An attempt to change old customs, or to drive them from the well
trodden path of their ancestors, will raise such a cackling among
long-winded gossippers and slippery tongued spinsters, as would
drive Beelzebub himself from the roost. Mr. Long Metre--a member of
that fraternity who wander about teaching one half of the people how
they can best _squeal off_ the ears of the other half--attempted to
reform Droneville choir. This Radical broached the theory, that it
was impossible for the young ladies to sing melodiously while they
wore their bonnets, since the sweet nightingales were prevented from
hearing their neighbors’ voices. The singing master, having been
joined by a few of the young bucks--bold fellows these--venturing
sometimes to give the ‘gals’ a sneaking glance or a sly wink, made a
movement to carry the reform into operation. What pen can describe the
“comper” which this excited! It was too much for the equanimity of the
gentlemen of the old school. It was like touching a torch to their
beards. Oh Droneville! who would have thought, that the flames of
party animosity could ever have been kindled in thy peaceful streets?
yet such was the fact. Every man, woman, and child, was ranged under
the banner of the bonnets, or the anti-bonnets. The bonnets claimed,
“that the measure of their opponents was an unheard-of innovation,
exposing the health of the ‘little dears,’ encouraging extravagance in
dress, endangering the morals of the young men, in short, that it was
wholly unrighteous, unscriptural and indelicate, for St. Paul expressly
declares that ‘every woman that prayeth or prophesieth with her head
uncovered, dishonoreth her head.’” I noticed that this doctrine was
warmly espoused by all the red haired young ladies, and desperate
spinsters. The anti-bonnets, headed by the singing master, supported
by the aforementioned bucks, and all the most buxom of the village
girls, unable to withstand the cogent arguments of their adversaries,
dispatched a delegation to secure upon their side, the influence of the
parson. The good man stood aghast! What could he do? To commit himself
upon either side, would be his ruin: to stand neutral, was impossible.
Mr. Soporific Heth--the village tailor--a most vigorous performer upon
a cracked clarionet, was chosen ambassador. Mr. Heth was a lean, long
sided piece of anatomy, with an elongated phiz, nose like a fish hook,
and lips blown to a point by his constant musical exertions. In order
to add dignity to the delegation, Mr. Wonderful Gruff--whose magic
powers wooed harmony from an antiquated base viol--accompanied Mr.
Heth. Mr. Gruff was the wisest man in Droneville. To be sure, he never
spoke a word to reveal his wisdom, but then he _looked_ tremendous
wise, and a nod or a grunt from Mr. Gruff, had more influence in the
village councils, than a speech of an hour’s length from most men. Mr.
Gruff was a perfect personification of conceited obstinacy. His short
stubborn neck and mulish character, evinced a perfect harmony of parts,
and unity of design. Such were the animals which presented themselves
in the parson’s study. Mr. Heth, of course, was the orator--and such a
one! He was none of your concise speakers, who tell all they have to
say in the fewest words possible, but an eloquent, long-winded orator,
able to talk a vast while without saying any thing. Mr. Heth was very
fond of onions--the parson, however, had rather an aversion to these
delicacies. Mr. Heth was, moreover, afflicted with deafness, and for
the double purpose of increasing the effect of his own masterly powers,
and hearing his auditor’s replies, he drew a chair near his victim, and
for about half an hour, blew an irresistible torrent of eloquence into
the parson’s nose. Unable to resist such honied words, accompanied by a
voice which rivaled the most cracked notes of Mr. Heth’s own clarionet,
and seconded by the momentous nods and grunts of Mr. Gruff, the parson
declared himself a convert to the principles of the anti-bonnets.
This was the signal of triumph to their party--their opponents were
crushed, and the bonnets were banished from the choir. After several
weeks spent in preparation, the eventful Sabbath finally arrived,
when the _élite_ of Droneville maidens, were to appear in ‘unbonneted’
beauty. Never had there been such an excitement in Droneville. The
choir, and their appearance, were discussed in all places. It was
regularly “served up,” at every tea table in the village. “What are
Droneville people coming to,” exclaimed the old ladies; “things are
changed since we were lads,” responded the veterans. “If I hadn’t any
more hair than Polly Snipe, you wouldn’t catch me singing with my
bonnet off,” said Miss Catnip. The day arrived; it was a cool bracing
morning in January; but never, “within the memory of the oldest
inhabitants,” had Droneville church been so crowded. While the parson
was imploring God’s blessing, the bucks were ogling and whispering,
the singers were turning over the leaves of their books, an occasional
note escaped from the nose of Mr. Long Metre, Mr. Gruff was tuning
his base viol, Mr. Heth was caulking his clarionet. The hymn is at
length “given out,”--all eyes are turned to the gallery,--every mouth
is opened in wondering expectation,--the blind wipe their spectacles,
the deaf seize their trumpets, the eyes of the young bucks flashed
with pleasure, those of the spinsters looked “unutterable things.”
