ideas of others, and to call attention to a subject of more national
importance than may at first be supposed.
Very respectfully yours,
Geoffrey Crayon.
* * * * *
DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM.
"Let a man write never so well, there are now-a-days a sort of persons
they call critics, that, egad, have no more wit in them than so many
hobby-horses: but they'll laugh at you, Sir, and find fault, and censure
things, that, egad, I'm sure they are not able to do themselves; a sort
of envious persons, that emulate the glories of persons of parts, and
think to build their fame by calumniation of persons that, egad, to my
knowledge, of all persons in the world, are in nature the persons that
do as much despise all that, as--a--In fine, I'll say no more of 'em!"
-REHEARSAL.
All the world knows the story of the tempest-tossed voyager, who, coming
upon a strange coast, and seeing a man hanging in chains, hailed it with
joy, as the sign of a civilized country. In like manner we may hail, as
a proof of the rapid advancement of civilization and refinement in
this country, the increasing number of delinquent authors daily gibbeted
for the edification of the public.
In this respect, as in every other, we are "going ahead" with
accelerated velocity, and promising to outstrip the superannuated
countries of Europe. It is really astonishing to see the number of
tribunals incessantly springing up for the trial of literary offences.
Independent of the high courts of Oyer and Terminer, the great quarterly
reviews, we have innumerable minor tribunals, monthly and weekly, down
to the Pie-poudre courts in the daily papers; insomuch that no culprit
stands so little chance of escaping castigation, as an unlucky author,
guilty of an unsuccessful attempt to please the public.
Seriously speaking, however, it is questionable whether our national
literature is sufficiently advanced, to bear this excess of criticism;
and whether it would not thrive better, if allowed to spring up, for
some time longer, in the freshness and vigor of native vegetation. When
the worthy Judge Coulter, of Virginia, opened court for the first time
in one of the upper counties, he was for enforcing all the rules and
regulations that had grown into use in the old, long-settled counties.
"This is all very well," said a shrewd old farmer; "but let me tell you,
Judge Coulter, you set your coulter too deep for a new soil."
For my part, I doubt whether either writer or reader is benefited by
what is commonly called criticism. The former is rendered cautious and
distrustful; he fears to give way to those kindling emotions, and brave
sallies of thought, which bear him up to excellence; the latter is made
fastidious and cynical; or rather, he surrenders his own independent
taste and judgment, and learns to like and dislike at second hand.
Let us, for a moment, consider the nature of this thing called
criticism, which exerts such a sway over the literary world. The pronoun
we, used by critics, has a most imposing and delusive sound. The reader
pictures to himself a conclave of learned men, deliberating gravely and
scrupulously on the merits of the book in question; examining it page by
page, comparing and balancing their opinions, and when they have united
in a conscientious verdict, publishing it for the benefit of the world:
whereas the criticism is generally the crude and hasty production of
an individual, scribbling to while away an idle hour, to oblige a
book-seller, or to defray current expenses. How often is it the
passing notion of the hour, affected by accidental circumstances; by
indisposition, by peevishness, by vapors or indigestion; by personal
prejudice, or party feeling. Sometimes a work is sacrificed, because
the reviewer wishes a satirical article; sometimes because he wants
a humorous one; and sometimes because the author reviewed has become
offensively celebrated, and offers high game to the literary marksman.
How often would the critic himself, if a conscientious man, reverse his
opinion, had he time to revise it in a more sunny moment; but the press
is waiting, the printer's devil is at his elbow; the article is wanted
to make the requisite variety for the number of the review, or the
author has pressing occasion for the sum he is to receive for the
article, so it is sent off, all blotted and blurred; with a shrug of
the shoulders, and the consolatory ejaculation: "Pshaw! curse it! it's
nothing but a review!"
The critic, too, who dictates thus oracularly to the world, is perhaps
some dingy, ill-favored, ill-mannered varlet, who, were he to speak by
word of mouth, would be disregarded, if not scoffed at; but such is the
magic of types; such the mystic operation of anonymous writing; such the
potential effect of the pronoun we, that his crude decisions, fulminated
through the press, become circulated far and wide, control the opinions
of the world, and give or destroy reputation.
