Text: Various, Imagination Graham's Magazines, March 1842, pp. ???-???

[page 174, unnumbered:]

IMAGINATION.*

IT is so long a time since a poem of any serious pretensions has made its appearance before the British or American public, that we have almost ceased to look for new metrical productions, divided into books or cantos. We have been contented with the light, fugitive strains of the periodicals, and have not asked for grand overtures — such as used to absorb the whole interest of the reading public, twenty, thirty, forty and more years ago. In the middle of the last century, a man, to be recognised as a poet, was required to issue some single work of a thousand lines. Quantity was more considered than quality; intellectual labor was judged of rather by the amount of its achievements than by their kind.

Poetry has at times been criticised by a different rule than Painting. That age never was, when an artist acquired a reputation in consequence of the number of his pictures: one gem of art has always been more highly esteemed than a million crystals. In all days past, as in the day present, it might be said of a single head by a master, small, faded, stained, yet beautiful through the rust of age, — “that little bit of canvass is worth more than a whole gallery of fresh portraits, though after living models, as beautiful as Aspasia, or as stately as Alcibiades.” But a solitary brief poem was never so valued in comparison with a voluminous production. Even now, formed and polished as the public taste pretends itself to be, there lurks with us that prejudice which more highly ranks the author of a book of verses than the author of a sonnet. Though the book may be as negative in merit as the correct hand of gentle dullness could make it, and the sonnet as perfect as the best that Petrarch wrote, in the intensest glow of his love and his genius — except by the few, the former would be regarded as the more arduous, the more commendable performance.

The philosophy of this prejudice, is a sort of respect mankind entertains for a constant fulfilment of the original curse. We love to see hard work done or indicated. We look at a mass of printed leaves and exclaim, “Goodness! what an industrious individual the writer must have been . How much he has accomplished “ It may be that, upon examination, his work may have added nothing to the available stock of literature; it may be that it will prove useless lumber, destined to dust and obscurity in men's garrets, and not worth the corners it will encumber. “What of that? the author had to work hard to do it — didn’t he?” Yes! such is the question put by people who seem to love labor for its own [column 2:] sake. They look upon men of talent very much in the same light that old Girard of Philadelphia considered poor people who existed by the employment of their arms and legs.

At a season of distress, some day-laborers applied to Girard for assistance. There was a huge pile of bricks lying in the vicinity of the house of Dives. “Take up those bricks,” said he, “and place them yonder, and then I will pay you for the task.” The men obeyed; the bricks — to use a verb for which we are indebted to Dr. Noah Webster and the Georgia negroes — were toted from one position to another, and the stipulated price demanded. Girard paid it cheerfully. “But,” said the laborers, “what are we to do now? Must we be idle while we spend this money, and starve by and by ? We shall come to you again in a week. Keep us employed — bid us perform another task.” “Yes,” said Girard. “Take up those bricks from the place where you have put them, and carry them back to the place whence you removed them.” Pretty much as Girard used the poor operatives does the public treat the man of genius. Let him write the immortal sonnet, bright and beautiful, to be fixed hereafter, a star in the firmament of same, and his contemporaries, in reply to his demand for praise, will say “What has he done? What book has he written? What is he the author of “They want to see work — honest labor, and plenty of it, though that labor be as useless as the toting of the bricks.

Not without some qualifications must these remarks be considered strictly true, with regard to the present age, or to our own country. There are facts to the contrary, though not sufficient to disprove the general truth of what we say. We have no poet, who is more generally, “or more highly esteemed, than Halleck; and yet his truly great reputation has been built up on some four or six short pieces of verse. On the other hand, Mr. Sumner Lincoln Fairfield, has lumbered the bookseller's lofts with ream after ream of printed paper, and nobody but an occasional crazy reviewer, calls such a dunce, a poet. Nevertheless, we maintain the verity of the general observation, that those poets have heretofore been most esteemed, who have done the most work. It is downright astonishing, how much some of them did do. We look over their long poems, with a sentiment of wonder, and reverence, and we are awfully perplexed to determine, how vast a length of time it must have taken these modern Cheopses, to build their pyramids. Hamlet's account to Polonius, of the graybeard's book he was reading, appears to us a pretty comprehensive description of many of these vast metrical diffusions — “words, words, words.” [page 175:]