The choir arise, and while they stand like impatient coursers, with
parted lips, awaiting the signal from Mr. Long Metre, let me attempt to
describe the vision of paradise which burst upon my enraptured sight.
It was a scene worthy the graphic pencil of Hogarth. There stood the
assembled beauty of Droneville, with cheeks and noses kindled into a
glow by the fresh air of a January morning. The gallery rose, seat
over seat, presenting to the beholder an inclined plane of all that
is beautiful in a red and blue phiz, studded with love-darting eyes,
and party-colored heads, which might rival the coat of the patriarch.
There they stand--long hinnies and short hinnies, sylph-like hinnies
and porpoise-like hinnies, in regular confusion, with pates arrayed
in every variety of fantastical gear ever invented by womankind. Some
were adorned with flowers, others with feathers; some, having strained
their hair so tight from their foreheads that they could not wink, had
twisted it into a pig’s-tail upon the top of their craniums; a few,
of more classic taste, had parted their locks from their brows, a la
Madonna; others suffered them to float in unbraided beauty, a la witch
of Endor; and one roguish little urchin was evidently arrayed in her
grandmother’s cap. Thus they stand--the “pitch” is given, and away
burst Droneville choir with impetuous fury--the power of every voice
and every instrument is strained to its utmost capacity--Mr. Long Metre
managed to scream the loudest--Mr. Soporific Heth blew his clarionet
into several pieces--Mr. Gruff sawed his base viol ‘in two.’
Such was the performance of Droneville choir.--The combined power of
all that is thrilling in beauty and melody, inflicted a wound upon my
sentimental heart from which it has not yet recovered.
EVERY ONE HIS OWN CRITIC.
“A spirit and judgment equal or superior.”--_Milton._
A distinctly formed power of judging of literary productions, and of
rightly and fully estimating their intrinsic and their comparative
merits, is a thing of rare occurrence. Even educated men, whose
opinions with respect to other things are of high value, seem not
generally to have carried their systematic habits of thought into this
province, deferring it almost wholly to professed critics. On the other
hand, there is a crowd of slender judges, of some qualities of books,
who are yet utterly incapable of appreciating others which are more
vital.
It becomes, therefore, an important question to one who would be an
independent thinker, how the evil may be remedied in his own case. It
may be answered in general, not chiefly by reading literary reviews.
Much, doubtless, may be learned in this way about many books and their
authors; so much indeed, so wide is the field opened, as to divert the
mind from seeking an intimate acquaintance with any. Without question,
the effect of this kind of reading often, and indeed usually is, to
overload the mind with a multitude of opinions which speedily pass
from it, leaving it advanced in no respect except in an opinion of
its own knowledge. Even where something more than mere entertainment
is sought, the result is much the same. We would ask those who are so
busy in collecting the opinions of others, how often an attempt is made
effectually to reproduce those opinions in their own minds, and to test
them by a careful study of the author in hand. The comparatively light
manner of hurrying over even the extracts, which critical kindness
has pointed out, is a sufficient answer. The very object indeed of
resorting to reviews is to avoid tasking the mind. It is indeed vastly
easier to take from the review opinions ready made, than to struggle
to bring up into the light one’s own dim conceptions of excellence or
defect, and to summon the mind to make account to itself. But as the
result we have an unformed and lifeless acquaintance, with works even
of the highest order--an acquaintance consisting, for the most part, of
half-remembered, and half-forgotten crude opinions _about_ them. For
the mind itself there is a habit of dependence on something without,
and not of itself, for the grounds of its opinions--a habit arising,
almost necessarily, from being accustomed to submit to the absoluteness
and dictatorship of the professed critic.
There is liable to be created also, a habit of dependence for the
_interest_ which is felt in literary works generally, novels excepted.
It cannot be denied that the critic himself and his opinions, often
form the main point of interest, and that the author is comparatively
uninteresting; when it is not so, the critic is often depended upon
to excite for the author an interest, which is to cease with the
remembrance of the former. The sympathies are with the critic, not with
the author. Besides this, reviews treat mostly of what is passing;
the attention of the review reader is, therefore, in a great degree
confined to that. Hence we have, in many of those who are thought to be
acquainted with literature, a love for excitement, dependent on what is
conventional and present, rather than a permanent interest resulting
from broad and well grounded views.
