Text: Edgar Allan Poe (?), Literary, Broadway Journal (New York), August 2, 1845, vol. 2, no. 4, pp. 60-63

[page 60, column 2, continued:]

Editorial Miscellany.

——

Few American writers have been received with more favor than Mr. Mathews in England. The notices his writings have called forth have been remarkable (we remember particularly one by Douglas Jerrold, whose sympathy is an honor to any man,) for a spirit of generous appreciation of his good qualities, and the interest and faith shown in the development of the man. A critic in Tail's Magazine thus speaks of the volume of Poems on Man.

This is a slight book in its exterior form, and the frame-work of the intention of it is slighter still. The American writer, Mr. Cornelius Mathews, is the secretary of the Author's Copy-right Protection Club in New York; and is known in his own country by the “Motley Book[[,]]” “Puffer Hopkins,” and other humorous prose works of the like order, indicating a quick eye and a ready philosophy in the mind that waits on it; generous sympathies towards humanity in the mass; and a very distinct and characteristic nationality. He has written also a [page 61:] powerful fiction called “Behemoth.” The small volume before us consists of poems: and both for their qualities and defects, they are to be accounted worthy of some respectful attention. To render clearer the thought which is in us, we pass to general considerations. The contrast between the idea of what American poetry should be, and what it is, is as plain as the Mississippi on the map. The fact of the contrast faces us. With abundant flow and facility, the great body of American verse has little distinct character of any kind, and still less national character. There is little in it akin to the mountains and rivers, the prairies and cataracts among which it arises. This sound from the forest is not of them. It is as if a German bullfinch, escaped from the teacher's finger into the depth of the pines, sate singing his fragment of Mozart in learned modulation, upon a rocking, snowy branch. And we find ourselves wondering how, in the great country of America, where the glory of liberty is so well comprehended, and where nature rollsout her waters and lifts her hills, as in attestation of a principle worthy of her beauty, — the poetry alone should persist in being lifeless, flat, and im, itative, as the verse of a court-rhymer when he rests from the bow of office among the fens of Essex. It is easier to set this down as a fact (and the American critics themselves set it down as a fact), than to define the causes of it. And the fact of the defective nationality of the literature of a young country, suggests the analogy of another fact — the defective individuality attributable to a young person: and the likeness may be closer than the mere analogy expresses. Nationality is individuality under the social and local aspect; and the nationality of a country's literature is the individuality of the writers of it in the aggregate. It is curious to observe, that the ‘ wild oats’ sown in literature by the youthful author as by the youthful nation, are, generally speaking, as barely tame as any stubble of the fields. Perhaps there is a bustling practicalness in both cases, which hinders that inner process of development necessary to the ulterior expression. Perhaps the mind, whether of the nation or of the man, must stand, before the cream rises. However this may be, we have given utterance to no novel form of opinion on the subject of American poetry in the mass. And let no one mistake that opinion. We do not forget — how should we? — such noble names as Longfellow's may nobly lead, as Whittier's may add honor to; we believe in the beautiful prophecy of beauty contained in the poems of Lowell. But in speaking of these poets, we do not speak of poetry in the gross; and in speaking of some of these, the English critic feels, unawares, that he would fain clasp the hand of an American poet, with stronger muscles in it, and less softened by the bath. Under which impression we are all the readier, let our readers understand, to meet the hand of Mr. Mathews, while it presents to us the slender volume called ‘ Poems on Man, in his various aspects under the American republic.

“The volume is ‘dedicated to the hopeful friends of humanity, by their servant, the author.’ It consists of short poems in various metres, and with no connecting link associated in the reader's mind,-descriptive, as the title indicates, of the different ages and conditions of men in the republic; and remarkable, as we have hinted, for their very defects. For the poems are defective precisely in that with which the verse-literature of the country overflows, — we mean grace and facility. They are not graceful, but they are strong. They give no proof of remarkable facility in composition; and we are tempted sometimes to think of the writer, that he is versed better in sympathy and aspirations, thanin rhythms and rhymes. His verses are occasionally incorrect, and are frequently ragged and hard. His ear is not ‘tuned to fine uses,’ and his hand refuses to flatter unduly the ear of his audience. But he writes not only ‘like a man,’ but like a republican and American. Under this rough bark is a heart of oak; and peradventure a noble vessel, if not a Dodonean oracle, may presently be had out of it. The wood has a good grain, the timber is of large size; and if gnarled and knotted, these are the conditions of strength, and perhaps the conclusions of growth; it is thus that strong trees grow, while slim grasses spring smoothly from the ground. And the thoughtful student of the literature of America will pause naturally and musingly, at the sight of this little book, and mark it as something ‘new and strange,’ considering the circumstances of the soil.

