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THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK CITY. —
NO. III.
SOME HONEST OPINIONS AT RANDOM RESPECTING THEIR
AUTORIAL
MERITS,
WITH OCCASIONAL WORDS OF PERSONALITY.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
[column 1:]
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 second in the series, but holding, in fact, a rank in the public
opinion quite equal to that of Bryant. The accuracy of the
arrangement
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
connection with "The North American Review." One or two poets now in my
minds [[mind's]] eye I should have no hesitation in posting above even
Mr. Longfellow — still not intending this as very extravagant praise.
It is noticeable, however,
that, in the
arrangement
which I attribute to the popular understanding, the order observed is
nearly,
if not exactly, that of the ages — the poetic ages — of the individual
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
impressions
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 productions have not been grossly overrated by his
countrymen. Hitherto 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 brainless, as at one
period
she half affected and wholly wished to believe. Is there any [column
2:] one so blind as not to see that Mr. Cooper, for example,
owes much, and Mr. Paulding nearly 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 of these gentlemen could have
written are written daily by native authors, without attracting much
more
of commendation than can be included in a newspaper paragraph? And,
again, is there any one so prejudiced as not to acknowledge that all
this
happens because 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
something, 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 & Co." were the joint
work of Halleck and his friend Drake. The political and personal
features of these jeux d'esprit gave them a consequence and a
notoriety
to which they are entitled on no other account. They are not
without
a species of drollery, but are loosely and no doubt carelessly written.
Neither was "Fanny," which
closely followed
the "Croakers," constructed with any great deliberation. "It was
printed," say the ordinary memoirs, "within three weeks from its
commencement;"
but the truth is, that a couple of days would have been an ample
allowance
of time for any such composition. If we except a certain
gentlemanly
ease and insouciance, with some fancy of illustration, there
is
really very little about this poem to be admired. There has been
no positive avowal of its authorship, although there can be no doubt of
its having been written by Halleck. He, I presume, does not
esteem
it very highly. It is a mere extravaganza, in close imitation of
"Don Juan" — a vehicle for squibs at cotemporary persons and things. [page
14:]
Our poet, indeed, seems to have been much impressed by
"Don Juan,"
and
attempts to engraft its farcicalities even upon the grace and delicacy
of "Alnwick Castle; " as, for example, in —
"Men in the coal and cattle
line,
From
Teviot's bard and
hero
land,
From royal
Berwick's
beach of
sand,
From Wooler,
Morpeth,
Hexham, and
Newcastle upon Tyne." |
These things may lay claim to oddity,
but no
more. They are totally out of keeping with the tone of the sweet poem
into
which
they are thus clumsily introduced, and serve no other purpose than to
deprive
it of all unity of effect. If a poet must be farcical,
let
him be just that; he can be nothing better at the same moment. To
be drolly sentimental, or even sentimentally droll, is intolerable to
men
and gods and columns.
"Alnwick Castle" is distinguished, in
general, by
that air of quiet grace, both in thought and expression, which is the
prevailing
feature of the muse of Halleck. Its second stanza is a good
specimen
of this manner. The commencement of the fourth belongs to a very high
order
of poetry.
"Wild roses by the Abbey
towers
Are gay in
their young
bud and
bloom —
They were born of a race of
funeral
flowers
That garlanded, in long-gone
hours,
A Templar's
knightly
tomb." |
This is gloriously imaginative, and
the effect is
singularly increased by the sudden transition from iambuses to
anapæsts. The passage is, I think, the noblest to be found in
Halleck, and I
would
be at a loss to discover its parallel in all American poetry.
"Marco Bozzaris" has much lyrical,
without any
great
amount of ideal beauty. Force is its prevailing feature
—
force resulting rather from well-ordered metre, vigorous rhythm, and a
judicious disposal of the circumstances of the poem, than from any of
the
truer lyric material. I should do my conscience great wrong were
I to speak of "Marco Bozzaris" as it is the fashion to speak of it, at
least in print. Even as a lyric or ode it is surpassed by many
American
and a multitude of foreign compositions of a similar character.
"Burns" has numerous passages
exemplifying its
author's
felicity of expression; as, for instance —
"Such graves as his are pilgrim
shrines
—
Shrines to
no code or
creed
confined —
The Delphian vales, the
Palestines,
The
Meccas of the
mind." |
And, again —
"There have been loftier themes
than
his,
And
longer scrolls
and louder
lyres,
And lays lit up with Poesy's
Purer and
holier
fires." |
But to the sentiment involved in this last
quatrain I feel
disposed
to yield an assent more thorough [column 2:] than
might
be expected. Burns, indeed, was the puppet of circumstance. As a poet,
no person on the face of the earth has been more
extravagantly,
more absurdly overrated.
