perhaps, at that time, the most costly one in the city. Two of my school
mates resided there and I was very anxious to pass without being
observed, but just as we came opposite the front windows which opened to
the ground, Mrs. Johnson made a dead halt, and pointing to the house,
called out, “Come here, boys, and see what a sight o’ windows this ere
house has got.”
The little Johnsons had lingered behind, but they ran up and obeyed
their mother’s summons, by planting themselves directly before us, and
the whole group took another survey of the building. I looked up, the
blinds of a chamber were gently parted and I caught a glimpse of two
sweet, familiar faces looking down upon our interesting party. “They are
staring at us, do walk on!” I whispered in a perfect agony.
Mrs. Johnson paid no attention, she was looking earnestly down the
street, I apprehensively followed the direction of her gaze. The two
Sophomore students were coming up the opposite side walk laughing
immoderately, a piece of ill breeding which they endeavored to check
when their eyes met mine, but all in vain. Their eyes laughed in spite
of the violence put upon the lips. I could endure it no longer but tore
my arm from the tenacious grasp of my tormentor, turned the first corner
and hastened home.
When Mrs. Johnson returned she had forgotten my rudeness in her delight
at the attentions paid her by the students. “They had talked and laughed
together a full half hour,” she said, “and were so perlite.”
“What did you talk about?” I inquired with uncomfortable foreboding.
“Why, I believe it was purty much about you, after all.”
“Me?” said I, faintly.
“Yes, they asked how long we’d been acquainted, so, of course, I told
them what old friends we were—kind of relations.”
The last drop was flung in the bowl—and it overflowed—I said I was
ill—had a headache—and running to my room, locked myself in.
I never had courage to ask Maria what occurred after my exit. But the
next morning I arose very early, threw open the blinds and looked out.
The day was breaking, like an angel’s smile, in the east, dividing the
gray mist with a line of radiance, and embroidering the horizon with its
delicate golden threads. The fresh air came up from an opposite garden
rich with fragrance. The flowers bent their wet heads as it came with a
gentle breath and charmed the odor from their cups; the grass had not
yet flung off its night jewelry, and all around was still and silent as
the heart of a wilderness—no, there was one sound not so musical as it
might have been, but still the most welcome that ever fell on my ear. It
was the rattle of Mr. Johnson’s wagon as it came lumbering up to the
front door. And the most gratifying sight of that lovely morning was the
old chesnut horse stalking down the street, and dragging behind him Mr.
Johnson, Mrs. Johnson, and both the little Johnsons.
* * * * *
THE STUDENT’S DREAM OF FAME.
BY ROBERT MORRIS.
’Tis midnight’s solemn hour! And mark—yon room
Narrow, and dimly lit. The thicken’d gloom
Of deepest night is scarcely chased away,
The lamp so small—so thin its feeble ray!
Alas! poor student! What a fate is thine!
Within thy bosom burns a ray divine,
A fire has to thy spirit’s cell been given,
Alive with flame caught from the founts of Heaven!
Genius is thine, and like a worshipper
Of some far world, or glory beaming star.
Night after night, thou toilest slowly on,
Each thought refining—each comparison,
And phrase, and figure, weighing well and long,
And thus thy life-blood pouring with thy song!
How little reck we of the toil of mind!
The inward strain some sparkling thought to find—
The hollow cheek—the fever-thrilling brain—
And worse than all, when venal is the strain,
And the poor author toils alone for gain!
Not such, pale wooer of the solemn night,
Not such thy fate. The far and dazzling light
That leads thee on, is that which Death nor Time
Can wholly quench—the towering light sublime,
That burns in Fame’s high temple—the strong fire
That flashed when Milton struck his mighty lyre!
The radiant Future dawns upon thy sight,
And all thy being maddens with delight—
The dust that forms thy fragile body now,
May shrink and fade, as melts the early snow—
And where the blue veins course throughout thy form,
The things of death may revel with the worm—
But oh! wild vision—thought o’er mastering death,
Thy name shall brighten with thy parting breath—
Beings as yet unborn shall give thee praise—
And Glory’s hand shall bind thy brow with bays!
