriginal in his subject, and in the events which evolve it, may he not be original in his handling or tone? We really grieve to say that he is not, unless, indeed, we grant him the meed of originality for the peculiar manner in which he has jumbled together the quaint and stilted tone of the old English dramatists with the degagee air of Cervantes. But this is a point upon which, through want of space, we must ne- cessarily permit the reader to judge altogether for himself. We quote, however, a passage from the Second scene of the first LONGFELLOW'S BALLADS. 863 LONGFELLOW'S BALLADS.* " II y aparier," says Chamfort, " que toute idee publique, toute convention recue, est une sottise, car elle a convenue au plus grand nombre." — One would be safe in wagering that any given public idea is erroneous, for it has been yielded to the clamor of the majority ; — and this strictly philosophical, although somewhat French assertion, has especial bearing upon the whole race of what are termed maxims and popular proverbs ; nine-tenths of which are the quintessence of folly. One of the most deplorably false of them is the antique adage, De gustibus non est disputan- dum — there should be no disputing about taste. Here the idea designed to be conveyed is that any one person has as just right to consider his own taste the true, as has any one other — that taste itself, in short, is an arbitrary something, amenable to no law, and measurable by no definite rules. It must be confessed, however, that the exceedingly vague and impotent treatises which are alone extant, have much to answer for as regards confirming the general error. Not the least important service which, hereafter, mankind will owe to Phrenology, may, perhaps, be recognised in an analysis of the real principles, and a digest of the resulting laws of taste. These principles, in fact, are as clearly traceable, and these laws as readily susceptible of system as are any whatever. In the meantime, the insane adage above mentioned is in no respect more generally, more stupidly, and more pertinaciously quoted than by the admirers of what is termed the " good old Pope," or the "good old Goldsmith school" of poetry, in reference to the bolder, more natural, and more ideal compositions of such authors as Coetlogon and Lamar tinef in France ; Herder, * Ballads and other Poems. By Henry "Wadsworth Longfellow, Author of " Voices of the Night," " Hyperion," etc : Second Edition. John Owen : Cambridge. f We allude here chiefly to the " David " of Coetlogon, and only to the u Chute dun Ange " of Lamartine. . 364 LONGFELLOW'S BALLADS. Korner, and Uhland in Germany ; Brun and Baggesen in Den- mark ; Bellman, Tegner, and Nyberg* in Sweden ; Keats, Shelly, Coleridge, and Tennyson in England ; Lowell and Longfellow in America. " De gustibus non," say these " good-old-school " fellows ; and we have no doubt that their mental translation of the phrase is — " We pity your taste — we pity everybody's taste but our own." It is our purpose to controvert the popular idea that the poets just mentioned owe to novelty, to trickeries of expression, and to other meretricious effects, their appreciation by certain readers : — to demonstrate (for the matter is susceptible of demonstration) that such poetry and such alone has fulfilled the legitimate office of the muse ; has thoroughly satisfied an earnest and unquencha- ble desire existing in the heart of man. This volume of Ballads and Tales includes, with several brief original pieces, a translation from the Swedish of Tegner. In attempting (what never should be attempted) a literal version of both the words and the metre of this poem, Professor Longfellow has failed to do justice either to his author or himself. He has striven to do what no man ever did well, and what, from the nature of language itself, never can be well done. Unless, for example, we shall come to have an influx of spondees in our English tongue, it will always be impossible to construct an English hexameter. Our spondees, or, we should say, our spon- daic words, are rare. In the Swedish they are nearly as abundant as in the Latin and Greek. We have only "compound," "context," "footfall," and a few other similar ones. This is the difficulty ; and that it is so will become evident upon reading " The Children of the Lord's Supper," where the sole readable verses are those in which we meet with the rare spondaic dissyllables. We mean to say readable as hexameters ; for many of them will read very well as mere English dactylics with certain irregularities. Much as we admire the genius of Mr. Longfellow, we are fully sensible of his many errors of affectation and imitation. His artistical skill is great, and his ideality high. But his conception of the aims of poesy is all wrong ; and this we shall prove at some future day — to our own satisfaction, at least. His didactics * C. Julia Nyberg, author of the " Dikter von Euphrosyne." LONGFELLOW'S BALLADS. 