"The Poet's Daughter" is one of the
most
characteristic
works of Halleck, abounding in his most distinctive traits, grace,
expression,
repose, insouciance. The vulgarity of
"I'm busy in the cotton
trade
And sugar
line," |
has, I rejoice to see, been omitted in the late
editions. The
eleventh stanza is certainly not English as it stands, and, besides, is
quite unintelligible. What is the meaning of this —
"But her who asks, though first
among
The good, the beautiful, the
young,
The birthright of a spell more
strong
Than these
have brought
her." |
The "Lines on the Death of Joseph
Rodman Drake"
is,
as a whole, one of the best poems of its author. Its simplicity
and
delicacy of sentiment will recommend it to all readers. It is,
however,
carelessly written, and the first quatrain,
"Green be the turf above
thee,
Friend of my
better days
—
None knew thee but to love
thee,
Nor named
thee but to
praise," |
although beautiful, bears too close a resemblance to the
still more
beautiful lines of Wordsworth —
"She dwelt among the untrodden
ways
Beside the
spring of
Dove,
A maid whom there were none to
praise
And very few
to love." |
In versification Mr. Halleck is much
as usual,
although
in this regard Mr. Bryant has paid him numerous compliments. "Marco
Bozzaris" has certainly some vigor of rhythm, but its author, in short,
writes carelessly, loosely, and, as a matter of course, seldom
effectively,
so far as the outworks of literature are concerned.
Of late days he has nearly given up
the muses,
and
we recognize his existence as a poet chiefly by occasional translations
from the Spanish or German.
Personally, he is a man to be
admired, respected,
but more especially beloved. His address has all the captivating bonhommie
which is the leading feature of his poetry, and,
indeed, of his
whole
moral nature. With his friends he is all ardor, enthusiasm and
cordiality,
but to the world at large he is reserved, shunning society, into which
he is seduced only with difficulty and upon rare occasions. The
love
of solitude seems to have become with him a passion.
He is a good modern linguist, and an
excellent belles
lettres scholar; in general, has read a great deal, although very
discursively. He is what the world calls ultra in most of his
opinions, more
particularly
about literature and politics, and is [page 15:]
fond
of broaching and supporting paradoxes. He converses fluently,
with
animation and zeal; is choice and accurate in his language, exceedingly
quick at repartee and apt at anecdote. His manners are courteous, with
dignity and a little tincture of Gallicism. His age is about
fifty.
In height he is probably five feet seven. He has been
stout,
but may now be called well-proportioned. His forehead is a noble
one, broad, massive and intellectual, a little bald about the temples;
eyes dark and brilliant, but not large; nose Grecian; chin prominent;
mouth
finely chiselled and full of expression, although the lips are thin; —
his smile is peculiarly sweet.
In "Graham's Magazine" for September,
1843, there
appeared an engraving of Mr. Halleck from a painting by Inman. The
likeness conveys a good general idea of the man, but is far too stout
and
youthful-looking for his appearance at present.
His usual pursuits have been
commercial, but he
is
now the principal superintendent of the business of Mr. John Jacob
Astor. He is unmarried.
——
ANN S.
STEPHENS.
Mrs. Stephens has made no
collection of
her
works, but has written much for the magazines, and well. Her
compositions
have been brief tales with occasional poems. She made her first
"sensation"
in obtaining a premium of four hundred dollars, offered for "the best
prose
story" by some one of our journals, her "Mary Derwent" proving the
successful
article. The amount of the prize, however — a much
larger
one than it has been the custom to offer — had more to do with the éclât
of
the success than had the positive merit of the tale, although this is
very
consider able. She has subsequently written several better things
— "Malina Gray," for example, "Alice Copley," and "The Two Dukes."
These
are on serious subjects. In comic ones she has comparatively
failed.