It is certain that he who aims not merely to understand, but vigorously
to apprehend, and distinctly to appreciate the work before him, will
wish, in matters of opinion, to banish all thoughts of the critic, as
an unwelcome intruder, however excellent in his kind, between himself
and the author.
In order that a man may thus become a critic for himself, he should
seek to excite in himself a love of literature for its own sake,
in opposition both to a mere love of entertainment and to mere
indifference. For here, it is eminently true that unless a man
loves he cannot understand. But then that love must be liberal and
discriminating; it must be a love which will carry one through the
difficulties of the way. But for these qualities a mere love of
entertainment is least remarkable, devouring indiscriminately what is
often least valuable, and blindly rejecting the rest.
It deserves to be considered, whether this has not been too much the
spirit of the readers of poetry. The maxim, that “it is the office
of the poet to please, not to instruct,” ought not to be taken thus
absolutely. It is indeed “sweetly uttered knowledge,” which the poet
imparts, but is it the less knowledge? It is not indeed knowledge
systematized, but not the less real knowledge of the human heart in all
its relations.
But the great obstacle to be removed, is an indifference which leads
to desultory reading. We refer especially to an indifference to
merits. Fault-finding we have enough; while of merits there is often a
comparatively languid appreciation. A very low mind and small abilities
may be equal to the former; the latter demands a mind liberal and
vigorous.
In order to remove this indifference, there must be a love of
literature for its own sake. This will animate the mind with a
liberal zeal, and, at the same time, will supersede the love of mere
entertainment.
Let him who would feel such a love, endeavor to obtain some notion of
literature as it is. In order to this let him acquaint himself with
its history. Let him view it as the offspring of the human mind in
all ages, wrought up to its divinest energy; as that which embodies
in itself thoughts of power and images of beauty; as a purifier and
refiner of the human feelings. Let him consider it also, with direct
reference to his own mind and heart. For this end, he should place
himself on the broad ground of our common humanity, in distinction
from any prejudice, or conventional mode of thinking. Viewing himself
as a man, and as such recognizing the mind and the human feelings
within his own breast, let him look upon literature, as the glorious
expression of what is kindred to those, and as such demanding his
sympathy. By this habit of constant reference to his own mind, he will
acquire in literature, a permanent interest. Distinctly conscious of
the mind within his own breast, he will welcome mind wherever he meets
it: recognizing the feelings of his own heart, he will go forth in
sympathy with those of another; feeling within himself a love of the
beautiful, he will stand ready to admire and value its objects. Unless
a man cultivates such habits, so that he shall have a warm and living
interest in ascertaining literary worth, he cannot be a critic. He
will not seek out merits which he has not some interest in finding.
If, on the other hand, a man have this habit of immediate reference to
his own mind, he will not only have such an interest, but will also
have placed himself in the only right point of view to judge of any
literary production. He will not be guided by a set of rules which are
in a manner foreign to the mind; nor will his criticism be expressed in
phrases which are unmeaning, or the meaning of which he has never asked
himself. It will be the faithful exhibition of the warm impressions
upon a mind rightly prepared to receive them. How the mind is to be
thus prepared is another question. The attitude which it should take we
have stated; but to assume this it is not qualified at once, and with
regard to every work. Obviously it must be enlightened by knowledge of
the various departments of literature, that it may judge accurately
of any one. Yet this is not all that is demanded of it. In order to
judge of the intrinsic merits of any literary production, there must
be an exercise of powers like those which originated it. The mind
must be trained distinctly, and by itself, for this end. Otherwise,
it cannot form any conception of those powers, much less can it know
how to value their productions. In proportion also as the latter are
of a high order, must be the activity to which feebler powers must be
aroused to apprehend them. While this is true with respect to every
kind of writing, its necessity is more distinctly seen in reading the
works of the poet. For the powers there demanded are less in daily use.
The reader must, in a certain sense, be himself a poet, in order to be
a critic of poetry. Otherwise, he cannot sympathize with the author,
and cannot judge of him at all. For, we repeat it, it is by a direct
reference to our own minds, as appealed to by the mind of another, that
we must judge of literary worth.
Thus to qualify and attune the mind, is indeed a task. The necessity,
however, is plain. We may now, also understand how it is that a man
may with ease equal the critic whom he reads, and then flatter himself
into the belief that he has compassed the author whom he has not the
vigor and habits of mind necessary to appreciate. For want of them, the
opinions of the critic will be either forgotten, or vaguely remembered
or applied. In either case the mind will have gained a feeling of undue
self-importance.
