"article" for a newspaper or a periodical, is as properly entitled to a
pecuniary recompense, as a doctor, or a lawyer, or a clergy-man, for
professional services; or, as a merchant or a mechanic for his
transferable property. This is a simple proposition, which nobody
disputes. The rate of such compensation must be a matter of agreement. As
between author and publisher, custom seems to have fixed on what an
arithmetician would call "square measure," as the basis of the bargain;
and the question of adjustment is simplified down to "how much by the
column, or the page?"
This system has its advantages in a business point of view; because, when
the price, or rate, is agreed on, nothing remains but to count the pages.
Whether the publisher or the writer is benefited by this plan of
computation, in a literary point of view, may, however, be doubted.
A man who is paid _by the page_ for his literary labour, has every
inducement but one to expand lines into sentences, sentences into
paragraphs, and paragraphs into extravagant dimensions. An idea, to him,
is a thing to be manufactured into words, each of which has a money value;
and if he can, by that simplest of all processes--a verbal dilution--give
to one idea the expansive power of twelve; if he can manage to spread over
six pages what would be much better said in half a page, he gains twelve
prices for his commodity, instead of one; and he sacrifices nothing but
the quality of his commodity--and _that_ is no sacrifice, so long as his
publisher and his readers do not detect it.
When a man writes for reputation, he has a very different task before him;
for no one will gain high and permanent rank as an author, unless his
ideas bear some tolerable proportion to his words. He who aims to write
_well_, will avoid diffuseness. _Multum in parvo_ will be his first
consideration; and if he achieves that, he will have secured one of the
prime requisites of literary fame.
In the earlier days of our republic, a discussion was held by several of
the prominent statesmen of the period, on the expediency of extending the
right of suffrage to others than freeholders. Some of the debaters made
long speeches; others made short ones. At length, Mr. JAY was
called on for his views of the matter. His brief response was: "Gentlemen,
in my opinion, _those who own the country ought to rule it."_ If that
distinguished patriot had been writing for the bleeding Kansas Quarterly,
at the rate of a dollar a page, he would probably have expanded this
remark. He might have written thus:
"Every man is born free and independent; or, if he is not, he ought to be.
_E pluribus unum._ He is, moreover, the natural proprietor of the soil;
for the soil, without him, is nothing worth. He came from the soil; he
lives on the soil; and he must return to the soil. _De gustibus, non est
disputandum._ So much for man in his natural state, breathing his natural
air, surrounded by his natural horizon, and luxuriating in his natural
prerogatives. But this is a very limited view of the question. Man is
expansive, aggressive, acquisitive. _Vox populi, vox Dei._ Having
acquired, he wills to acquire. Acquisition suggests acquisition. Conquest
promotes conquest. And, speaking of conquests, the greatest of all
conquests is that which a man obtains over himself--provided always that
he does obtain it. This secured, he may consider himself up to anything.
_Arma virumque cano._ Owning the soil by right of possession; owning
himself by right of conquest; and, being about to establish a form of
government conformable to his own views of right and wrong; let him
protect the right, confound the wrong, and make his own selection of
subordinate officers. _Mus cucurrit plenum sed._"
This, by way of illustration. The Jay style sounds the best: the
dollar-a-page style pays the best. But the dollar-a-page system is a very
bad one for the well-being of our newspaper and periodical literature,
simply because the chief inducement is on the wrong side. If an author
receives twice as much pay for a page as for half a page, he will write a
page as a matter of course; and, as a matter of course, the quality of
what he writes will be depreciated in geometrical proportion. For the same
thing, said in few words, is ten times more effectual than when said in
many words.
No doubt, different subjects require different handling, and more space is
needed for some than for others. An essay is not necessarily too long
because it fills five columns, or fifty pages; but periodical and
newspaper writing demands compactness, conciseness, concentration; and the
fact of being paid by measurement, is a writer's ever-present temptation
to disregard this demand.