After quoting from the poems of the Child, the Citizen, the Merchant, and the Reformer, the Magazine concludes:

However the reader may be inclined to be critical (and perhaps he will be more inclined than the critic), upon these extracts, — however he may be struck by the involutions and obscurities which to some extent disfigure them, — he will be free to admit that the reverence [column 2:] for truth, the exultation in right, the good hope in human nature, which are the characteristics of this little book, and that the images of beauty which mingle with the expression of its lofyt [[lofty]] sentiment, — are not calculated, when taken together, to disturb the vision and prophecy of such among us as are looking at this hour towards America, as the future land of freemen in all senses, and of poets in the highest of all.

——

THE BRITISH CRITIC thus comments on the advertising advantages afforded by the various London Daily papers:

The Morning Chronicle has this advantage as an advertising medium, that it is the single organ of a great party, and therefore is read not only by that party but by the other parties, curious always to learn what are the designs and doings of their opponents. The Chronicle is not nearly so crowded with advertisements as is the Times, and therefore those that appear there are more certain to be seen; while it possesses this important further recommendation, that it publishes no supplements wherein to hide the larger portion of its advertisements from human eye. The conclusion to which we have arrived, therefore, from a review of the circumstances, is, that all those classes of advertisements which may be termed general, or addressed to the world at large, as distinguished from those addressed to particular persons — in other words, for announcements intended to catch the eye, the Chronicle is a better medium than the Times; the latter deserves the preference for such as persons are likely to seek; and for this reason, that nobody would find an advertisement in the Times by accident, but everybody goes to the Times to look for an advertisement.

The same remark applies to the Morning Herald and the Morning Post. But the latter being the especial journal of fashion, is peculiarly fitted for certain classes of advertisements addressed to the fashionable, and is ill fitted for general announcements. Tradesmen appealing to the beau monde, and publishers, will find the Post one of their best journals; but for all matters of business, or announcements addressed to men of business, it is worthless.

Of the evening papers, the best medium for advertising is unquestionably the Sun. In London there is a very absurd prejudice against the evening papers. Here everybody reads the morning papers, and few look into an evening one. The inhabitant of London appears to consider that London is all the world; he forgets that the evening papers, though not patronised here, are very largely read in the country, and therefore are really very excellent localities for an advertisement, particularly as the number is small, and each one is sure to take the eye of the reader.

Of all the evening papers the Sun is the best, not only as having the largest circulation, but as being much consulted throughout the provinces for its early information. This characteristic has given to the Sun, although a party paper, a less exclusive circle of readers than any of its contemporaries, save the Times, and an announcement there thus finds its way to all parties, sects, and ranks in the country. It is seen in every newsroom, and read at almost every inn. The Sun therefore, is good for advertisements of all kinds. The Standard enjoys a highly respectable circulation, and is well adapted for advertisements directed to the higher classes. The Globe is especially patronised at the inns, and by the commercial classes, and is therefore a good medium for business advertisements.

——

AT A LATE meeting of the Directors of the London and Croy- don Atmospheric Railway,

— —

THE HON. ROBERT T. CONRAD, of Philadelphia, author of “Aylmere,” is engaged, we learn, on another drama — probably a tragedy. “Aylmere” was well received, and has much merit. Mr. Forrest gave Judge Conrad a thousand dollars for it. [page 62:]

WE BEG leave to thank our friends for the cordial support they are now affording us. The biographical sketch of William Wirt, commencing on the fourth page of this number, is from the pen of the well-known author of “Clinton Bradshaw,” “East and West,” “Howard Pinckney,” etc., etc. As a biographical sketcher Mr. Thomas is unsurpassed; and he has kindly promised us a succession of such papers as the one now published. For the Song, commencing “Hush! a spirit from afar!” we are indebted to the British Critic.

——

CAMPBELL, the poet, according to a writer of recollections in the Dublin University Magazine, was an adept in the use of literary Billingsgate. We have heard some proficients, but never met with a better specimen than this. Of course the whole story is to be taken of Campbell, Hazlitt, Northcotte and all, with a bag of salt. “Of all the false, vain, selfish blackguards,” said Campbell, “that ever disgraced human nature, Hazlitt was the falsest, vainest, and most selfish. He would sacrifice a million of men, had he the power to do so, to procure even one moment's enjoyment for himself. He would worm himself into your confidence only to betray you, and commit the basest act of ingratitude without a blush or sigh for its commission. I remember when I edited the New Monthly, Hazlitt used to write occasionally for it. Somehow he got acquainted with Northcote, the sculptor fellow — a conceited old booby, to be sure, but still a respectable man, as it is said, well to do in the world, puffed up a good deal with absurd vanity, and reduced by Hazlitt to the charming belief that his reminiscences were worth remembering and being remembered. Well, he persuaded this old stone-cutting donkey to invite him once a week to his house, and got liberty from him to retail his weekly gossip for the edification of the million. I published some of his papers in the Magazine; they were pungent; they satisfied the prurient curiosity of old maids and gossips; they sold remarkably well, and Northcote began to fancy himself a second Johnson. One morning before I was up, I received a letter from this old fool, complaining bitterly of the insertion in the Table Talk of some horribly severe remarks on —— and ——. He swore by every thing that men believe and disbelieve, that he had never spoken as was represented — that Hazlitt was betraying and belying him, and that henceforth the ‘blackguard penny-a-liner’ should be excluded from his house. I was rather amazed at this. The fact is, I did not care a rush what appeared in the Magazine, so that it told and sold; and, as Hazlitt put his name to the nonsense, I did not suppose he would dare to fabricate anything. Northcote, however, asserted that he had, and to pacify the old fool, I wrote him a letter, assuring him that Hazlitt should never again write a line for the New Monthly. One expression which I used, excited Hazlitt's rage to an extent scarcely credible — ‘the infernal Hazlitt.’ Oh! how he foamed and swore when he read this. But I did not value his passion at a button; though, I admit, I kept out of his way for a week, as I was told he intended to assault me. There is not a more degraded or disagreeable office for a literary man of any position, than to edit a magazine. It is a constant round of Billingsgate and fighting with his publisher, and an uninterrupted series of lies and sneaking statements to the various contributors.”

