I send you these lines[1] without the writer's name. It is one of many
instances in proof of what I have long believed, that selections might
be made from the unpublished writings of Virginians, composing a volume
of which any country might be proud. The writer of the above throws off
such scraps at idle times, without effort, and without pretension. With
so much of the inspiration of poetry, he has nothing of its madness,
and will never consent to be known to the world as an author.
[Footnote 1: "Beauty without Loveliness." See article above.]
So it is in other branches of literature. A man who has sense enough to
write a good book, very often has too much sense to publish it. In
countries where the division of labor has made literature a separate
trade, necessity often overrules the judgment of the writer, forcing
him to publish against his will--_se invito_ as well as _invita
Minerva_. No such necessity exists here, and hence, among us, few
publish, but those who should be perpetually injoined the use of pen
and ink. Thank God, the literary reputation of Virginia has never
suffered much by such scribblers. We have a few such, but their
writings were too bad to do much harm; they never crossed the State
line.
Might you not take a hint from this consideration? The merit of your
publication will give a wide circulation to all that it contains. Are
you not then bound to be chary in your selections, and not lend your
wings to bear to distant lands the weak twitterings or the tuneless
chatter of the Pie and Sparrow kinds? The nightingale does not pour her
note until their noise is stilled. Print only for poets, and poets will
write for you. This is the true solution of the difficulty you have so
strongly stated in your last number.
It is not in Virginia alone, that the writings which are permitted to
see the light afford an inadequate idea of the literary resources of
the country. It is not fair to judge of the poetical talents of our
northern neighbors by the labored dulness of a Barlow; or by the
writings of a certain literary cabal, which is trying to push its
members into notice by mutual puffing and quotation. Halleck is not one
of the firm; and Halleck is a true poet. But his writings first came
out anonymously; and it is the blaze of his genius which has betrayed
him to the public eye. The darkness in which it shrouds itself,
distinguishes it from all that shines only by reflected light. Men hunt
for diamonds in the night.
Even in England, where the trade of literature embraces writers of a
very high order, I am not sure that the very best minds are devoted to
it. Some of the finest poetry in the language was found among the
manuscripts of Judge Blackstone. Nobody knew that Charles Fox wrote
poetry until after his death. But he did, and such as no writer need
have blushed to own.
Among the caprices of the "_genus irritabile vatum_," is that of hiding
their talents. Some, from sheer spleen, will not write. John Randolph
used to say that he would go to his grave "guiltless of rhyme." Yet _he
talked poetry_ from morning till night.
As I am out a purveyor for your journal, and not a contributor, I am
bound to see that they, from whose writings I pilfer, come by no wrong.
I must therefore enter a complaint on behalf of the friend whose letter
I sent you, describing a scene on the Mississippi. His "clumps" of
trees your compositor has cut down to "stumps." Can you wonder that
your neighbor (_contemporary_ I believe is the word in fashion,)
thought his letter but "_so so_?" He was no more bound to suppose that
this was a misprint, than to reflect that a traveller, writing from the
wilds of Missouri to a friend, might innocently make an unimportant
mistake in quoting from a book that perhaps never crossed the
Mississippi. But though he has to bear the brunt of the censure, it
should in justice fall on you or me. The thing was well enough as a
letter. The fault was in publishing it. But I shall attempt no defence.
I thought it but "so so-ish" when I sent it to you, and therefore I
said so. It was a plain unvarnished description, which had enabled me
to see very distinctly what was well worth seeing, and I wished others
to see it too. Had the composition been of a different character--had
the painter thrust _himself_ between the spectator and his picture, or
so glossed it over that every object was lost in undistinguished glare,
I should have given it to the public eye by other means. I should
certainly not have defaced with it your modest pages. It surely would
not be hard to fix on some periodical in which any sort of tinsel would
be welcome, and find itself in congenial company. Such is the proper
receptacle for all the trumpery wares of frothy declamation,
incongruous metaphor, false eloquence and flippant wit, which make up
what is commonly called fine writing. There, in the gay confusion of
glass bead and gewgaw, any bauble, however worthless, finds its place,
escaping censure by escaping notice.
To take more shame to myself, I acknowledge that the misquotation
struck me as I copied the letter. But the turn of the passage did not
admit of its correction; and I did not think it worth while to append a
note to tell what every body knows, and no one needs to know.
But I shall do better in future. While you continue to publish what I
send you, I shall continue to cater for you. In doing this, I shall
henceforth cross the t's and dot the i's in my copies, although this
should have been omitted in the original. "I am wae to think" indeed,
as Burns says, what small critics would do for want of such mistakes. A
link in nature's chain (the last and lowest indeed) would be lost. The
_auceps syllabarum_ "the word catcher that lives on syllables" would be
starved out. The race would be extinct for want of food. The king of
these insects bears among naturalists the formidable name of the
_dragon fly_. The boys call him the _musquito hawk_. He shall have no
more food from me. Your friend,