It may seem audacious to approach in the manner we have attempted to
describe, the works of those to whom we have been wont to look up with
implicit reverence. But no one, we think, will be more humble in his
own eyes, than he who has tried and found how hard it is to attempt
fully to comprehend when fairly set before him, that which another
wrought out from unshaped materials. Nor will his admiration be the
less, because he sees that it is well grounded; while by a habit of
raising himself to cope with great minds, he will be enabled to see in
their true light, and to approach with an air of just superiority those
which are inferior.
We have thus attempted to show some of the preparations of mind and
spirit, for the office of criticism. But there must also be a strict
and severe judgment, to exercise over the mind a constant supervision,
and to keep it from partaking of the unsoundness of those with which it
comes in contact, as well as a sensibility to their merits.
It has not been our object to dwell upon the particular points
of criticism. There is one which will be found to include almost
all others, and which has been already implied. We have spoken of
literature as the means of correspondence between mind and mind. Of
course, by far the most important point of criticism will be to study
the mind and spirit of the author in his works. Much may be learned,
in this way, that shall fix a lasting communion between ourselves and
the author who is worthy of such intimacy. And further, by laying bare
the shaping and moving spirit of that which is presented to us, and
by ascertaining the precise attitude of the author with respect to
his work, we shall be enabled to see more distinctly what are merits
and defects, because we shall know whither to refer them. By this
means, even the minutest peculiarities may be marked; that which is
artificial, may be distinguished from that which is genuine; style may
be clearly characterized, and the whole work will be set before us in
two-fold clearness, and with two-fold interest.
If literature is worth any thing, it is worth such study and such
exertions, on the part of every one. He who studies it in this way,
will not view the books which meet his eye with a languid and feeble
interest; nor as so many subjects for examination, which are afterwards
to be set aside, as a sort of explained phenomena. He will study their
merits in order to welcome and appropriate them to himself, as the
fruits of kindred minds. The wise and the good of all ages will thus
become his friends and companions.
G.
TRUMBULL GALLERY.
WASHINGTON ON THE BANKS OF THE DELAWARE.
’Tis well to gaze upon thee, glorious chief:
There is instruction with thee. There’s no brief
Or fleeting lesson traced on thy calm brow.
A nation’s love is thine. Her prayer is now
Uprising for thy weal. A nation’s life
Is trusted to thy care; and calls thee to the strife.
The mother leaneth on her well tried son
And finds thee never wanting, Washington.
The angry waters leap and roar below.
Danger is on the air--sounds of the mighty foe--
Wildness is all around thee. The scathed oak,
Rent rock--earth ploughed by the death wing’d stroke,
Wind-shriek, storm-gloom, death-chill.
Thou art alone unmoved. Thine eye is still
Proudly undaunted--far darting, fearless, grand,
Flashing with patriot fire, shielding our father-land.
Thine is no kingly dignity. Thy brow
Wears not so poor a wreath.--The sacred glow
And majesty of freedom beam around thee there--
Her laurel crown is thine--no other would’st thou wear.
She knows thee, her lov’d worshiper. To guard her shrine
No truer arm the sword has bared, high chief, than thine.
’Tis well to think of thee--thy immortality how won,
Tried warrior, statesman, father, Washington.
IONE.
GREEK ANTHOLOGY.--No. 1.
Reader! hast thou seen the Greek Anthology? If not, go get it. ’Tis
passing beautiful. Dost thou wish to see into the very heart of the
finest people God ever made? Dost thou long to acquaint thee with the
real character of the bright-souled Grecian? Then lay upon the shelf
the fiery Homer, with his “damnable iteration,” and even the neat
Xenophon--the soldier, historian, and philosopher. Lay them aside, I
bid thee, and run thine eye gently over those little heart-bursts,
to which chance gave being, and which chance has most marvellously
preserved. Dost thou look to see the true proportions of the actor, as
he “struts his brief hour upon the busy stage?” Go to the green-room,
and behold him divested of all the super-imposed grandeur of cork and
buskin. Dost thou think to _know_ men, by scanning them, as they thread
the streets of the city, as they toil in the heat of the forum, or pray
among the pillars of the temple? The smile is, indeed, gracious--the
bow lowly--the look subdued. But, man, you see the _face_, not the
_heart_. They are all masquerading--most ludicrously too. Go to their
homes, my friend. Watch them by their fire-sides--with their wives
and children--in their household familiarity. Vexings are upon them,
and their hearts are troubled. The world--the censorious world is far
away, and they fear not the scrutiny of its prying eyes. A cloud comes
over the sunshine of the soul, and they fret and fume at their petty
tribulations. And are _these_ those unctuous men, on whose faces sat
enthroned such unruffled peace? Yea, verily!