365 are all out of place. He has written brilliant poems — by accident ; that is to say when permitting his genius to get the better of his conventional habit of thinking — a habit deduced from German study. We do not mean to say that a didactic moral may not be well made the under-current of a poetical thesis ; but that it can never be well put so obtrusively forth, as in the majority of his compositions We have said that Mr. Longfellow's conception of the aims of poesy is erroneous ; and that thus, laboring at a disadvantage, he does violent wrong to his own high powers ; and now the ques- tion is, what are his ideas of the aims of the Muse, as we gather these ideas from the general tendency of his poems ? It will be at once evident that, imbued with the peculiar spirit of German song (in pure conventionality) he regards the inculcation of a moral as essential. Here we find it necessary to repeat that we have reference only to the general tendency of his compositions ; for there are some magnificent exceptions, where, as if by acci- dent, he has permitted his genius to get the better of his conven- tional prejudice. But didacticism is the prevalent tone of his song. His invention, his imagery, his all, is made subservient to the elucidation of some one or more points (but rarely of more than one) which he looks upon as truth. And that this mode of procedure will find stern defenders should never excite surprise, so long as the world is full to overflowing with cant and conven- ticles. There are men who will scramble on all fours through the muddiest sloughs of vice to pick up a single apple of virtue. There are things called men who, so long as the sun rolls, will greet with snuffling huzzas every figure that takes upon itself the semblance of truth, even although the figure, in itself only a " stuffed Paddy," be as much out of place as a toga on the statue of Washington, or out of season as rabbits in the days of the dog-star We say this with little fear of contradiction. Yet the spirit of our assertion must be more heeded than the letter. Mankind have seemed to define Poesy in a thousand, and in a thousand conflicting definitions. But the war is one only of words. In- duction is as well applicable to this subject as to the most palpa- ble and utilitarian ; and by its sober processes we find that, in 366 LONGFELLOW'S BALLADS. respect to compositions which have been really received as poems, the imaginative, or, more popularly, the creative portions alone have ensured them to be so received. Yet these works, on ac- count of these portions, having once been so received and so named, it has happened, naturally and inevitably, that other por- tions totally unpoetic have not only come to be regarded by the popular voice as poetic, but have been made to serve as false standards of perfection, in the adjustment of other poetical claims. "Whatever has been found in whatever has been received as a poem has been blindly regarded as ex statu poetic. And this is a species of gross error which scarcely could have made its way into any less intangible topic. In fact that license which apper- tains to the Muse herself, it has been thought decorous, if not sagacious to indulge, in all examination of her character Poesy is a response — unsatisfactory it is true — but still in some measure a response, to a natural and irrepressible demand. Man being what he is, the time could never have been in which Poesy was not. Its first element is the thirst for supernal Beauty — a beauty which is not afforded the soul by any exist- ing collocation of earth's forms — a beauty which, perhaps, no possible combination of these forms would fully produce. Its second element is the attempt to satisfy this thirst by novel com- binations among those forms of beauty which already exist — or by novel combinations of those combinations which our predecessors, toiling in chase of the same phantom, have already set in order. "We thus clearly deduce the novelty, the originality, the invention, the imagination, or lastly the creation of beauty, (for the terms as here employed are synonymous,) as the essence of all Poesy. Nor is this idea so much at variance with ordinary opinion as, at first sight, it may appear. A multitude of antique dogmas on this topic will be found, when divested of extrinsic speculation, to be easily resoluble into the definition now proposed. We do nothing more than present tangibly the vague clouds of the world's idea. We recognise the idea itself floating, unsettled, in- definite, in every attempt which has yet been made to circumscribe the conception of " Poesy" in words. A striking instance of this is observable in the fact that no definition exists, in which either " the beautiful," or some one of those qualities which we have LONGFELLOW'S BALLADS. 367 above designated synonymously with " creation," has not been pointed out as the chief attribute of the Muse. " Invention/' however, or "imagination," is by far more commonly insisted upon. The word nomas itself (creation) speaks volumes upon this point. Neither will it be amiss here to mention Count Bielfeld's definition of poetry as " JWart cfexprimer les pensees par la fic- tion." With this definition (of which the philosophy is profound to a certain extent) the German terms Dichthunst, the art of fic- tion, and Dichten, to feign, which are used for "poetry" and " to make verses" are in full and remarkable accordance. It is, never- theless, in the combination of the two omni-prevalent ideas that the novelty, and, we believe, the force of our own proposition is to be found The elements of that beauty which is felt in sound, may be the mutual or common heritage of Earth and Heaven. Contenting ourselves with the