For this—for this—thine hours are given to toil,
For this alone thou burn’st the midnight oil—
Thou see’st the Future radiant with thy name,
And yield’st thy life in sacrifice for Fame!
* * * * *
THE ZANONI GALLOP.
COMPOSED FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
[Illustration: musical score]
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_The Fountain and other Poems. By William C. Bryant. One vol.
12mo. New York: Wiley & Putnam, 1842._
It will give pleasure to the lovers of elegant literature to learn that
Mr. Bryant has prepared a second volume of poems. Many, if not all of
them, have before appeared in the magazines; but the book will not be
welcomed the less warmly for that reason. Indeed, no one reads a poem by
this author without desiring to possess it in the most agreeable and
permanent form. His admirers will be gratified, therefore, that he has
so far overcome his singular feeling of modesty as to make a collection
of his scattered gems, and present them in a casket to the public.
So much has been said of the character of Bryant’s genius that we have
no disposition to enter upon that subject now; his various and high
excellencies have been pretty generally recognized; indeed, more
universally than those of any other living poet; and he himself—even if
his literary vanity is a thousand times as great as we believe it to
be—and his most ardent admirers, must be satisfied with the feeling
entertained by the public toward him. They must be satisfied, because
that feeling is in the highest degree friendly. As to ourselves, we are
conscious that our estimation of him has been constantly undergoing a
change. We have been deepening and enlarging the grounds of our
admiration. The more we have read, the more we have reflected upon his
poems, the stronger have grown our convictions of his preëminent merit.
Nor are we alone in this experience. We remember well the remark of a
friend, in whose critical discernment we are accustomed to place
considerable reliance, and who, being a foreigner, is not likely to have
been led away by that fondness for over praise which is said to mark the
literary criticisms of the Americans—“I have been,” said he, “again
reading your poet; and must confess that, as deeply as I felt his
excellence before, I have never until now formed an adequate idea of the
extent of his genius. Although I thought I had exhausted his depth, I
find that new views of the most exalted and touching thought are
continually opening upon me. I know not when I shall have done
admiring.” We replied, and the observation is worth repeating, that this
only showed the perfection of the poet’s art; for true art, like
nature—indeed, being nature itself—is inexhaustible, and the more it
is studied the greater and the richer are the resources which it
discovers. A creation, whether it be of a world, a poem, or a picture,
is an infinite work, and can be profitably contemplated year after
year—each look revealing some new and remarkable trait.
There could be no better proof of the singular merits of Mr. Bryant’s
poetry than the fact that men of every school of art, and of every
variety of taste, agree in the acknowledgment of its claims. The
disciples of Pope and of Wordsworth—those who profess to find the
excellence of the poetic art only in its external forms, and those who
look into the body of its thought and meaning—the lover of graceful
rhythm and expression, and the admirer of profound reflection or
passion—alike concur in the sentiment of admiration and respect for
Bryant. We do not mean that it shall be inferred from this that no one
is a poet who does not awaken this unanimity of feeling, for some of the
greatest poets of the last century—Shelley for instance—are not even
yet appreciated; but we mean that when this unanimity does exist it is a
most unquestionable proof of merit. It is true, it does not always
demonstrate the highest merit; yet it shows, more conclusively perhaps
than anything, that the beauties of the author are of that unequivocal,
obvious kind, which the child and the savage, the illiterate man and the
philosopher, are alike capable of recognizing. It is an easy task, then,
to point out the characteristics which have given the poet his general
celebrity. One of the most striking is the complete mastery of language
that he every where displays. If there were not many higher traits to be
discovered, we should think he spent his whole time in casting his
thoughts in the most beautiful form of expression. Precision,
compactness, purity, elegance, and force, mark every line in an almost
equal degree. It is this nice perception of the proprieties of language
that gives such exquisite finish to his versification. Its melody is
perfect.[1] Line follows line in liquid and beautiful harmony—yet all
is as simple as the utterance of a child. There is no where swelling
pomp or straining for effect. The terms, no less than the style and
manner arise naturally out of the thought. When the subject is grave and
imposing, the movement is slow and solemn; but when the theme is
lighter, the measure becomes airy, elastic, and playful. Compare, as a
proof of this, the impressive tread of “The Ages,” or “Thanatopsis,” in
which the long line of buried nations and men file before us in all
their silent majesty, with the graceful motion of “The Gladness of
Nature” or the wild dance of “The Song of the Stars.”