It exceeds our powers of conjecture, how the writers could have completed their whole task, so labors the line and so slow runs the verse. We have seen a sturdy blacksmith pound a piece of iron, for hours and hours, till it became as malleable as lead; we have seen a woodsawyer saw, and saw, and saw, up and down, down and up, till the very sight of him made us ready to drop with imaginary fatigue; thy still-beginning, never ending whirl, oh weary knife-grinder, have we also contemplated with feverish melancholy — still for the endurance of all these, have we been able satisfactorily to account; drilled by habit, ruled by habit, habit is to them a second nature. But for the perpetration of a long, tedious poem for the manufacture of verse after verse, the last drier and duller than the preceding, there is no possible manner of accounting. It is an infliction, which can be borne by neither gods, men nor columns. Your mediocre man may be forgiven for talking one into a paralysis, or writing prose, till every word acts like a mesmerist and puts you to sleep; but for his writing verses, there can be, there ought to be no forgiveness; he should be consigned to the cave of perpetual oblivion, and over its entrace should be inscribed, “Hope never enters here.”

Were we to follow in the track of reviewers in the Quarterlies, who always seem to think it necessary to make a considerable preliminary flourish to the solemn common-places they are about to utter, we should observe that the foregoing remarks had been elicited by a work on our table, entitled “Imagination, a poem in two parts, with other poems, by Louisa Frances Poulter.” But as the work did not call forth the remarks, we shall observe nothing of the kind. The moment we wrote the title of the poem, and saw that it consisted of nearly eleven hundred lines, we began to reflect that very few long poems had been written lately, and our pen scampered over the paper at a rail-road rate, till we reached the dépôt at the end of this paragraph.

Pausing here, we first look back over what we have said; it pleases us — let it stand, therefore, and let us now employ ourselves with reading Miss Poulter's poem in two cantos. We have not the slightest dread of it — no! it seems a pleasant land, of which we have had delightful glimpses in a transient survey. With these glimpses we mean to entertain the reader, besides giving him an idea of the face of the country.

In limine, we ought to confess ourselves amiable critics, when we are called upon to pronounce on the works of a female writer, and more particularly of one who is a new claimant for distinction. It is our desire to encourage the intellectual efforts of the gentle sex, if for no better purpose, at least for that of inciting women to assert their claims to the honors and the rewards of authorship. These pages are scrutinized by many a brilliant pair of eyes, ready to flash indignation upon the slightest disparagement of female genius. Far be it from us to evoke from those mortal stars any other beams than those of softness and serenity. Lovely readers! smile therefore upon this article as kindly as upon the prettiest story in the Magazine, and think well of him who [column 2:] seeks to win no better guerdon than your approbation.

Miss Poulter has put upon her title-page a striking passage in French from some essay of Bernardin de St. Pierre, which may be thus literally translated. “Tasso, while travelling with a friend, one day ascended a very high mountain. When he had reached the summit, he exclaimed: Seest thou these rugged rocks, these wild forests, this brook bordered with flowers, which winds through the valley, this majestic river, which rolls onward and onward till it bathes the walls of a hundred cities? Well, these rocks, these mountains, these walls, these cities, gods, men — lo! these are my poem “ On the page immediately preceding the principal poem in the volume, “Imagination,” there appears the following from Stewart's Outlines of Moral Philosophy, “One of the principal effects of a liberal education is to accustom us to withdraw our attention from the objects of our present perceptions, and to dwell at pleasure on the past, the absent and the future. How much it must enlarge in this way the sphere of our enjoyment or suffering is obvious: for (not to mention there collection of the past) all that part of our happiness or misery, which arises from our hopes or our fears, derives its existence entirely from the power of our imagination.”

We are pleased with these quotations. They augur well for the original words that are to follow. They prepare the mind of the reader for something almost as good as they are. The talent, or rather tact of quoting well is no mean one; it is not possessed by many, scarcely possessed at all by those who say that a quotation should be as strictly appropriate as a title. It is enough that a quotation be one naturally appertaining to or suggestive perse of the subject matter. Mottoes, it should be remembered, are not texts, but simply prefixes, intended rather as ornaments than things of use. They are to books, chapters, and cantos, what jewels are to the clasps of a fair lady's girdle, not indispensable to the clasps, but decorating them. In the choice of the jewels and the style of their setting the taste of the wearer is manifested.