The conceit of estimating the value of an article by its length and rating
the longest at the highest price, is about as wise as to estimate a man
by his inches instead of his intellect.
Certain names there are in the literary world, which carry great weight in
a reader's regard, independently of the quality of the contributions. If a
Sir Walter Scott were to write for the _North American Review_, he would
temporarily elevate the reputation of the Review, however carelessly he
might throw his sentences together. But, theoretically, the articles in
our periodical literature are anonymous; and, practically, they stand on
their intrinsic merits. And it is out of the question that a system which
offers a money premium for the worst fault in periodical writing--to wit,
prolixity--should not deteriorate the character of such writing.
Much more might be said on this subject; but, to the wise, a word is
sufficient. And it would ill become one who is endeavouring to recommend
conciseness, to disfigure that very endeavour by diffuseness.
WORDS FOR MUSIC.
BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.
I.
I knew a sweet girl, with a bonny blue eye,
Who was born in the shade
The witch-hazel-tree made,
Where the brook sang a song
All the summer-day long,
And the moments, like birdlings went by,--
Like the birdlings the moments flew by.
II.
I knew a fair maid, soul enchanting in grace,
Who replied to my vow,
Neath the hazel-tree bough:
"Like the brook to the sea,
Oh, I yearn, love, for thee."
And she hid in my bosom her face--
In my bosom her beautiful face.
III.
I have a dear wife, who is ever my guide;
Wooed and won in the shade
The witch-hazel tree made,
Where the brook sings its song
All the summer day long,
And the moments in harmony glide,
Like our lives they in harmony glide.
"THE CHRISTIAN GREATNESS."
(PASSAGES FROM A MANUSCRIPT SERMON.)
BY THE REV. ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D.
THE OFFERING OF CONTRITION.
That deepest lowliness of all--the prostration before God, the prostration
in penitence--is the highest honor that humanity can achieve. It is the
first great cardinal requisition in the Gospel; and it is not meant to
degrade, but to exalt us. Self-condemnation is the loftiest testimony that
can be given to virtue. It is a testimony paid at the expense of all our
pride. It is no ordinary offering. A man may sacrifice his life to what he
calls honor, or conceives to be patriotism, who never paid the homage of
an honest tear for his own faults. That was a beautiful idea of the poet,
who made the boon that was to restore a wandering shade to the bliss of
humanity--a boon sought through all the realm of nature and existence--to
consist, not in wealth or splendor, not in regal mercy or canonized
glory, but in a tear of penitence. Temple and altar, charity and pity, and
martyrdom, sunk before that.
I have seen the magnificence of all ceremonial in worship; and this was
the thought that struck me then. Permit me to describe the scene, and to
express the thought that rose in my mind, as I gazed upon it. It was in
the great cathedral church of the world; and it brings a kind of religious
impression over my mind to recall its awfulness and majesty. Above, far
above me, rose a dome, gilded and covered with mosaic pictures, and vast
as the pantheon of old Rome; the four pillars which supported it, each of
them as large as many of our churches; and the entire mass, lifted to five
times the height of this building--its own height swelling far beyond; no
dome so sublime but that of heaven was ever spread above mortal eye. And
beyond this dome, beneath which I stood, stretched away into dimness and
obscurity the mighty roofing of this stupendous temple--arches behind
arches, fretted with gold, and touched with the rays of the morning sun.
Around me, a wilderness of marble; with colors, as variegated and rich as
our autumnal woods; columns, pillars, altars, tombs, statues, pictures set
in ever-during stone; objects to strike the beholder with neverceasing
wonder. And on this mighty pavement, stood a multitude of many thousands;
and through bright lines of soldiery, stretching far down the majestic
nave, slowly advanced a solemn and stately procession, clothed with
purple, and crimson, and white, and blazing with rubies and diamonds;
slowly it advanced amidst kneeling crowds and strains of heavenly music;
and so it compassed about the altar of God, to perform the great
commemorative rite of Christ's resurrection. Expect from me no sectarian
deprecation; it was a goodly rite, and fitly performed. But, amidst solemn
utterances, and lowly prostrations, and pealing anthems, and rising
incense, and all the surrounding magnificence of the scene, shall I tell
you what was my thought? One sigh of contrition, one tear of repentance,
one humble prayer to God, though breathed in a crypt of the darkest
catacomb, is worth all the splendors of this gorgeous ceremonial and this
glorious temple.