Two things, however, above all others, distinguish the poetry of Mr.
Bryant. The first is the fidelity with which it paints natural scenery,
and the second, the pensive and profound, yet Christian philosophy which
pervades its spirit. As we have remarked in another place, no man ever
lived whose sensibility was more susceptible than Mr. Bryant’s. Not only
is his eye open to Nature, but every fibre of his being seems to be
tremblingly alive to its presence. His nerves, like the Æolian harp, the
faintest breath of wind can make vibrate musically. The shapes and hues
of natural objects, in all their infinite diversity, seem to be the
constant companions of his thoughts. Hardly a leaf or a flower exists
with which he is not familiar. From the spire of grass by the wayside to
the huge oak in the mountains, from the violet in its secluded bed to
the bright and boundless firmament, from the shy bird brooding in his
silent nooks to the stars that weave their everlasting web of motion
through the sky, all things of nature claim his loving friendship and
care. Streams, and woods, and meadows, and rocks, and lakes mingle in
his musings, and are the very staple of his imagination. They are
“His haunt, and main region of his song.”
If we turn over his title-pages, we shall find that about two thirds of
his subjects are drawn from the various aspects or phenomena of external
nature; while, by consulting the poems themselves, we shall see that so
delicate is his eye, so perfect his command of language, and so
exquisite his taste, that his descriptions have all the effect of a
faithful but warmly colored picture. We say warmly colored, for with all
his minuteness and accuracy in the delineation of nature, he possesses a
wonderful power of imagination.
But it is not so much the graces of language or style, or the
appropriateness or beauty of imagery, as the pensive but deep and manly
philosophy, that incites our admiration of Mr. Bryant’s genius. It must
strike every one, upon the most slight and cursory perusal of his poems,
that he is a man of the most unquestionable good sense. The silent
meditation of nature, in her more genial and subduing aspects, seems to
have imparted to him the gentleness, truth, simplicity, and calmness
that ever await upon her teachings. In the spirit of his own “Forest
Hymn,” he seems often to have returned to the solitudes, to reassure his
virtue, and thus, while meditating in “God’s first temples,” His milder
majesty,
“to the beautiful order of His works
Seemed to conform the action of his life.”
Sweet affections, tenderness, patience, love, and, above all, trust in
Nature and God, are the virtues that chiefly inspire his song. It is for
this reason, that amidst his most striking and picturesque descriptions
there is always something to soften and improve. Not the tempest, the
earth-quake, or the torrent move him, but nature, in her gladness and
smiles. With every phase of the external world he has connected some
noble moral, or some beautiful religious or philosophical sentiment.
Indeed, these are so many and so touching that it is equally a matter of
amusement and instruction to trace them. Thus, in the deep slumber of
the woodlands he finds an emblem of the inward peace that marks the life
of virtue, twilight hues, “lingering after the bright sun has set,” are
like the memory of good men gone; the perishing flowers of autumn recall
those who “in their youthful beauty died;” the golden sunlight that
follows the tempest anticipates the day when “the voice of war shall
cease, and married nations dwell in harmony;” the unconscious flow of
the rivulet shows how changeless nature is amid all her change; the
flight of the lone bird amid the air tells of that power that in “the
long way that we must tread alone, will guide our steps aright;” while
“morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet,” indicate the spread of
the light of that knowledge and justice which is destined to
“Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night.”