——

THE RECENT congress of German booksellers at Leipsic, it is said, have taken steps to establish a literary agency on this side of the Atlantic, (New York is mentioned as the city,) for the sale and protection of the current German literature. The [column 2:] sale of German books of general literature, in the original language, is hardly, we should think, as yet of sufficient importance to render this measure necessary. With the exception of elementary school books, the bible, and a few standard works, the demand might perhaps be more cheaply supplied by the home editions. But if the design be, to protect translations, the agency may become, at once, very useful and important. There is nothing more disreputable than the careless, ignorant, and wilfully malicious manner in which foreign writers are frequently treated. It certainly should be a privilege of the author to name his own translator: a privilege which should be protected by copy-right. Foreign agents, both French and German, might not only be of service to the writers of their own countries, but might benefit our own people by introducing to their attention, with care and judgment, and simultaneously with the original publication, the best specimens of the continental literature. An intimate knowledge of the men of letters of Europe might wean our readers and writers from their frequent slavish subserviency to an imitation of English authors.

——

TIECK’S readings at Berlin must he something of a bore, as any man's would be, who held an audience for three hours without respite, with matters they might be fully put in possession of, by reading, in half an hour. The Berlin correspondent of the Foreign Quarterly Review says: “ Tieck continues to give readings; which, in spite of his wonderful talent in interpreting dramatically the great masterpieces, people are pretty unanimous in voting excessively wearisome. They are wearisome because of the frivolous etiquette which reigns in the salon; wearisome, because Shakspeare himself, if he were to read for three hours, without a minute's pause, would in the end be fatiguing. But Tieck is surrounded by a set of persons who take a pride in the infliction. They sit and listen with religious silence, if not with religious fervor. They languish in ennui; and would not move a leg, or cough, or turn in their chairs, for any small consideration!”

——

TAGLIONI, hints the London Athenaeum, is growing old; a sad thing, as Sydney Smith has told us, in the case of a dancer: “When youth is gone all is gone.” We trust a suggestion of the circumstance will allay the anxiety for her appearance on the American stage. It is quite too much our fate to get foreign singers and dancers and actors before us, and pay roundly for them,-only when they are superannuated. When a stage player begins to break down in Europe he thinks of America. It is time that our managers should compliment their audiences, if not by the production of some native novelties, at least by the introduction of foreigners of some pith and vitality. In the midst of universal life and energy, our literature and art have been, for the most part, feeble and decrepid [[decrepit]], an anomaly that, as Carlyle would say, should be forthwith picked out.

——

“LWEI FRAULN,” is the title of the Countess Hahn Walin s last novel. That authoress is about to visit England, as Frederica Bremer is said to be coming to the United States. George Sand, we think we saw it stated, was going to Constantinople. Female genius is restless and migratory.

——

“DR. DRESSEL, at Rome,” says the Foreign Quarterly, “has lately made a very successful attempt to apply the Daguerreotype to the copying of ancient MSS. and palimpsests. In less than eleven minutes he produced a most perfect copy of forty-two folio lines of a half obliterated Greek MSS. of the 12th century.” [page 63:]

Arago has submitted to the French Academy an important improvement for speed and safety.

——

TO CORRESPONDENTS. — We regret that Agnes Seymour should have cause to suspect us of neglect. “Eudocia,” was handed, for immediate insertion in the Journal, to the former associate editor, who still retains the MS. As soon as we can procure it of him, it shall be carefully transmitted, as desired — or if.

Again — many thanks to the author of the Correspondence with a Governess. We sincerely value his (or is it not her?) good opinion. A volume embodying all the poems mentioned, will probably be published by Wiley & Putnam, in the fall. We have reason to complain of our Boston agents — but will apply a remedy to that grievance forthwith. No. 2 of the Correspondence was published in the Journal of the 19th ult.

We doubt the originality of the “Grecian Flute,” for the reason that it is too good at some points to be so bad at others. Unless the author can re-assure us, we decline it.