firm conviction, that music (in its modifications of rhythm and rhyme) is of so vast a moment to Poesy, as never to be neglected by him who is truly poetical — is of so mighty a force in furthering the great aim intended, that he is mad who re- jects its assistance — content with this idea we shall not pause to maintain its absolute essentiality, for the mere sake of rounding a definition. That our definition of poetry will necessarily exclude much of what, through a supine toleration, has been hitherto ranked as poetical, is a matter which affords us not even mo- mentary concern. We address but the thoughtful, and heed only their approval — with our own. If our suggestions are truthful, then " after many days " shall they be understood as truth, even though found in contradiction of all that has been hitherto so un- derstood. If false, shall we not be the first to bid them die ? We would reject, of course, all such matters as " Armstrong on Health," a revolting production ; Pope's " Essay on Man," which may well be content with the title of an " Essay in Rhyme ;" " Hudibras " and other merely humorous pieces. We do not gainsay the peculiar merits of either of these latter compositions — but deny them the position held. In a notice of Brain- ard's Poems, we took occasion to show that the common use of a certain instrument, (rhythm,) had tended, more than aught else, to confound humorous verse with poetry. The 368 LONGFELLOW'S BALLADS. observation is now recalled to corroborate what we have just said in respect to the vast effect or force of melody in itself — an effect which could elevate into even momentary confusion with the highest efforts of mind, compositions such as are the greater number of satires or burlesques "We have shown our ground of objection to the general themes of Professor Longfellow. In common with all who claim the sa- cred title of poet, he should limit his endeavors to the creation of novel moods of beauty, in form, in color, in sound, in sentiment ; for over all this wide range has the poetry of words dominion. To what the world terms prose may be safely and properly left all else. The artist who doubts of his thesis, may always resolve his doubt by the single question — " might not this matter be as well or better handled in prose?" If it may, then is it no sub- ject for the Muse. In the general acceptation of the term Beauty we are content to rest ; being careful only to suggest that, in our peculiar views, it must be understood as inclusive of the sublime. Of the pieces which constitute the present volume, there are not more than one or two thoroughly fulfilling the ideas we have proposed ; although the volume, as a whole, is by no means so chargeable with didacticism as Mr. Longfellow's previous book. "We would mention as poems nearly true, " The Village Black- smith ;" " The Wreck of the Hesperus," and especially " The Skeleton in Armor." In the first-mentioned we have the beauty of simple-mindedness as a genuine thesis ; and this thesis is in- imitably handled until the concluding stanza, where the spirit of legitimate poesy is aggrieved in the pointed antithetical deduction of a moral from what has gone before. In " The Wreck of the Hesperus" we have the beauty of child-like confidence and inno- cence, with that of the father's stern courage and affection. But, with slight exception, those particulars of the storm here detailed are not poetic subjects. Their thrilling horror belongs to prose, in which it could be far more effectively discussed, as Professor Longfellow may assure himself at any moment by experiment. There are points of a tempest which afford the loftiest and truest poetical themes — points in which pure beauty is found, or, better still, beauty heightened into the sublime, by terror. But when we read, among other similar things, that LONGFELLOW'S BALLADS. 369 The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes, we feel, if not positive disgust, at least a chilling sense of the in- appropriate. In the " Skeleton in Armor " we find a pure and perfect thesis artistically treated. We find the beauty of bold courage and self-confidence, of love and maiden devotion, of reck- less adventure, and finally of life-contemning grief. Combined with all this, we have numerous points of beauty apparently in- sulated, but all aiding the main effect or impression. The heart is stirred, and the mind does not lament its mal-instruction. The metre is simple, sonorous, well-balanced, and fully adapted to the subject. Upon the whole, there are fewer truer poems than this. It has but one defect — an important one. The prose remarks prefacing the narrative are really necessary. But every work of art should contain within itself all that is requisite for its own comprehension. And this remark is especially true of the ballad. In poems of magnitude the mind of the reader is not, at all times, enabled to include, in one comprehensive survey, the proportions and proper adjustment of the whole. He is pleased, if at all, with particular passages ; and the sum of his pleasure is com- pounded of the sums of the pleasurable sentiments inspired by these individual passages in the progress of perusal. But, in pieces of less extent, the pleasure is unique, in the proper accep- tation of this term — the understanding is employed, without