Many readers have grown timorous in their judgments since the
all-pervading currency of criticism. They fear to express a revised,
frank opinion about any new work, and to relish it honestly and
heartily, lest it should be condemned in the next review, and they stand
convicted of bad taste. Hence they hedge their opinions, like a gambler
his bets, and leave an opening to retract, and retreat, and qualify,
and neutralise every unguarded expression of delight, until their very
praise declines into a faintness that is damning.
Were every one, on the contrary, to judge for himself, and speak his
mind frankly and fearlessly, we should have more true criticism in the
world than at present. Whenever a person is pleased with a work, he may
be assured that it has good qualities. An author who pleases a variety
of readers, must possess substantial powers of pleasing; or, in other
words, intrinsic merits; for otherwise we acknowledge an effect, and
deny the cause. The reader, therefore, should not suffer himself to be
readily shaken from the conviction of his own feelings, by the sweeping
censures of pseudo critics. The author he has admired, may be chargeable
with a thousand faults; but it is nevertheless beauties and excellencies
that have excited his admiration; and he should recollect that taste
and judgment are as much evinced in the perception of beauties among
defects, as in a detection of defects among beauties. For my part, I
honor the blessed and blessing spirit that is quick to discover and
extol all that is pleasing and meritorious. Give me the honest bee, that
extracts honey from the humblest weed, but save me from the ingenuity
of the spider, which traces its venom, even in the midst of a
flower-garden.
If the mere fact of being chargeable with faults and imperfections is to
condemn an author, who is to escape? The greatest writers of antiquity
have, in this way, been obnoxious to criticism. Aristotle himself has
been accused of ignorance; Aristophanes of impiety and buffoonery;
Virgil of plagiarism, and a want of invention; Horace of obscurity;
Cicero has been, said to want vigor and connexion, and Demosthenes to
be deficient in nature, and in purity of language. Yet these have all
survived the censures of the critic, and flourished on to a glorious
immortality. Every now and then the world is startled by some new
doctrines in matters of taste, some levelling attacks on established
creeds; some sweeping denunciations of whole generations, or schools of
writers, as they are called, who had seemed to be embalmed and canonized
in public opinion. Such has been the case, for instance, with Pope, and
Dryden, and Addison, who for a time have almost been shaken from their
pedestals, and treated as false idols.
It is singular, also, to see the fickleness of the world with respect
to its favorites. Enthusiasm exhausts itself, and prepares the way
for dislike. The public is always for positive sentiments, and new
sensations. When wearied of admiring, it delights to censure; thus
coining a double set of enjoyments out of the same subject. Scott and
Byron are scarce cold in their graves, and already we find criticism
beginning to call in question those powers which held the world in magic
thraldom. Even in our own country, one of its greatest geniuses has
had some rough passages with the censors of the press; and instantly
criticism begins to unsay all that it has repeatedly said in his praise;
and the public are almost led to believe that the pen which has so often
delighted them, is absolutely destitute of the power to delight!
If, then, such reverses in opinion as to matters of taste can be so
readily brought about, when may an author feel himself secure? Where is
the anchoring-ground of popularity, when he may thus be driven from his
moorings, and foundered even in harbor? The reader, too, when he is to
consider himself safe in admiring, when he sees long-established altars
overthrown, and his household deities dashed to the ground!
There is one consolatory reflection. Every abuse carries with it its
own remedy or palliation. Thus the excess of crude and hasty criticism,
which has of late prevailed throughout the literary world, and
threatened to overrun our country, begins to produce its own antidote.
Where there is a multiplicity of contradictory paths, a man must make
his choice; in so doing, he has to exercise his judgment, and that is
one great step to mental independence. He begins to doubt all, where all
differ, and but one can be in the right. He is driven to trust to his
own discernment, and his natural feelings; and here he is most likely
to be safe. The author, too, finding that what is condemned at one
tribunal, is applauded at another, though perplexed for a time, gives
way at length to the spontaneous impulse of his genius, and the dictates
of his taste, and writes in the way most natural to himself. It is thus
that criticism, which by its severity may have held the little world of
writers in check, may, by its very excess, disarm itself of its terrors,
and the hardihood of talent become restored.