She is fond of the bold, striking, trenchant — in a word, of the
melo-dramatic;
has a quick appreciation of the picturesque, and is not unskillful in
delineations
of character. She seizes adroitly on salient incidents and
presents
them with vividness to the eye, but in their combinations or
adaptations
she is by no means so thoroughly at home — that is to say, her plots
are
not so good as are their individual items. Her style is what the
critics usually term "powerful," but lacks real power through its
verboseness
and floridity. It is, in fact, generally turgid — even bombastic —
involved,
needlessly parenthetical, and superabundant in epithets, although these
latter are frequently well chosen. Her sentences are, also, for
the
most part too long; we forget their commencements ere we get at their
terminations.
Her faults, nevertheless, both in matter and manner, belong to the
effervescence
of high talent, if not exactly of genius.
Of Mrs. Stephens' poetry I have seen
so very [column
2:] little that I feel myself scarcely in condition to speak
of it.
She began her literary life, I
believe, by
editing
"The Portland Magazine," and has since been announced as editress of
"The
Ladies' Companion," a monthly journal published some years ago in New
York,
and also, at a later period, of "Graham's Magazine," and subsequently,
again, of "Peterson's National Magazine." These announcements were
announcements
and no more; the lady had nothing to do with the editorial control of
either
of the three last-named works.
The portrait of Mrs. Stephens which
appeared in
"Graham's
Magazine" for November, 1844, cannot fairly be considered a likeness at
all. She is tall and slightly inclined to embonpoint — an
English figure. Her forehead is somewhat low, but broad; the features
generally
massive, but full of life and intellectuality. The eyes are blue
and brilliant; the hair blonde and very luxuriant.
——
EVERT A.
DUYCKINCK.
Mr. Duyckinck is one of the
most
influential
of the New York littérateurs, and has done a great deal
for
the interests of American letters. Not the least important
service
rendered by him was the projection and editorship of Wiley and Putnam's
"Library of Choice Reading," a series which brought to public notice
many
valuable foreign works which had been suffering under neglect in this
country,
and at the same time afforded unwonted encouragement to native authors
by publishing their books, in good style and in good company, without
trouble
or risk to the authors themselves, and in the very teeth of the
disadvantages
arising from the want of an international copyright law. At one
period
it seemed that this happy scheme was to be overwhelmed by the
competition
of rival publishers — taken, in fact, quite out of the hands of those
who,
by "right of discovery," were entitled at least to its first
fruits. A great variety of "Libraries" in imitation were set on foot,
but
whatever
may have been the temporary success of any of these latter, the
original
one had already too well established itself in the public favor to be
overthrown,
and thus has not been prevented from proving of great benefit to our
literature
at large.
Mr. Duyckinck has slyly acquired much
fame and
numerous
admirers under the nom de plume of "Felix Merry." The various
essays
thus signed have attracted attention everywhere from the
judicious. The style is remarkable for its very unusual blending of
purity and
ease
with a seemingly inconsistent originality, force and independence.
"Felix Merry," in connection with Mr.
Cornelius
Mathews,
was one of the editors and originators of "Arcturus," decidedly the
very
best magazine in many respects ever published in the United
States. A large number of its most interesting [page 16:]
papers
were the work of Mr. D. The magazine was, upon the whole, a
little too
good to enjoy extensive popularity — although I am here using an
equivocal
phrase, for a better journal might have been far more
acceptable
to the public. I must be understood, then, as employing the
epithet
"good" in the sense of the literary quietists. The general taste of
"Arcturus"
was, I think, excessively tasteful; but this character applies
rather
more to its external or mechanical appearance than to its essential
qualities.
Unhappily, magazines and other similar publications are in the
beginning
judged chiefly by externals. People saw "Arcturus" looking very
much like other works which had failed through notorious dullness,
although
admitted as arbitri elegantiarum in all points of what is
termed
taste or decorum; and they, the people, had no patience to examine any
farther. Cæsar's wife was required not only to be virtuous
but to seem so, and in letters it is demanded not only that we be not
stupid
but that we do not array ourselves in the habiliments of stupidity.
It cannot be said of "Arcturus"
exactly that it
wanted force. It was deficient in power of impression, and this
deficiency is to be
attributed
mainly to the exceeding brevity of its articles — a brevity that
degenerated
into mere paragraphism, precluding dissertation or argument, and thus
all
permanent effect. The magazine, in fact, had some of the worst or
most inconvenient features without any of the compensating advantages
of
a weekly literary newspaper. The mannerism to which I refer
seemed
to have its source in undue admiration and consequent imitation of "The
Spectator."
In addition to his more obvious
literary
engagements,
Mr. Duyckinck writes a great deal, editorially and otherwise, for "The
Democratic Review," "The Morning News," and other periodicals.