The reflection which first suggests itself to us after a consideration of this poem, is that the author preferred rather to indulge her inclination for roving from topic to topic, than to confine herself to any exact method. She does not so much consider the power of imagination or its effect upon life as she does the places and persons upon which this faculty of the mind would choose to expand itself. The single word, therefore, which constitutes the title, might be regarded as too pretensive, as demanding too much, more than it is within the capacity or education of the writer to give. Her modes of thought seem to be too independent of the influence of “Association,” and it would confuse a philosophical thinker to follow the diversities of her fancy. Perhaps, however, the person who reads only to be amused, would derive more gratification from Miss Poulter's disregard of rules than were she more correct and less fervid. [page 176:]

The poem opens with a picture of sunset after a storm, and this affords an apt and natural illustration for the Power of the Imagination. The first topic pursued is the fact that childhood is but little under the influence of Imagination, being led away by the pleasures of the present moment and apt to resign itself wholly to the object by which it is temporarily attracted. Illustrative of this is the following admirably drawn scene —

See, from his sheltering roof, the infant boy

Rush with delight, to snatch the promised joy;

Allowed for once to stray where’er he please,

And live one day of liberty and ease.

His frugal basket to his girdle hung,

His little rod across his shoulder flung,

With eager haste he starts at dawn of day,

Yet every trifle lures him from his way;

An opening rose, a gaudy butterfly,

Turn his light steps and fix his wandering eye;

He plucks ripe berries blushing in the hedge,

And pungent cresses from the watery sedge.

At length he gains the bank, and seeks to fill

His little scrip, and prove his infant skill;

He marks the fish approach in long array —

Then, stamps the ground, to see them glide away.

But lo! one speckled wanderer lurks behind,

“Mid the tall reeds that skirt the stream confined:

It comes — it bites — he finds himself possest

Of one small trout, less wary than the rest:

With trembling hands he grasps his finny spoil,

The rich reward of one long day of toil.

For some short moments yet he keeps his seat

Close to the brook, and laves his weary feet;

Wide from his face his auburn locks he throws,

That playful airs may fan his little brows;

Then upward springs, and hums a blithesome lay,

To cheat fatigue, and charm his lengthened way.

Hark! while across the verdant lawn he skips,

The half-told tale is muttered from his lips;

With bounding heart he shows his spotted prize,

And marks, exulting, the well-feigned surprise.

A second moment sees him locked in sleep,

And placid slumbers o’er his senses creep;

In dreams he rests along some river's side,

Where giant trout beneath clear waters glide.

The following figure illustrates the toilsome ascent of youth to Greatness:

So up yon cliffs that frown in stern array,

The hardy pilgrim climbs his painful way;

His form bends forward — see! how he expands

O’er each frail mountain-shrub his fearful hands;

Will it resist? — or, from the rocky steep,

Whirl him below unnumbered fathoms deep?

He grasps it firm — he keeps his dizzy ground —

Though blasts and foaming torrents roar around;

Soon from the summit, views, with raptured eye,

The lovely scenes that far extended lie;

The smiling hamlet; the deep-tangled grove;

The lake whose breast reflects the hills above;

The lowing herds that through green pastures stray,

Where limpid streams pursue their pebbled way.

After showing that imagination is most powerful in youth, and the different manner in which it operates upon men, leading some to public life, and some to retirement; after drawing a picture of domestic felicity, and dwelling upon the question whether the happiness derived from the indulgence of an ardent fancy is not ill exchanged for a reasonable view of human life, the poet speaks of the moral influence of a fine imagination; and here occur these lines —

Shall the pale Autumn shed his leaves in vain,

Scar the green woods, and all their glories stain?

Shall Winter clouds and bitter frosts impart,

Yet force no saddening moral on the heart?

Oh! let the warning past one thought employ!