diffi- culty, in the contemplation of the picture as a whole ; and thus its effect will depend, in great measure, upon the perfection of its finish, upon the nice adaptation of its constituent parts, and es- pecially, upon what is rightly termed by Schlegel the unity or totality of interest. But the practice of prefixing explanatory pas- sages is utterly at variance with such unity. By the prefix, we are either put in possession of the subject of the poem, or some hint, historic fact, or suggestion, is thereby afforded, not included in the body of the piece, which, without the hint, is incomprehensi- ble. In the latter case, while perusing the poem, the reader must revert, in mind at least, to the prefix, for the necessary explana- tion. In the former, the poem being a mere paraphrase of the prefix, the interest is divided between the prefix and the para- phrase. In either instance the totality of effect is destroyed. 16* 370 LONGFELLOW'S BALLADS. Of the other original poems in the volume before us, there is none in which the aim of instruction, or truth, has not been too obviously substituted for the legitimate aim, beauty. We have heretofore taken occasion to say that a didactic moral might be happily made the under-current of a poeti- cal theme, and we have treated this point at length, in a review of Moore's " Alciphron ;" but the moral thus conveyed is invariably an ill effect when obtruding beyond the upper current of the thesis itself. Perhaps the worst specimen of this obtrusion is given us by our poet in " Blind Bartimeus " and the " Goblet of Life," where, it will be observed that the sole interest of the upper-current of meaning depends upon its relation or reference to the under. What we read upon the sur- face would be vox et preterea nihil in default of the moral be- neath. The Greek finales of " Blind Bartimeus" are an affecta- tion altogether inexcusable. What the small, second-hand, Gibbon-ish pedantry of Byron introduced, is unworthy the imita- tion of Longfellow. Of the translations we scarcely think it necessary to speak at all. We regret that our poet will persist in busying himself about such matters. His time might be better employed in ori- ginal conception. Most of these versions are marked with the error upon which we have commented. This error is in fact, essentially Germanic. " The Luck of Edenhall," however, is a truly beautiful poem ; and we say this with all that deference which the opinion of the " Democratic Review" demands. This composition appears to us one of the very finest. It has all the free, hearty, obvious movement of the true ballad-legend. The greatest force of language is combined in it with the richest ima- gination, acting in its most legitimate province. Upon the whole, we prefer it even to the "Sword-Song" of Korner. The pointed moral with which it terminates is so exceedingly natural — so per- fectly fluent from the incidents — that we have hardly heart to pronounce it in ill taste. We may observe of this ballad, in con- clusion, that its subject is more physical than is usual in Germany. Its images are rich rather in physical than in moral beauty. And this tendency, in Song, is the true one. It is chiefly, if we are not mistaken — it is chiefly amid forms of physical loveliness (we use LONGFELLOW'S BALLADS. 371 the word forms in its widest sense as embracing modifications of sound and color) that the soul seeks the realization of its dreams of Beauty. It is to her demand in this sense especially, that the poet, who is wise, will most frequently and most earnestly respond. " The Children of the Lord's Supper" is, be} r ond doubt, a true and most beautiful poem in great part, while, in some particulars, it is too metaphysical to have any pretension to the name. We have already objected, briefly, to its metre — the ordinary Latin or Greek Hexameter — dactyls and spondees at random, with a spondee in conclusion. We maintain that the hexameter can never be introduced into our language, from the nature of that language itself. This rhythm demands, for English ears, a preponderance of natural spondees. Our tongue has few. Not only does the Latin and Greek, with the Swedish, and some others, abound in them ; but the Greek and Roman ear had be- come reconciled (why or how is unknown) to the reception of arti- ficial spondees — that is to say, spondaic words formed partly of one word and partly of another, or from an excised part of one word. In short, the ancients were content to read as they scan- ned, or nearly so. It may be safely prophesied that we shall never do this ; and thus we shall' never admit English hexameters. The attempt to introduce them, after the repeated failures of Sir Philip Sidney, and others, is, perhaps, somewhat discreditable to the scholarship of Professor Longfellow. The " Democratic Re- view," in saying that he has triumphed over difficulties in this rhythm, has been deceived, it is evident, by the facility with which some of these verses may be read. In glancing over the poem, we do not observe a single verse which can be read, to English ears, as a Greek hexameter. There are many, however, which can be well read as mere English dactylic verses ; such, for example, as the well known lines of Byron, commencing Know ye the | land where the | cypress and | myrtle. These lines (although full of irregularities) are, in their perfec- tion, formed of three dactyls and a csesura — just as if we should cut short the initial verse of the Bucolics thus — Tityre | tu patu | lae recu | bans — The " myrtle," at the close of Byron's line, is a double rhyme, and must be understood as one syllable. 