In character he is remarkable,
distinguished for
the bonhommie of his manner, his simplicity, and
single-mindedness,
his active beneficence, his hatred of wrong done even to any enemy, and
especially for an almost Quixotic fidelity to his friends. He
seems
in perpetual good humor with all things, and I have no doubt that in
his
secret heart he is an optimist.
In person he is equally simple as in
character —
the one is a pendant of the other. He is about five feet
eight
inches high, somewhat slender. The forehead, phrenologically, is a good
one; eyes and hair light; the whole expression of the face that of
serenity
and benevolence, contributing to give an idea of youthfulness. He
is probably thirty, but does not seem to be twenty-five. His
dress,
also, is in full keeping with his character, scrupulously neat but
plain,
and conveying an instantaneous conviction of the gentleman. He is
a descendant of one of the oldest and best Dutch families in the
state.
Married. [column 2:]
——
MARY GOVE.
Mrs. Mary Gove, under the
pseudonym of
"Mary
Orme," has written many excellent papers for the magazines. Her
subjects
are usually tinctured with the mysticism of the transcendentalists, but
are
truly imaginative. Her style is quite remarkable for its luminousness
and
precision — two qualities very rare with her sex. An article
entitled
"The Gift of Prophecy," published originally in "The Broadway Journal,"
is a fine specimen of her manner.
Mrs. Gove, however, has acquired less
notoriety
by
her literary compositions than by her lectures on physiology to classes
of females. These lectures are said to have been instructive and
useful; they certainly elicited much attention. Mrs. G. has
also given public discourses on Mesmerism, I believe, and other similar
themes — matters which put to the severest test the credulity or, more
properly, the faith of mankind. She is, I think, a Mesmerist, a
Swedenborgian,
a phrenologist, a homœopathist, and a disciple of Priessnitz — what
more
I am not prepared to say.
She is rather below the medium
height, somewhat
thin,
with dark hair and keen, intelligent black eyes. She converses
well
and with enthusiasm. In many respects a very interesting woman.
——
JAMES
ALDRICH.
Mr. Aldrich has written much
for the
magazines,
etc., and at one time assisted Mr. Park Benjamin in the conduct of "The
New World." He also originated, I believe, and edited a not very
long-lived
or successful weekly paper, called "The Literary Gazette," an imitation
in its external appearance of the London journal of the same
name.
I am not aware that he has made any collection of his writings.
His
poems abound in the true poetic spirit, but they are frequently
chargeable
with plagiarism, or something much like it. True, I have seen but
three of Mr. Aldrich's compositions in verse — the three (or perhaps
there
are four of them) included by Doctor Griswold in his "Poets and Poetry
of America." Of these three, (or four,) however, there are two which I
cannot help regarding as palpable plagiarisms. Of one of them, in
especial, "A Death-Bed," it is impossible to say a plausible
word
in defence. Both in matter and manner it is nearly identical with
a little piece entitled "The Death-Bed," by Thomas Hood.
The charge of plagiarism,
nevertheless, is a
purely
literary one; and a plagiarism even distinctly proved by no means
necessarily
involves any moral delinquency. This proposition applies very
especially
to what appear to be poetical thefts. The poetic
sentiment
presupposes a keen appreciation of the beautiful with a longing for its
assimilation into the poetic identity. What the poet intensely admires
becomes, thus, in very fact, [page 17:] although
only
partially, a portion of his own soul. Within this soul it has a
secondary
origination; and the poet, thus possessed by another's thought,
cannot be said to take of it possession. But in either view he
thoroughly
feels it as his own; and the tendency to this feeling is
counteracted
only by the sensible presence of the true, palpable origin of the
thought
in the volume whence he has derived it — an origin which, in the long
lapse
of years, it is impossible not to forget, should the thought
itself,
as it often is, be forgotten. But the frailest association will
regenerate
it; it springs up with all the vigor of a new birth; its absolute
originality
is not with the poet a matter even of suspicion; and when he has
written
it and printed it, and on its account is charged with plagiarism, there
will be no one more entirely astounded than himself. Now, from
what
I have said, it appears that the liability to accidents of this
character
is in the direct ratio of the poetic sentiment, of the susceptibility
to
the poetic 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.