G.C.
* * * * *
SPANISH ROMANCE.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.
Sir: I have already given you a legend or two drawn from ancient Spanish
sources, and may occasionally give you a few more. I love these old
Spanish themes, especially when they have a dash of the Morisco in them,
and treat of the times when the Moslems maintained a foot-hold in the
peninsula. They have a high, spicy, oriental flavor, not to be found in
any other themes that are merely European. In fact, Spain is a country
that stands alone in the midst of Europe; severed in habits, manners,
and modes of thinking, from all its continental neighbors. It is a
romantic country; but its romance has none of the sentimentality of
modern European romance: it is chiefly derived from the brilliant
regions of the East, and from the high-minded school of Saracenic
chivalry.
The Arab invasion and conquest brought a higher civilization and
a nobler style of thinking into Gothic Spain. The Arabs were a
quick-witted, sagacious, proud-spirited, and poetical people, and were
imbued with oriental science and literature. Wherever they established a
seat of power, it became a rallying place for the learned and ingenious;
and they softened and refined the people whom they conquered. By
degrees, occupancy seemed to give them a hereditary right to their
foothold in the land; they ceased to be looked upon as invaders, and
were regarded as rival neighbors. The peninsula, broken up into a
variety of states, both Christian and Moslem, became for centuries
a great campaigning ground, where the art of war seemed to be the
principal business of man, and was carried to the highest pitch of
romantic chivalry. The original ground of hostility, a difference of
faith, gradually lost its rancor. Neighboring states, of opposite
creeds, were occasionally linked together in alliances, offensive and
defensive; so that the cross and crescent were to be seen side by side
fighting against some common enemy. In times of peace, too, the noble
youth of either faith resorted to the same cities, Christian or Moslem,
to school themselves in military science. Even in the temporary truces
of sanguinary wars, the warriors who had recently striven together in
the deadly conflicts of the field, laid aside their animosity, met at
tournaments, jousts, and other military festivities, and exchanged the
courtesies of gentle and generous spirits. Thus the opposite races
became frequently mingled together in peaceful intercourse, or if any
rivalry took place, it was in those high courtesies and nobler acts
which bespeak the accomplished cavalier. Warriors of opposite creeds
became ambitious of transcending each other in magnanimity as well as
valor. Indeed, the chivalric virtues were refined upon to a degree
sometimes fastidious and constrained; but at other times, inexpressibly
noble and affecting. The annals of the times teem with illustrious
instances of high-wrought courtesy, romantic generosity, lofty
disinterestedness, and punctilious honor, that warm the very soul to
read them. These have furnished themes for national plays and poems, or
have been celebrated in those all-pervading ballads which are as the
life-breath of the people, and thus have continued to exercise an
influence on the national character which centuries of vicissitude and
decline have not been able to destroy; so that, with all their faults,
and they are many, the Spaniards, even at the present day, are on many
points the most high-minded and proud-spirited people of Europe.
It is true, the romance of feeling derived from the sources I have
mentioned, has, like all other romance, its affectations and extremes.
It renders the Spaniard at times pompous and grandiloquent; prone to
carry the "pundonor," or point of honor, beyond the bounds of sober
sense and sound morality; disposed, in the midst of poverty, to affect
the "grande caballero," and to look down with sovereign disdain upon
"arts mechanical," and all the gainful pursuits of plebeian life; but
this very inflation of spirit, while it fills his brain with vapors,
lifts him above a thousand meannesses; and though it often keeps him in
indigence, ever protects him from vulgarity.
In the present day, when popular literature is running into the low
levels of life and luxuriating on the vices and follies of mankind, and
when the universal pursuit of gain is trampling down the early growth
of poetic feeling and wearing out the verdure of the soul, I question
whether it would not be of service for the reader occasionally to turn
to these records of prouder times and loftier modes of thinking, and to
steep himself to the very lips in old Spanish romance.