372 b LONGFELLOW'S BALLADS. Now a great number of Professor Longfellow's hexameters are merely these dactylic lines, continued for two feet. For ex- ample — Whispered the | race of the | flowers and j merry on | balancing j branches. In this example, also, " branches," which is a double ending, must be regarded as the caesura, or one syllable, of which alone it has the force. As we have already alluded, in one or two regards, to a notice of these poems which appeared in the " Democratic Review," we may as well here proceed with some few further comments upon the article in question — with whose general tenor we are happy to agree. The Review speaks of "Maidenhood" as a poem, "not to be understood but at the expense of more time and trouble than a song can justly claim." We are scarcely less surprised at this opfhion from Mr. Langtree than we were at the condemnation of " The Luck of Edenhall." " Maidenhood" is faulty, it appears to us, only on the score of its theme, which is somewhat didactic. Its meaning seems sim- plicity itself. A maiden on the verge of womanhood, hesitating to enjoy life (for which she has a strong appetite) through a false idea of duty, is bidden to fear nothing, having purity of heart as her lion of Una. What Mr. Langtree styles " an unfortunate peculiarity " in Mr. Longfellow, resulting from "adherence to a false system" has really been always regarded by us as one of his idiosyncratic merits. " In each poem," says the critic, " he has but one idea, which, in the progress of his song, is gradually unfolded, and at last reaches its full development in the concluding lines ; this sin- gleness of thought might lead a harsh critic to suspect intellectual barrenness." It leads us, individually, only to a full sense of the artistical power and knowledge of the poet. We confess that now, for the first time, we hear unity of conception objected to as a defect. But Mr. Langtree seems to have fallen into the singu- lar error of supposing the poet to have absolutely but one idea in each of his ballads. Yet how " one idea" can be " gradually un- folded" without other ideas, is, to us, a mystery of mysteries. Mr. Longfellow, very properly, has but one leading idea which LONGFELLOW'S BALLADS. 373 forms the basis of his poem ; but to the aid and development of this one there are innumerable others, of which the rare excel- lence is, that all are in keeping, that none could be well omitted, that each tends to the one general effect. It is unnecessary to say another word upon this topic. In speaking of " Excelsior," Mr. Langtree (are we wrong in at- tributing the notice to his very forcible pen ?) seems to labor under some similar misconception. " It carries along with it," says he, " a false moral which greatly diminishes its merit in our eyes. The great merit of a picture, whether made with the pencil or pen, is its truth ; and this merit does not belong to Mr. Longfel- low's sketch. Men of genius may, and probably do, meet with greater difficulties in their struggles with the world than their fellow-men who are less highly gifted ; but their power of over- coming obstacles is proportionably greater, and the result of their laborious suffering is not death but immortality." That the chief merit of a picture is its truth, is an assertion deplorably erroneous. Even in Painting, which is, more essentially than Poetry, a mimetic art, the proposition cannot be sustained. Truth is not even the aim. Indeed it is curious to observe how very slight a degree of truth is sufficient to satisfy the mind, which acquiesces in the absence of numerous essentials in the thing depicted. An outline frequently stirs the spirit more pleasantly than the most elaborate picture. We need only refer to the compositions of Flaxman and of Retzch. Here all details are omitted — nothing can be farther from truth. Without even color the most thrilling effects are produced. In statues we are rather pleased than disgusted with the want of the eyeball. The hair of the Venus de Medicis was gilded. Truth indeed ! The grapes of Zeuxis as well as the curtain of Parrhasius were received as indisputable evidence of the truthful ability of these artists — but they were not even classed among their pictures. If truth is the highest aim of either Painting or Poesy, then Jan Steen was a greater artist than Angelo, and Crabbe is a more noble poet than Milton. But we have not quoted the observations of Mr. Langtree to deny its philosophy ; our design was simply to show that he has misunderstood the poet. " Excelsior " has not even a remote 374 FANCY AND IMAGINATION. tendency to the interpretation assigned it by the critic. It depicts the earnest upward impulse of the soul — an impulse not to be subdued even in Death. Despising danger, resisting pleasure, the youth, bearing the banner inscribed "Excelsior /" (higher still !) struggles through all difficulties to an Alpine summit. Warned to be content with the elevation attained, his cry is still " Excelsior /" and, even in falling dead on the highest pinnacle, his cry is still " Excelsior /" There is yet an immortal height to be surmounted — an ascent in Eternity. The poet holds in view the idea of never-ending progress. That he is misunderstood is rather the misfortune of Mr. Langtree than the fault of Mr. Longfellow. There is an old adage about the difficulty of one's furnishing an auditor both with matter to be comprehended and brains for its comprehension. FANCY AND IMAGINATION. drake's culprit fay and moore's alciphron.