Since penning the above I have found
five
quatrains
by Mr. Aldrich, with the heading "Molly Gray." These verses are in the
fullest exemplification of what I have just said of their author,
evincing
at once, in the most remarkable manner, both his merit as an
imaginative
poet and his unconquerable proneness to imitation. I quote the
two
concluding quatrains.
"Pretty, fairy Molly Gray !
What may thy
fit emblems
be
?
Stream or star or bird or
flower —
They are all
too poor
for thee.
"No type to match thy beauty
My wandering
fancy
brings —
Not fairer than its chrysalis
Thy soul
with its
golden
wings !" |
Here the "Pretty, fairy Molly Gray !" will put every
reader in mind
of Tennyson's "Airy, fairy Lillian!" by which Mr. Aldrich's whole poem
has been clearly suggested; but the thought in the finale is,
as
far as I know anything about it, original, and is not more happy than
happily
expressed.
Mr. Aldrich is about thirty-six years
of
age.
In regard to his person there is nothing to be especially noted.
——
THOMAS DUNN
ENGLISH.
I have seen one or two brief poems of
considerable
merit with the signature of Thomas Dunn English appended.
For example —
"AZTHENE.
"A sound melodious shook the
breeze
When thy
beloved name
was heard: [column
2:]
Such was the
music in
the word
Its dainty
rhythm the
pulses
stirred.
But passed forever joys like
these.
There is no
joy, no
light, no
day;
But black
despair and
night
alway,
And
thickening gloom:
And this, Azthene, is my
doom.
"Was it for this, for weary
years,
I strove
among the sons
of men,
And by the
magic of my
pen —
Just sorcery
— walked
the lion's
den
Of slander void of tears and
fears —
And all for
thee
?
For thee ! — alas,
As is the
image on a
glass
So baseless
seems,
Azthene, all my earthly dreams." |
I must confess, however, that I do
not appreciate
the "dainty rhythm" of such a word as "Azthene," and, perhaps, there is
a little taint of egotism in the passage about "the magic" of Mr.
English's
pen. Let us be charitable, however, and set all this down under
the
head of "pure imagination" or invention — one of the first of poetical
requisites. The inexcusable sin of Mr. E. is
imitation
— if this be not too mild a term. Barry Cornwall and others of
the bizarre school are his especial favorites. He has taken,
too,
most
unwarrantable
liberties, in the way of downright plagiarism, from a Philadelphian
poet
whose high merits have not been properly appreciated — Mr. Henry B.
Hirst.
I place Mr. English, however, on my
list of New
York literati, not on account of his poetry, (which I presume
he is
not weak
enough
to estimate very highly,) but on the score of his having edited for
several
months, "with the aid of numerous collaborators," a monthly magazine
called
"The Aristidean." This work, although professedly a "monthly," was
issued
at irregular intervals, and was unfortunate, I fear, in not attaining
at
any period a very extensive circulation.
I learn that Mr. E. is not
without talent;
but the fate of "The Aristidean" should indicate to him the necessity
of
applying himself to study. No spectacle can be more pitiable than
that of a man without the commonest school education busying himself in
attempts to instruct mankind on topics of polite literature. The
absurdity
in such cases does not lie merely in the ignorance displayed by the
would-be
instructor, but in the transparency of the shifts by which he
endeavours
to keep this ignorance concealed. The editor of "The Aristidean,"
for example, was not laughed at so much on account of writing "lay" for
"lie," etc. etc., and coupling nouns in the plural with verbs in the
singular
— as where he writes, above,
"——
so
baseless seems,
Azthene, all my earthly dreams
— " |
he was not, I say, laughed at so much for his
excusable
deficiencies
in English grammar (although an editor should certainly be able to
write his
own name) as that, in the hope of disguising such deficiency, he
was
perpetually lamenting the "typographical [page 18:]
blunders" that "in the most unaccountable manner[["]] would creep
into his work. Nobody was so stupid as to suppose for a moment
that
there existed in New York a single proof-reader — or even a single
printer's
devil — who would have permitted such errors to escape. By
the excuses offered, therefore, the errors were only the more obviously
nailed to the counter as Mr. English's own.
I make these remarks in no spirit of
unkindness. Mr. E. is yet young — certainly not more than thirty-five —
and might,
with his talents, readily improve himself at points where he is most
defective.
No one of any generosity would think the worse of him for getting
private
instruction.
I do not personally know Mr.
English. He
is,
I believe, from Philadelphia, where he was formerly a doctor of
medicine,
and subsequently took up the profession of law; more latterly he joined
the Tyler party and devoted his attention to politics. About his
personal appearance there is nothing very observable. I cannot
say
whether he is married or not.