VIRTUE IN OBSCURITY.
And let me add, that upon many a lowly bosom, the gem of virtue shines
more bright and beautiful than it is ever likely to shine in any court of
royalty or crown of empire: and this, for the very reason that it shines
in loneliness and obscurity, and is surrounded with no circlet of gazing
and flattering eyes. There _are_ positions in life, in society, where all
loveliness is seen and noted; chronicled in men's admiring comments, and
perhaps celebrated in adulatory sonnets and songs. And well, perhaps, that
it is so. I would not repress the admiration of society toward the lovely
and good. But there is many a lowly cottage, many a lowly bedside of
sickness and pain, to which genius brings no offering; to which the
footsteps of the enthusiastic and admiring never come; to which there is
_no_ cheering visitation--but the visitation of angels! _There_ is humble
toil--_there_ is patient assiduity--_there_ is noble
disinterestedness--_there_ is heroic sacrifice and unshaken truth. The
great world passes by, and it toils on in silence; to its gentle footstep,
there are no echoing praises; around its modest beauty, gathers no circle
of admirers. It never thought of honor; it never asked to be known.
Unsung, unrecorded, is the labor of its life, and shall be, till the
heavens be no more; till the great day of revelation comes; till the great
promise of Jesus is fulfilled; till the last shall be first, and the
lowliest shall be loftiest; and the poverty of the world shall be the
riches and glory of heaven.
THE BABY AND THE BOY MUSICIAN.
BY LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.
A cherub in its mother's arms,
Look'd from a casement high--
And pleasure o'er the features stray'd,
As on his simple organ play'd
A boy of Italy.
So, day by day, his skill he plied,
With still increasing zeal,
For well the glittering coin he knew,
Those fairy fingers gladly threw,
Would buy his frugal meal.
But then! alas, there came a change
Unheeded was his song,
And in his upraised, earnest eye
There dwelt a silent wonder, why
The baby slept so long.
That polished brow, those lips of Rose
Beneath the flowers were laid--
But where the music never tires,
Amid the white-robed angel choir
The happy spirit stray'd.
Yet lingering at the accustom'd place
That minstrel ply'd his art,
Though its soft symphony of words
Convulsed with pain the broken chords
Within a mother's heart.
They told him that the babe was dead
And could return no more,
_Dead! Dead!_--to his bewildered ear,
A foreign language train'd to hear--
The sound no import bore.
At length, by slow degrees, the truth
O'er his young being stole,
And with sad step he went his way
No more for that blest babe to play,
The tear-drop in his soul.
City of Washington, May 24, 1858.
THE ERL-KING.
(FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.)
BY MRS. E.F. ELLET.
By night through the forest who rideth so fast,
While the chill sleet is driving, and fierce roars the blast?
'Tis the father, who beareth his child through the storm,
And safe in his mantle has wrapped him from harm.
"My son, why hid'st thy face, as in fear?"
"Oh, father! see, father! the Erl-king is near!
The Erl-king it is, with his crown and his shroud!"
"My boy! it is naught but a wreath of the cloud."
"Oh, pretty child! come--wilt thou go with me!
With many gay sports will I gambol with thee;
There are flowers of all hues on our fairy strand--
My mother shall weave thee robes golden and grand."
"Oh, father! my father! and dost thou not hear
What the Erl-king is whispering low in mine ear?"
"Be quiet, my darling! thy hearing deceives;
'Tis but the wind whistling among the crisp leaves."