Thou mayest think this an impertinent digression; but I made it, and
_I_ best know its design. ’Tis merely a rambling illustration--a
stroll through the woods instead of a prosing walk along the road.
’Tis a similitude, I say--too long--yet a good one. Its pith is this.
The poets, orators, philosophers, and historians--in fine, _all_ the
great authors dressed for court, or--if that term seem too monarchical
for the Republic of Letters--they dressed for a levee--a democratic
_jam_--they _rouged_, frizzled, combed, brushed, and bedizened
themselves artificially. Homer, the oldest, is likewise the simplest
of them all. But even _he_ knew that he was stared at, and, like a
man in company, adjusted his neckoloth, felt queer, and walked stiff.
He does not give his own sentiments--he was writing a history of his
nation, and it was at once his interest and his pleasure, to gild
each slightest incident, and turn poverty to splendor. Thus does he
show us about as much of the real character of those simple people in
that early age, as do the roundelays of chivalry acquaint us with the
habits of those motley knights, whose loves they celebrate, and whose
prowess they record. It is not, then, in the elaborate writers of any
nation, that you are to look for faithful portraitures of that nation’s
character. Great geniuses bear the same leading traits in all climates,
and their works are simple mental creations, rather than copies of
the habits of their age. ’Tis familiarity with the various effusions
of a thousand different pens--drinking from the heart’s overflowing
fullness,--that thoroughly acquaints one with a people.
Reader, I am weary of these remarks, as I doubt not thou art. Therefore
will I cease. And here would I advertise thee that I travel more for my
own pleasure than for thine. My path lies through a lovely country, and
I shall walk, run, halt, refresh, whenever and wherever I think proper.
I shall take the cross-roads--rove through the green fields--lie under
the shady trees--and drink of the cool springs. If thou wilt wander
with me, it is well, and I trust our trip will be a merry one. It is
my design to do into English--as we may aptly express such barbarous
usage--some of the Anthology--to transplant and naturalize among our
northern rocks some of those rare and beautiful exotics. The soil is
cold, and the clime rude--yet, with thy fostering care, and sunny
smiles, the flowers may grow. And if, thus roughly torn from their
warm home, they seem pale and sickly, have the justice, kind reader,
to believe that they _were_ beautiful--yea! most beautiful. The blame
be on the unskillful hand that removed them from their own sunny
Greece--the garden, where they bloomed. Thou knowest that the Syrian
olive would be but a stinted thing among the snows of Greenland, even
though “with cost, and care, and warmth, induced to shoot.” Perchance
my efforts may not be entirely without their value, since those, who
have drunk with thirsty fervor at the fountain, my awkward paraphrase
will only send back to their “first love” with renewed devotion, while
that Sun of Poetry, which, though “shorn of his beams,” will not,
I trust, have lost all “his original brightness,” will, in others,
enkindle a holy ardor to climb the “Aonian mount,” and gaze full on his
unclouded splendor.
First of all, let me present thee with a glorious song--I mean glorious
in its primal sky of Greece, before my dull northern disc transmitted
its beams, dimmed and diminished. It is an ode to two tyrannicidal
brothers, Aristogeiton and Harmodius, who, at the Panathenian festival
of Minerva, concealing swords in the myrtle branches borne on that
occasion, attacked Hipparchus, and by his death regained their
country’s freedom. It was sung by the Greeks at their entertainments.
It has been Anglicised frequently, but its simple beauty, and deep
enthusiasm, defy all translation.
In branch of myrtle will I bear the sword,
As did Harmodius of old,
When slew he Athens’ tyrant-lord,
And, with his brother bold,
Armed in his country’s cause,
Preserved her equal laws.
Dearest Harmodius! thou art not dead;
But in the islands of the bless’d thou art,
Where swift Achilles rests his weary head,
And brave Tydides calms his stormy heart.
In branch of myrtle will I bear the sword,
As did Harmodius of old,
Who, with his brother bold,
When votive cups at Pallas’ shrine were poured,
Destroyed Hipparchus, Athens’ tyrant-lord.
Thy glory on the earth shall never fade,
Dearest Harmodius, with thy brother brave,
Because the tyrant in the dust ye laid,
And did the equal laws of Athens save.
What have we next? Pollianus. And who was Pollianus? I know not. It
is certain he has left us a very pretty epigram, which I have thus
endeavored to render in Latin and English. _Hem tibi!_
_To a miserly Usurer._