——
HENRY CARY.
Doctor Griswold introduces Mr.
Cary to
the
appendix of "The Poet and Poetry," as Mr. Henry Carey, and gives
him credit for an Anacreontic song of much merit entitled, or
commencing,
"Old Wine to Drink." This was not written by Mr. C. He
has
composed little verse, if any, but, under the nom de plume of
"John
Waters," has acquired some note by a series of prose essays in "The New
York American" and "The Knickerbocker." These essays have merit,
unquestionably,
but some person, in an article furnished "The Broadway Journal," before
my assumption of its editorship, has gone to the extreme of toadyism in
their praise. This critic (possibly Mr. Briggs) thinks that John
Waters "is in some sort a Sam Rogers" — "resembles Lamb in
fastidiousness
of taste" — "has a finer artistic taste than the author of the "Sketch
Book' " — that his "sentences are the most perfect in the language —
too
perfect to be peculiar" — that "it would be a vain task to hunt through
them all for a superfluous conjunction," and that "we need them (the
works
of John Waters!) as models of style in these days of rhodomontades and Macaulayisms
!"
The truth seems to be that Mr. Cary
is a
vivacious,
fanciful, entertaining essayist — a fifth or sixth rate one — with a
style
that, as times go — in view of such stylists as Mr. Briggs, for example
— may be termed respectable, and no more. What the critic of the
B. J. wishes us to understand by a style that is "too perfect," "the
most
perfect," etc., it is scarcely worth while to inquire, since it is
generally
supposed that "perfect" admits of no degrees of comparison; but if Mr.
Briggs (or whoever it is) finds it "a vain task to hunt" through [column
2:] all Mr. John Waters' works "for a superfluous
conjunction,"
there are few schoolboys who would not prove more successful hunters
than
Mr. Briggs.
"It was well filled," says the
essayist, on the
very
page containing these encomiums, "and yet the number of
performers,"
etc. "We paid our visit to the incomparable ruins of the castle, and
then proceeded to retrace our steps, and, examining our wheels at every
post-house, reached," etc. "After consultation with a mechanic at
Heidelberg, and finding that," etc. The last sentence
should
read, "Finding, after consultation," etc. — the "and" would thus
be avoided. Those in the two sentences first quoted are obviously
pleonastic. Mr. Cary, in fact, abounds very especially in
superfluities — (as here, for example, "He seated himself at a piano that
was near the front of the stage") — and, to speak the truth, is
continually
guilty of all kinds of grammatical improprieties. I repeat that, in
this
respect, he is decent, and no more.
Mr. Cary is what Doctor Griswold
calls a
"gentleman
of elegant leisure." He is wealthy and much addicted to letters and virtû.
For a long time he was President of the Phœnix Bank of New York, and
the
principal part of his life has been devoted to business. There is
nothing remarkable about his personal appearance.
——
CHRISTOPHER
PEASE CRANCH.
The Reverend C. P. Cranch is
one of the
least
intolerable of the school of Boston transcendentalists — and, in fact,
I believe that he has at last "come out from among them," abandoned
their
doctrines (whatever they are) and given up their company in
disgust. He was at one time one of the most noted, and undoubtedly one
of the
least
absurd contributors to "The Dial," but has reformed his habits of
thought
and speech, domiciliated himself in New York, and set up the easel of
an
artist in one of the Gothic chambers of the University.
About two years ago a volume of
"Poems by
Christopher
Pease Cranch" was published by Carey & Hart. It was
most
unmercifully treated by the critics, and much injustice, in my opinion,
was done to the poet. He seems to me to possess unusual vivacity
of fancy and dexterity of expression, while his versification is
remarkable
for its accuracy, vigor, and even for its originality of effect. I
might say, perhaps, rather more than all this, and maintain that he
has
imagination if he would only condescend to employ it, which he will
not,
or would not until lately — the word-compounders and quibble
concoctors
of Frogpondium [[Boston]] having inoculated him with preference for
Imagination's
half sister, the Cinderella, Fancy. Mr. Cranch has seldom
contented
himself with harmonious combinations of thought. There must
always
be, to afford him perfect satisfaction, a certain amount of the odd, of
the whimsical, of the affected, [page 19:] of the bizarre.