"Oh, beautiful boy! wilt thou come with me!--say!
My daughters are waiting to join thee at play!
In their arms they shall bear thee through all the dark night--
They shall dance, they shall sing thee to slumber so light?"
"My father! oh, father! and dost thou not see
Where the Erl-king's daughters are waiting for me?"
"My child! 'tis no phantom! I see it now plain;
'Tis but the grey willow that waves in the rain."
"Thy sweet face hath charmed me! I love thee, my joy!
And com'st thou not willing, I'll seize thee, fair boy!"
"Oh, father! dear father! his touch is so cold!
He grasps me! I cannot escape from his hold!"
Sore trembled the father, he spurs through the wild,
And folds yet more closely his terrified child;
He reaches his own gate in darkness and dread--
Alas! in his arms lay the fair child--dead!
THOUGHTS UPON FENELON.
BY THE REV. SAMUEL OSGOOD, D.D.
Fenelon died at Cambray, January 7, 1715, aged 64, some years after the
death of Bossuet, his antagonist, and shortly before the death of his
royal patron and persecutor, Louis XIV. The conscience of Christendom has
already judged between the two parties. Never was the spirit of the good
archbishop more powerful than now. Whilst ambitious ecclesiastics may
honor more the name of Bossuet, the heart of France has embalmed in its
affections the name of his victim, and our common humanity has
incorporated him into its body. When Fenelon's remains were discovered in
1804, the French people shouted with joy that Jacobinism had not scattered
his ashes, and a monument to his memory was forthwith decreed by Napoleon.
In 1826, his statue was erected in Cambray, and three years after, a
memorial more eloquent than any statue, a selection from his works,
exhibiting the leading features of his mind, bore witness of his power
and goodness to this western world. The graceful monument which the wife
of Follen thus reared to his memory was crowned by the hand of Channing
with a garland that as yet has shown no trace of decay.
To any conversant with that little work, or with the larger productions of
Fenelon's mind, need I say a single word of tribute to his character or
gifts? Yet something must be said to show the compass of his character,
for common eulogium is too indiscriminate in praise, exaggerating certain
amiable graces at the expense of more commanding virtues.
He was remarkable for the harmony of his various qualities. In his
intellect, reason, understanding, fancy, imagination, were balanced in an
almost unexampled degree. The equilibrium of his character showed itself
alike in the exquisite propriety of his writings and the careful and
generous economy of his substance. He died without property and without
debt. Some critics have denied him the praise of philosophical depth. They
should rather say, that his love of prying analytically into the secret
principles of things was counterbalanced by the desire to exhibit
principles in practical combination, and by his preference of truth and
virtue in its living portraiture to moral anatomizing or metaphysical
dissection. He could grapple wisely with the fatalism of Malebranche and
the pantheism of Spinosa, as his controversial works show; he could hold
an even argument with the terrible Bossuet on the essence of Christianity.
He preferred, however, to exhibit under forms far more winning than
controversy, his views of human agency, divine power, and Christian love.
The beautiful structure of his narratives, dialogues, and letters, is not
the graceful cloak that hides a poverty of philosophical ideas. It is like
the covering which the Creator has thrown around the human frame, not to
disguise its emptiness, but to incase its energies, and to ease and
beautify its action. With this reservation, we will allow it to be said
that his mind was more graceful than strong.
His heart was equally balanced with his intellect. Piety and humanity,
dignity and humility, justice and mercy, blended in the happiest
equilibrium. His gentleness never led him to forget due self-respect, or
forego any opportunity of speaking unwelcome truths. Bossuet and Louis, in
their pride, as well as young Burgundy, in his confiding attachment, had
more than one occasion to recognize the singular truthfulness of this
gentle spirit. Measured by prevalent standards, his character may be said
to lack one element--fear. His life was love. The text that the beloved
disciple drew from his Master's bosom was the constant lesson of his
soul: "He that loveth not knoweth not God, for God is love."