It must be confessed, however, speaking of the spirit of Mr. Bryant’s
poetry, that many of his readers feel the absence of a deep and fervid
interest in humanity. They have complained, and we think in some degree
justly, that he exhibits too little of human passion. His mind, to use a
distinction of the Germans, has been too objective, and not enough
subjective; the forms and appearance of the outward world have absorbed
his attention almost to the exclusion of the feelings and sentiments of
the inward being. Not that he has been wholly wanting in sympathy for
his race, for in the “Ages,” the “Old Man’s Funeral,” the “Living Lost,”
the “Fairest of the Rural Maids,” and other of his poems, there are to
be found passages of the most touching and subduing pathos; but that the
truths of man’s existence; his experience on earth; the mysteries of his
condition; the trials of his life; his deathless affections; his sublime
hopes of a future state; and other topics of that character, have been
neglected. They have wished that one who could discourse so truthfully
and genially of stars, and skies, and flowers, and forests, should speak
to them, out of the depths of his own nature, of that quickening
principle which is more lovely in itself, of higher worth, and more
lasting, than the whole outward world—the human soul. They have wished
that he who has been able to interpret in such beautiful meaning the
language of nature, would apply the same noble and accomplished skill to
the interpretation of the heart. They would have him, like Wordsworth,
to whom he is in this respect only second, sing more
“Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love and Hope—
And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith;
Of blessed consolations in distress;
Of moral strength and intellectual power;
Of joy in widest commonalty spread;
Of the individual Mind that keeps her own
Inviolate retirement, subject them
To conscience only, and the law supreme
Of that Intelligence which governs all.”
We say that they would have him treat more frequently of such themes;
let us add that their wishes are in a fair way of being gratified. We
find, on comparing the present volume with Mr. Bryant’s former one, that
his thoughts have already taken the direction to which we refer. Indeed,
we have before remarked, that of late years his mind had been coming
into closer contact with human sympathies. The last poem of his first
volume—The Battle Field—so full of the highest truth, so inspiring and
consolatory, may be ranked with the best lyrics of the language. In the
volume before us, the larger number of poems are of a similar character.
Where is there a finer or a loftier hymn than the following?
THE FUTURE LIFE.
How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps
The disembodied spirits of the dead,
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps
And perishes among the dust we tread?
For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain
If there I meet thy gentle presence not;
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.
Will not thy own meek heart demand me there?
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,
Shall it be banished from thy tongue in heaven?
In meadows fanned by heaven’s life-breathing wind,
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,
And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?
The love that lived through all the stormy past
And meekly with my harsher nature bore
And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,
Shall it expire with life, and be no more?
A happier lot than mine, and larger light,
Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will
In cheerful homage to the rule of right,
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.
For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell,
Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll;
And wrath hath left its scar—that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.
Yet, though thou wear’st the glory of the sky,
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,
The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,
Lovelier in heaven’s sweet climate, yet the same?
Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home,
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this—
The wisdom which is love—till I become
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?
Whoever can read this without feeling his affections expand, or his
whole nature grow better, has less than the sensibility of humanity. We
should be glad to present other pieces to our readers, of the same
character;[2] and particularly to quote the noble poem entitled “The
Antiquity of Freedom,” in which liberty is so nobly impersonated, but we
have not room for further extracts, and can only indulge in one or two
closing remarks. It appears to be a common regret with those who speak
or write of Mr. Bryant, that he has not, as they express it, written a
“great” poem. Be it observed, that by a _great_ poem is here meant a
_long_ poem—a poem that in print will form a quarto! This kind of
critic measures poems as the Dutch are said formerly to have gauged the
merits of books—by their size. Perhaps of no author is there less
reason for the lamentation that he has not written a great poem; for, in
truth, he has written not only one, but nearly two dozen works of this
description. He has written a series of lyrics, each perfect in itself,
manifesting the highest excellence of that department of art, and
destined to an existence as indestructible as the richest treasures of
the English tongue. Indeed, we may safely say of him, that he has
written a larger number of excellent poems than any other English
author. So uniform is this excellence that it is difficult to make a
selection between his various compositions. As some one has said of
Shakspeare’s plays, the best one is that which you read last. The cause
of this is, that Mr. Bryant writes as an _artist_. He does not, with the
multitude of our poetasters, throw off lines as a patent printing press
does newspapers, five thousand an hour. He feels like a true artist, and
composes with the labor and spirit of one who is confident that his
works will live.