For my own part, I have a shelf or two of venerable, parchment-bound
tomes, picked up here and there about the peninsula, and filled with
chronicles, plays, and ballads, about Moors and Christians, which I keep
by me as mental tonics, in the same way that a provident housewife has
her cupboard of cordials. Whenever I find my mind brought below par by
the commonplace of every-day life, or jarred by the sordid collisions
of the world, or put out of tune by the shrewd selfishness of modern
utilitarianism, I resort to these venerable tomes, as did the worthy
hero of La Mancha to his books of chivalry, and refresh and tone up my
spirit by a deep draught of their contents. They have some such effect
upon me as Falstaff ascribes to a good Sherris sack, "warming the blood
and filling the brain with fiery and delectable shapes."
I here subjoin, Mr. Editor, a small specimen of the cordials I have
mentioned, just drawn from my Spanish cupboard, which I recommend to
your palate. If you find it to your taste, you may pass it on to your
readers.
Your correspondent and well-wisher,
GEOFFREY CRAYON.
* * * * *
LEGEND OF DON MUNIO SANCHO DE HINOJOSA.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK.
In the cloisters of the ancient Benedictine convent of San Domingo, at
Silos, in Castile, are the mouldering yet magnificent monuments of the
once powerful and chivalrous family of Hinojosa. Among these, reclines
the marble figure of a knight, in complete armor, with the hands pressed
together, as if in prayer. On one side of his tomb is sculptured in
relief a band of Christian cavaliers, capturing a cavalcade of male and
female Moors; on the other side, the same cavaliers are represented
kneeling before an altar. The tomb, like most of the neighboring
monuments, is almost in ruins, and the sculpture is nearly
unintelligible, excepting to the keen eye of the antiquary. The story
connected with the sepulchre, however, is still preserved in the old
Spanish chronicles, and is to the following purport.
* * * * *
In old times, several hundred years ago, there was a noble Castilian
cavalier, named Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa, lord of a border castle,
which had stood the brunt of many a Moorish foray. He had seventy
horsemen as his household troops, all of the ancient Castilian proof;
stark warriors, hard riders, and men of iron; with these he scoured the
Moorish lands, and made his name terrible throughout the borders. His
castle hall was covered with banners, and scimitars, and Moslem helms,
the trophies of his prowess. Don Munio was, moreover, a keen huntsman;
and rejoiced in hounds of all kinds, steeds for the chase, and hawks for
the towering sport of falconry. When not engaged in warfare, his delight
was to beat up the neighboring forests; and scarcely ever did he ride
forth, without hound and horn, a boar-spear in his hand, or a hawk upon
his fist, and an attendant train of huntsmen.
His wife, Donna Maria Palacin, was of a gentle and timid nature, little
fitted to be the spouse of so hardy and adventurous a knight; and many
a tear did the poor lady shed, when he sallied forth upon his daring
enterprises, and many a prayer did she offer up for his safety.
As this doughty cavalier was one day hunting, he stationed himself in a
thicket, on the borders of a green glade of the forest, and dispersed
his followers to rouse the game, and drive it toward his stand. He had
not been here long, when a cavalcade of Moors, of both sexes, came
prankling over the forest lawn. They were unarmed, and magnificently
dressed in robes of tissue and embroidery, rich shawls of India,
bracelets and anklets of gold, and jewels that sparkled in the sun.
At the head of this gay cavalcade, rode a youthful cavalier, superior
to the rest in dignity and loftiness of demeanor, and in splendor of
attire; beside him was a damsel, whose veil, blown aside by the breeze,
displayed a face of surpassing beauty, and eyes cast down in maiden
modesty, yet beaming with tenderness and joy.
Don Munio thanked his stars for sending him such a prize, and exulted at
the thought of bearing home to his wife the glittering spoils of these
infidels. Putting his hunting-horn to his lips, he gave a blast that
rung through the forest. His huntsmen came running from all quarters,
and the astonished Moors were surrounded and made captives.
The beautiful Moor wrung her hands in despair, and her female attendants
uttered the most piercing cries. The young Moorish cavalier alone
retained self-possession. He inquired the name of the Christian knight,
who commanded this troop of horsemen. When told that it was Don Munio
Sancho de Hinojosa, his countenance lighted up. Approaching that
cavalier, and kissing his hand, "Don Munio Sancho," said he, "I have
heard of your fame as a true and valiant knight, terrible in arms, but
schooled in the noble virtues of chivalry. Such do I trust to find you.