His active powers were great, for he filled with efficiency posts of duty
so various as to call for different orders of ability. Priest, preceptor,
prelate, as well as statesman, poet, orator, theologian, he was eminent in
every capacity, and in each sphere took something from his distinction by
being rival of himself in other spheres. Take him for all in all--allowing
to other men superior excellence in single departments--where can we find
a man on the whole so perfect as he was?
I am well aware that he has not escaped disparagement, and that the
animadversions of his contemporary, St. Simon, have been more than
repeated in the suspicions of the over-skeptical historian Michelet. True,
that the courtesy that won the hearts alike of master and servant, the
high-born lady who sought his society and the broken-spirited widow who
asked his Christian counsel, has been ascribed to a love of praise that
rejoiced in every person's homage, or a far-sighted policy that desired
every person's suffrage. True, that his self-denial has been called a deep
self-interest that would win high honors by refusing to accept the less
rewards. True, that his piety has sometimes been called sentimentalism,
and an alloy of baser emotion has been hinted at as running through some
of his letters to enthusiastic devotees. True, that he has been called
very politic and ambitious. We claim for him no superhuman perfection. Nor
do we deny that he was a Frenchman, whilst we maintain that he was every
inch a man.
But let him be judged not by a skeptical suspicion that doubts from the
habit of doubting of virtue, but by the spirit of his whole life. That
life, from beginning to end, was an example of the virtue commended by our
Lord in his charge to his apostles. Sent forth like a lamb in the midst of
wolves, he blended the wisdom of the serpent with the gentleness of the
dove. Whatever failings he may have had he conquered. His course was ever
onward to the mark whither he deemed himself called of God.
We probably have often felt, on reading Fenelon, as if his sweetness of
temper were sometimes at the expense of his manliness, and we could easily
spare some of his honeyed words for an occasional flow of hearty, even if
bitter, indignation. To his credit, however, be it said, that with him
gentle speech was often but the smooth edge of faithful counsel most
resolutely pointed and sharpened at the consciences of the great whom
rudeness would offend and inelegance disgust. Recent discoveries have
given ample proof of his unflinching boldness to the French Court. During
his banishment (1694-97) he wrote that masterly and fearless letter to
Louis XIV., which was not discovered until 1825, and which the most
earnest of his eulogists, not even Channing, we believe, seems to have
noted. Than these intrepid words, Christian heroism cannot further go.
Would that there were time to speak of his works in their various
departments, especially those in the departments of education, social
morals, and religion.
No name stands above his among the leaders in the great cause of
education. None surpass him in the power with which he defended the mind
of woman from the impoverishing and distorting systems prevalent in his
day, and by his example and pen taught parents to educate their daughters
in a manner that should rebuke vanity and deceit, and blend grace with
utility. None went before him in knowledge of the art of taming obstinate
boyhood into tenderness, and with all modern improvements our best
teachers may find in his works a mine of knowledge and incentive both in
their tasks of instruction and discipline.
In social morals he was a great reformer; not, indeed, so remarkable for
being engrossed with some favorite innovation, as for urging the constant
need of applying Christian truth and duty to every social institution. He
rebuked the passion for war, by his own demeanor disarmed the hostility of
combatants, and by his instructions struck at the root of warfare in the
councils of princes. We may well be amazed at his political wisdom, and
taught more emphatically than ever that we are to look for this not to the
hack-politicians who think only of the cabals of the moment, but to the
sage men who interpret the future from the high ground of reason and
right. His political papers embody the lessons that France has since
learned by a baptism of blood. Hardly a single principle now deemed
necessary for the peace and prosperity of nations, can be named, that
cannot be found expressed or implied in Fenelon's various advice to the
royal youth under his charge. Well may the better minds of France and
Christendom honor his name for the noble liberality with which he
qualified the mild conservatism so congenial with his temperament, creed
and position.