|
[page 145:]
|
|
|
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 Literature 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 enterprising
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 élite 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 commendation. 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 universal 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 [page 146:]
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 Damascus," to a large
assembly
of admiring and applauding friends, gathered together for the
occasion
in one of the halls of the University 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. Griswold'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 degraded 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 immature as our own. We rhapsodize rather
than discriminate; delighting more in the dictation or discussion of a
principle, than in its particular and methodical application. The
wildest
and most [page 147:] erratic effusion of the Muse,
not utterly worthless, will be found more or less indebted to method
for whatever of value it embodies; and we shall discover, conversely,
that,
in any analysis of even this wildest effusion, we labor without method
only to labor without end. There is little reason for that vagueness of
comment which, of late, we so pertinaciously affect, and which has been
brought into fashion, no doubt, through the proverbial facility and
security
of merely general remark. In regard to the leading 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 immutable. 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 systematic 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 [page 148:]
species of exaggeration, and confine ourselves, with perfect honesty,
to
the conveyance of a distinct image.
"Geraldine," then, opens with some four or five stanzas
descriptive
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 their 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 stanza redeem it from much
exception
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 [page 149:] address or invocation to
"Peerless
America," including apostrophes 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 Geraldine is the name of the maiden, and are
informed, with comparatively
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 Schelling, 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
cacoëthes,
in which an evident misunderstanding of the quantity of cacoëthes
brings, again, into very disagreeable suspicion the writer's cognizance
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 beyond 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 conversant.
At page 39, there is some prospect of a progress in
the
story. [page
150:] 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 questionable
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 motives, deduced from the text "whatever is must
be," and illuminated by a long note at the end of the poem, wherein the
systime (quere systéme?) 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
essence 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,
independently
of revelation, I would suggest (thank you, sir,) such inquiries as the
following:
"Whether the first Philosophy,
considered in relation
to Physics, was first in time?
"How far our moral perceptions have
been influenced
by natural phenomena?
"How far our metaphysical notions of
cause and effect
are [page 151:] attributable to the transference
of
notions connected with logical language?"
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
neglected
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 difficulty. 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 gentleman in her
power.
We are now introduced to a fête
champêtre
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, however, that the
romantic
Geraldine, who should have known better, and who loves Waldron, loves
also
the young knight of the shears. The consequence is a rencontre of the
rival
suitors at the fête champêtre; 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
composition.
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. [page 152:]
. . .
.
. . .
.
.
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, (where is not specified,
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 himself 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 benefit 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 vessel, Waldron escapes — in a boat from the other,
the lady Geraldine. 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 appear, a thorough perusal will convince the reader that the entire
[page 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
"miniatured"
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 follies
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 bedizzened
with a tinselly meaning well adapted to the eyes of the rabble. There
is
not a page of anything that he has written which will bear, for an
instant,
the scrutiny of a critical eye. Exceedingly 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
"Geraldine"
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. [page 154:]
|
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 bounding and dancing, and
playing with a parcel of urchins, called voluptuous 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 worshiped 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 anything like intelligible prose. So much of heaven
lingered in the lady's eyes that the wayward heart forgot its blissful
sin, and worshiped every thing which religion forbids, beneath the
silken
fringes of the lady's eyelids. This we cannot be compelled 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 [page 155:]
stream. If this is downright nonsense we cannot be held responsible 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 specimen 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, hurling 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 understandings, 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 decision 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! [page
156:]
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 intimate [page
157:] 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 amiability of his character as a man. How efficient such causes
have before been in producing such effects, is a point but too
thoroughly
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
demonstrates
a truth, to offer reason or apology for the demonstration. |
|
|
|
|
|