* Amid the vague mythology of Egypt, the voluptuous scenery of her Nile, and the gigantic mysteries of her pyramids, Anacreon Moore has found all of that striking materiel which he so much delights in working up, and which he has embodied in the poem before us. The design of the story (for plot it has none) has been a less consideration than its facilities, and is made subservient to its execution. The subject is comprised in five epistles. In the first, Alciphron, the head of the Epicurean sect at Athens, writes, from Alexandria, to his friend Cleon, in the former city. He tells him (assigning a reason for quitting Athens and her pleasures) that, having fallen asleep one night after protracted festivity, he beholds, in a dream, a spectre, who tells him that, beside the sacred Nile, he, the Epicurean, shall find that Eternal Life for which he had so long been sighing. In the second, from the same to the same, the traveller speaks, at large and in the rapturous terms, of the scenery of Egypt ; of the beauty of her maidens ; of an ap- proaching Festival of the Moon ; and of a wild hope entertained that * Alciphron, a Poem. By Thomas Moore, Esq., author of Lalla Rookh, etc., etc. Carey and Hart, Philadelphia. FANCY AND IMAGINATION. 376 amid the subterranean chambers of some huge pyramid lies the se- cret which he covets, the secret of Life Eternal. In the third let- ter, he relates a love adventure at the Festival. Fascinated by the charms of one of the nymphs of a procession, he is first in des- pair at losing sight of her, then overjoyed at again seeing her in Necropolis, and finally traces her steps until they are lost near one of the smaller pyramids. In epistle the fourth, (still from the same to the same,) he enters and explores the pyramid, and, pas- sing through a complete series of Eleusinian mysteries, is at length successfully initiated into the secrets of Memphian priestcraft ; we learning this latter point from letter the fifth, which concludes the poem, and is addressed by Orcus, high priest of Memphis, to Decius, a prsetorian prefect. A new poem from Moore calls to mind that critical opinion res- pecting him which had its origin, we believe, in the dogmatism of Coleridge — we mean the opinion that he is essentially the poet of fancy — the term being employed in contradistinction to imagina- tion. " The Fancy," says the author of the " Ancient Mariner," in his Biographia Literaria, " the fancy combines, the imagina- tion creates." And this was intended, and has been received, as a distinction. If so at all, it is one without a difference ; without even a difference of degree. The fancy as nearly creates as the imagination ; and neither creates in any respect. All novel con- ceptions are merely unusual combinations. The mind of man can imagine nothing which has not really existed ; and this point is susceptible of the most positive demonstration — see the Baron de Bielfeld, in his Premiers Traits de L 1 Erudition Universelle, 1767. It will be said, perhaps, that we can imagine a griffin, and that a griffin does not exist. Not the griffin certainly, but its component parts. It is a mere compendium of known limbs and features — of known qualities. Thus with all which seems to be new — which appears to be a creation of intellect. It is re-soluble into the old. The wildest and most vigorous effort of mind cannot stand the test of this analysis. We might make a distinction, of degree, between the fancy and the imagination, in saying that the latter is the former loftily em- ployed. But experience proves this distinction to be unsatisfactory. What we feel and know to be fancy, will be found still only 376 FANCY AND IMAGINATION. fanciful, whatever be the theme which engages it. It retains its idosyncracy under all circumstances. No subject exalts it into the ideal. We might exemplify this by reference to the writings of one whom our patriotism, rather than our judgment, has elevated to a niche in the Poetic Temple which he does not becomingly fill, and which he cannot long uninterruptedly hold. We allude to the late Dr. Rodman Drake, whose puerile abortion, " The Culprit Fay," we examined, at some length, in a critique else- where ; proving it, we think, beyond all question, to belong to that class of the pseudo-ideal, in dealing with which we find our- selves embarrassed between a kind of half-consciousness that we ought to admire, and the certainty that we do not. Dr. Drake was employed upon a good subject — at least it is a subject pre- precisely identical with those which Shakspeare was wont so hap- pily to treat, and in which, especially, the author of " Lilian" has so wonderfully succeeded. But the American has brought to his task a mere fancy, and has grossly failed in doing what many suppose him to have done — in writing an ideal or imaginative poem. There is not one particle of the true *oui