-----
[1] We should, perhaps, except in the “Green Mountain Boys” the badly
sounding line near the close—
“The _towers_ and the lake are _ours_.”
[2] The touching poem entitled _The Maiden’s Sorrow_, on another page of
this number, illustrates what we have said above of Mr. Bryant’s most
recent effusions. It was written by him for this Magazine since the
preparation of his volume.
* * * * *
_The Official and other Papers of the late Maj. Gen. Alexander
Hamilton: Compiled chiefly from the Originals in the possession
of Mrs. Hamilton. Vol. I. 8vo. Pp. 496. New York and London:
Wiley & Putnam. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart._
Every year, we believe, the name of Alexander Hamilton is becoming
dearer to the American People. The prejudices occasioned by some of his
unpopular and perhaps erroneous political opinions are passing away, and
all men are beginning to look upon his great qualities and important
services with candor, and consequent admiration and gratitude. The
volume of his official and other papers before us was edited by the Rev.
Francis L. Hawks, D. D. whose known familiarity with early American
history fitted him well for the duty. It commences with some letters
written while Hamilton was a clerk in a merchant’s counting-house in the
island of St. Croix, in 1769. He was then but _thirteen years old_, and
his correspondence at this early period is chiefly remarkable as showing
that strong reliance on his own resources which was so well vindicated
by the after fortunes of the man. The remainder of the book is made up
of controversial essays in defence of the measures of the continental
Congress and of the steps preparatory to the Revolution, and of his
military and private correspondence down to the close of the year 1780.
A few of the letters have before been published. Almost every one has
read the admirable account of the arrest and fate of Andre, which he
addressed to his friend Laurens. It is not surpassed in interest or
pathos by any narrative of the circumstances, in prose or verse, by
historian or novelist, that has appeared. General Hamilton was an
accomplished gentleman and a brave soldier, but his fame, as “the second
man of the republic,” rests on his achievements as a statesman, and the
succeeding volume of these papers, to embrace the period from 1780 to
1793, will contain matters of far more general and profound interest
than the one before us. The task of Dr. Hawks has been little more than
that of compilation; he but arranged the papers in chronological order
and added occasionally a note; thinking that the recently published life
of General Hamilton by his son, John C. Hamilton, rendered a
biographical notice unnecessary. We think he erred: there are among us
but few such _character-writers_ as the historian of the Church in
America, and an extended introduction to the work, from his pen, would
have added much to its value.
* * * * *
_The Book of the Poets: The Poets of the Nineteenth Century.
London, Scott, Webster, & Co. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._
This is a splendid octavo volume, in the style of S. C. Hall’s “Book of
Gems,” published in London, in 1838, but is larger and more profusely
illustrated. It contains an elaborate and well written essay on the
English poetry of the present age, and selections from the works of the
following authors, with brief biographical and critical notices. William
Gifford, Joanna Baillie, Hannah Moore, Robert Bloomfield, George Crabbe,
William Sotheby, Samuel Rogers, William Lisle Bowles, William
Wordsworth, James Montgomery, Charles Dibdin, Thomas Haynes Bayley, Sir
Walter Scott, S. T. Coleridge, Mary Tighe, James Hogg, Walter Savage
Landor, Robert Southey, Charles Lamb, Thomas Campbell, Ebenezer Elliott,
Reginald Heber, Thomas Moore, Leigh Hunt, Henry Kirke White, Lord Byron,
Barry Cornwall, Professor Wilson, Henry Hart Milman, Charles Wolfe,
Allan Cunningham, P. B. Shelley, John Clare, Mrs. Hemans, John Keats,
George Croly, Robert Pollok, Mary Russel Mitford, Letitia Elizabeth
Landon, James Sheridan Knowles, Mrs. Norton, and others. We have not had
leisure to examine the selections generally, but presume they are
judiciously made. Doubtless the work will be in great demand during the
holiday season.