In me you behold Abadil, son of a Moorish Alcayde. I am on the way to
celebrate my nuptials with this lady; chance has thrown us in your
power, but I confide in your magnanimity. Take all our treasure and
jewels; demand what ransom you think proper for our person, but suffer
us not to be insulted or dishonored."
When the good knight heard this appeal, and beheld the beauty of the
youthful pair, his heart was touched with tenderness and courtesy.
"God forbid," said he, "that I should disturb such happy nuptials. My
prisoners in troth shall ye be, for fifteen days, and immured within
my castle, where I claim, as conqueror, the right of celebrating your
espousals."
So saying, he despatched one of his fleetest horsemen in advance, to
notify Donna Maria Palacin of the coming of this bridal party; while he
and his huntsmen escorted the cavalcade, not as captors, but as a guard
of honor. As they drew near to the castle, the banners were hung out,
and the trumpets sounded from the battlements; and on their nearer
approach, the draw-bridge was lowered, and Donna Maria came forth
to meet them, attended by her ladies and knights, her pages and her
minstrels. She took the young bride, Allifra, in her arms, kissed her
with the tenderness of a sister, and conducted her into the castle. In
the mean time, Don Munio sent forth missives in every direction, and had
viands and dainties of all kinds collected from the country round; and
the wedding of the Moorish lovers was celebrated with all possible state
and festivity. For fifteen days, the castle was given up to joy and
revelry. There were tiltings and jousts at the ring, and bullfights, and
banquets, and dances to the sound of minstrelsy. When the fifteen days
were at an end, he made the bride and bridegroom magnificent presents,
and conducted them and their attendants safely beyond the borders. Such,
in old times, were the courtesy and generosity of a Spanish cavalier.
Several years after this event, the King of Castile summoned his nobles
to assist him in a campaign against the Moors. Don Munio Sancho was
among the first to answer to the call, with seventy horsemen, all
staunch and well-tried warriors. His wife, Donna Maria, hung about his
neck. "Alas, my lord!" exclaimed she, "how often wilt thou tempt thy
fate, and when will thy thirst for glory be appeased?"
"One battle more," replied Don Munio, "one battle more, for the honor of
Castile, and I here make a vow, that when this is over, I will lay by my
sword, and repair with my cavaliers in pilgrimage to the sepulchre of
our Lord at Jerusalem." The cavaliers all joined with him in the vow,
and Donna Maria felt in some degree soothed in spirit: still, she saw
with a heavy heart the departure of her husband, and watched his banner
with wistful eyes, until it disappeared among the trees of the forest,
The King of Castile led his army to the plains of Almanara, where they
encountered the Moorish host, near to Ucles. The battle was long and
bloody; the Christians repeatedly wavered, and were as often rallied by
the energy of their commanders. Don Munio was covered with wounds, but
refused to leave the field. The Christians at length gave way, and the
king was hardly pressed, and in danger of being captured.
Don Munio called upon his cavaliers to follow him to the rescue. "Now is
the time," cried he, "to prove your loyalty. Fall to, like brave men!
We fight for the true faith, and if we lose our lives here, we gain a
better life hereafter."
Rushing with his men between the king and his pursuers, they checked the
latter in their career, and gave time for their monarch to escape; but
they fell victims to their loyalty. They all fought to the last gasp.
Don Munio was singled out by a powerful Moorish knight, but having been
wounded in the right arm, he fought to disadvantage, and was slain. The
battle being over, the Moor paused to possess himself of the spoils of
this redoubtable Christian warrior. When he unlaced the helmet, however,
and beheld the countenance of Don Munio, he gave a great cry, and smote
his breast. "Woe is me!" cried he: "I have slain my benefactor! The
flower of knightly virtue! the most magnanimous of cavaliers!"
* * * * *
While the battle had been raging on the plain of Salmanara, Donna Maria
Palacin remained in her castle, a prey to the keenest anxiety. Her eyes
were ever fixed on the road that led from the country of the Moors, and
often she asked the watchman of the tower, "What seest thou?"