Have not our projects, marked by grief or joy,

And all that we call beauty; talent, worth,

Mimicked the transient fashion of the Earth? [column 2:]

The fragile bloom has withered in the storm —

The pride of better years now feeds the worm:

The next subject of contemplation is the death of a beloved and distinguished friend; afterwards the poet goes on to describe the influence of sublime scenery in awakening corresponding sensations in the mind. An address to the Deity is attempted: next it is shown that external beauties alone cannot soothe a wounded heart; a fact happily illustrated by the disappointment of Tasso on his return to his native Sorrento —

Tasso, the pride, the victim of the Great,

Who learned the value of their smile too late,

Had shone in courts resplendent, and beneath

A prison's wall had drawn his painful breath,

Sought his beloved Sorrento; for he fed

A wild delirious hope that bade him tread,

In search of peace, her groves, her spicy hills,

And woo the balsam her soft air distils.

Impetuous passion in his mind had wrought,

And trenched it deep with many a bitter thought;

Perchance the breeze that fans her rocky shore,

The mournful measure of the plashing oar,

Her blooming gardens that expanded lie,

Breathing their citron fragrance to the sky,

Her clustered almond trees, her sighing pines,

Her founts of crystal, and her palmy wines,

May lull its throb, its languid tone restore,

And charm it back to all it was before.

The poetess then describes the anguish he endured.

This is all that we can extract for the reader's recreation from the first Part or Canto of this meritorious poem, with the exception of a very touching ballad. The verses are supposed to be repeated by an Indian mother, over the grave of her departed child. Let us call them

THE INDIAN MOTHER’S LAMENT.

Twice falling snows have clad the earth;

Twice hath the fly-bird weaved his nest;

Since first I smiled upon thy birth,

And felt thee breathing on my breast.

Now snowy wreaths will melt away,

And buds of red will shine around;

But, heedless of the sunny ray,

Thy form shall wither in the ground.

Oft hath thy father dared the foe,

And, while their arrows drank his blood,

And round him lay his brothers low,

Careless ‘mid thousand darts he stood.

But when he saw thee o thy head,

Thy little limbs grow stiff and cold,

And from thy lip the scarlet fled,

Fast down his cheek the tear-drops rolled.

The land of souls lies distant far

And dark and lonely is the road;

No ghost of night, no shining star,

Shall guide me to thy new abode.

Will some good Spirit to thee bring

The milky fruits of cocoa-tree?

To shield thee stretch his pitying wing?

Or spread the beaver's skin for thee!

Oh! in the blue-bird's shape descend,

When broad magnolias shut their leaves!

With evening airs thy lisping blend,

And watch the tomb thy mother weaves :

I’ve marked the lily's silken vest,

When winds blew fresh and sunbeams shine

On Mississippi's furrowed breast,

By many a watery wreath entwined. [page 177:]

But soon they rippled down the stream,

To lave the stranger's distant shore;

One moment sparkled in the beam —

Then saw their native banks no more.

Of the second Part or Canto, the following is a brief analysis. The poet first addresses the Spirit of Ruin; then displays various forms of destruction — a shipwreck: the descent of an avalanche. The topics next treated are intellectual decay; the fatal effects of an ill-regulated and warm Imagination; the power of Love in youth; the influence of Imagination in our choice of life; the love of Fame; an active life necessary to a person of vivid Imagination; the thirst of some overcoming the love of life. Next occurs an apostrophe to the noble and patriotic and sainted spirits of the heroes of Switzerland and America — Arnold de Winkelried and George Washington. It is then shown that Imagination represents them as still living; the power of Imagination in old age is portrayed, and the poem concludes.

From this part, we regret that we have room but for two extracts; for these are of so excellent a character that the reader, like Oliver Twist, will be certain to ask for more.

Our first extract is a description of the life of an Alpine shepherd. The lines are eminently good.

Track thou my path where Alpine winters shed

Their lingering snows o’er bare St. Gothard's head,

Ghastly his savage aspect; there recline

Rocks piled on rocks, and shagg’d with stunted pine;

Yet touched with beauty, when the purple haze

Its softening shadows o’er their summit lays;

Then melts in air, while wandering sunbeams streak,

With tints of rose, each ridge and frozen peak.

From cliff to cliff hoarse cataracts pursue

Their shattered course; now stained with lovely hue,

Lovely, and yet more transient, while a ray

Athwart the shivered waters cuts its way;

Now whirling in black eddies, as they lish

The darkened precipice with hideous crash. -

But see! with trees and freshest verdure bright,

A lonely valley starts upon the sight,

Whose peaceful hamlet clinging to their side.

And sweet retirements, beetling mountains hide.

