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[page 56, continued:]
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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 [page 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 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
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 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 [page
58:] 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.
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 — [page 59:]
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. |
[page 60:]
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 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
springs of
Dove,
A maid whom there were none to
praises
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. [page 61:]
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 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. [page 62:]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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
considerable.
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 unskilful 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
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." [page 63:]
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 [page
64:]
of purity and ease with a seemingly inconsistent originality, force and
independence.
"Felix Merry," in connexion 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 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 [page 65:] 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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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. [page
66:]
[[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]]
JAMES ALDRICH.
MR. ALDRICH
has written much for the magazines, &c., 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, 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 [page
67:] 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. [page
68:]
[[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]]
HENRY CARY.
DOCTOR GRISWOLD
introduces MR. CARY to
the appendix
of "The Poet[[s]] 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 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, examine our wheels at every
post-house,
reached," etc. "After consultation with a [page 69:]
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 [page 70:] combinations of
thought. There must always be, to afford him perfect
satisfaction,
a certain amount of the odd, of the whimsical, of the affected, 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 [page 71:] 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 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. [page 72:]
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 shirtcollar à la Byron. Dresses with
marked
plainness. He is married. |
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