He
is as full of absurd conceits as Cowley or Donne, with this difference,
that the conceits of these latter are Euphuisms beyond redemption —
flat,
irremediable, self-contented nonsensicalities, and in so much are good
of their kind; but the conceits of Mr. Cranch are, for the most part,
conceits
intentionally manufactured, for conceit's sake, out of the material for
properly imaginative, harmonious, proportionate, or poetical
ideas. We see every moment that he has been at uncommon pains
to make
a
fool of himself.
But perhaps I am wrong in supposing
that I am at
all in condition to decide on the merits of Mr. C.'s poetry, which is
professedly
addressed to the few. "Him we will seek," says the poet —
"Him we will seek, and none but
him,
Whose inward sense hath not
grown dim;
Whose soul is steeped in
Nature's
tinct,
And to the Universal
linked;
Who loves the beauteous
Infinite
With deep and ever new
delight,
And carrieth where'er he
goes
The inborn sweetness of the
rose,
The perfume as of Paradise
—
The talisman above all price
—
The optic glass that wins from
far
The meaning of the utmost star
—
The key that opes the golden
doors
Where earth and heaven have
piled their
stores
—
The magic ring, the enchanter's
wand —
The title-deed to Wonder-Land
—
The wisdom that o'erlooketh
sense,
The clairvoyance of Innocence." |
This is all very well, fanciful,
pretty and
neatly
turned — all with the exception of the two last lines, and it is a pity
they were not left out. It is laughable to see that the
transcendental
poets, if beguiled for a minute or two into respectable English and
common
sense, are always sure to remember their cue just as they get to the
end
of their song, which, by way of salvo, they then round off
with
a bit of doggerel about "wisdom that o'erlooketh sense" and "the
clairvoyance
of Innocence." It is especially observable that, in adopting the cant
of
thought, the cant of phraseology is adopted at the same instant. Can
Mr. Cranch, or can anybody else, inform me why it is that, in the
really
sensible opening passages of what I have here quoted, he employs the
modern,
and only in the final couplet of goosetherumfoodle makes use of the
obsolete
terminations of verbs in the third person singular, present tense?
One of the best of Mr. Cranch's
compositions is
undoubtedly
his poem on Niagara. It has some natural thoughts, and
grand
ones, suiting the subject; but then they are more than half-divested of
their nature by the attempt at adorning them with [column 2:]oddity
of expression. Quaintness is an
admissible and
important
adjunct to ideality — an adjunct whose value has been long
misapprehended
— but in picturing the sublime it is altogether out of place.
What
idea of power, of grandeur, for example, can any human being connect
even
with Niagara, when Niagara is described in language so trippingly
fantastical,
so palpably adapted to a purpose, as that which follows ?
"I stood upon
a speck of
ground;
Before
me fell a stormy ocean.
I was like a
captive
bound;
And around
A universe of sound
Troubled the heavens with
ever-quivering
motion.
"Down, down
forever — down,
down forever
—
Something
falling, falling, falling;
Up, up
forever — up, up,
forever,
Resting never,
Boiling up forever,
Steam-clouds shot up with
thunder-bursts
appalling." |
It is difficult to conceive anything
more
ludicrously
out of keeping than the thoughts of these stanzas and the petit-maître,
fidgety,
hop-skip-and-jump air of the words and the Liliputian parts of the
versification.
A somewhat similar metre is adopted
by Mr.
C. in his "Lines on Hearing Triumphant Music," but as the subject is
essentially
different, so the effect is by no means so displeasing. I copy
one
of the stanzas as the noblest individual passage which I can find among
all the poems of its author.
"That
glorious
strain
!
Oh, from my
brain
I see the shadows flitting
like scared
ghosts.
A 1ight —
a light
Shines in
to-night
Round the good angels trooping to
their posts,
And the
black cloud
is rent
in twain
Before
the ascending
strain." |
Mr. Cranch is well educated, and
quite
accomplished.
Like Mr. Osborn, he is musician, painter and poet, being in each
capacity
very respectably successful.
He is about thirty-three or four
years of age; in
height, perhaps five feet eleven; athletic; front face not unhandsome —
the forehead evincing intellect, and the smile pleasant; but the
profile is marred by the turning up of the nose, and, altogether is
hard
and disagreeable. His eyes and hair are dark brown — the latter
worn
short, slightly inclined to curl. Thick whiskers meeting under the
chin,
and much out of keeping with the shirt-collar à la Byron. Dresses
with marked plainness. He is married. |
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