Their fury spent, o’er dell and grassy knoll

The lucid streams in crystal bubbles roll,

Whose gentle gushings break the deep repose,

As down steep, pebbled banks, the current flows.

Here, free from Passion's storm and splendid Care,

A hardy race Life's simple blessings share.

Breathes there on Earth who boasts a happier lot,

Than the rude owner of yon smiling cot “

Sighs he for joys by Nature's hand denied?

Feels he a want by labor unsupplied?

The flock which of his children's pranks disturb,

The goats delighting in the sprouted herb,

The sleepy cows aroused by sauntering flies,

His verdant paddock with sweet food supplies.

Vigorous from rest, not weak with slothful ease,

At dawn he scents the sharp reviving breeze;

With eager industry and rustic skill

First prunes his purple vine, then hastes to till

His garden, freshened by the chills of night,

Where many a grateful tribute cheers his sight;

The jasmine bent beneath his clustering bees,

The green retiring herb, the lofty trees,

That, gemmed with blooms and dew drops, on the air

Waft their sweet incense to the God of pray’r.

But noon advances, and he drives his flocks

Where spots of verdure brighten mid the rocks;

There spends the day; and, far above, inhales

The love of Freedom with his mountain gales. [column 2:]

Hark! to those sounds, which now the herds invite,

Slow pacing homeward from the dizzy height;

The shepherd's evening call — and in each doli

Tinkles the music of the pastoral bell.

His labor done, a frugal meal prepared

By her he loves, recruits his strength impaired;

Breathing a pious prayer he sinks to rest,

And rural visions charin his peaceful breast.

Our second, and last, extract is one the spirit and force of which every devotee of Freedom, every true American heart cannot sail to acknowledge.

Spirits of noble beings, who, arrayed

In mortal clothing, once a proud part played

Upon this mother orb! If ye retain

No human sense of honor, joy, or pain;

If, fixed in seats of blessedness, ye deem

Earth's goodliest pageantries an idiot's dream;

Yet in your bosoms not in vain was sown

Deep as Life's pulse the love of fair Renown;

For still as Age to fleeting Age succeeds,

Your track of Glory, your remembered deeds,

A spark of fire ethereal shall impart,

To rouse each godlike passion in the heart.

Still, gallant Arnold! while the Switzer fights

E’en to his blood's last drop, to guard his rights;

The right to tread his hills begirt with storm,

Free as the winds that brace his nervous form;

Your dying words. invincible he hears;

When with gored bosom, grasping Austria's spears,

To glorious death you singly forced the way,

And bade forever five red Sempach's day;

“The ranks are broken charge! the cowards yield!

My little orphans, Oh my Country shield.”

And You! in whose unconquerable mind

The wide-expanded wish to serve Mankind

Ruled as a master-passion; whether laid

At ease, you wooed Mount Vernon's pleasant shade,

And the pure luxury of rural life;

Or plunged, reluctant, into desperate strife,

To breast the weight of tyrannous command,

And stamp the badge of Freedom on your Land;

Shall You, the meteor of a fickle day,

Blaze for one moment, strike, and pass away?

No — to her sons unborn shall cling your name,

Linked to their country's proudest hour of Fame;

Till private, public worth, to Ruin hurled,

Shall leave not even their shadow in the World;

Then must the Slave, the Patriot, share one lot —

And He, and Washington, shall be forgot.

From the remarks, with which this article began, it is clearly enough to be inferred that we are no admirers of long poems, unless they be of extraordinary and sustained merit. This praise cannot be awarded to Miss Poulter's production: We believe that we have taken pretty much all that is excellent, though a fine passage or two may be left in the exquisite volume which we have just now cut to pieces — not metaphorically, but literally. It was sad to destroy so charming a library book; but what were the exquisite typography and clear white paper of one of Saunders & Otley's editions, when compared with the amusement of the friends of Graham's Magazine ! Nothing. Moreover, we should not have quoted so largely as we have, had we not felt assured of the fact that the volume to which we refer was the only copy of Miss Poulter's poem in America. Such works are not in the least likely to be reprinted here; and our readers would therefore know nothing about them, were it not for the pains we are happy to take in their behalf.

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 174, column 1:]

* Imagination: a Poem in two parts, with other poems, by Louisa Frances Poulter, London: Saunders and Otley, Conduit Street.