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THE
Knickerbocker,
OR
NEW-YORK MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
VOLUME XXIII.
NEW-YORK:
PUBLISHED BY JOHN ALLEN, NASSAU-STREET.
1844.
INDEX.
A.
Apostrophe to an Old Hat. By J. G. SAXE, 69
A Lady on the Rights of Women, 79
A Second Ralph Ringwood, 81
Ascent of Mount Ætna. By THOMAS COLE, 103
A Night on the Prairie. By a Buffalo Hunter, 114
A Winter Trip to Trenton Falls, 133
A Veritable Sea-Story. By HARRY FRANCO, 151
A Few Hints on the Philosophy of Size, 156
American Manners and American Literature, 180
An Apostrophe to Health, 217
Anacreontic. By 'G. H. H.', 275
A Christmas Carol in Prose, 276
American Ptyalism: 'Quid Rides?' 288
A Pilgrimage to Penshurst. By C. ALEXANDER, Esq., 307
A First Night of Racine. By FLANEUR, 345
Apostrophe to Time. By Miss MARY GARDINER, 353
An Alligatorical Sketch, 361
Address and Poem at Boston, 387
A Brace of 'Pellets' from Julian, 391
A Dream. By JOHN WATERS, 432
A Piscatorial Eclogue, 46
A Picture by Murillo, 503
A Song. By JOHN WATERS, 516
Autobiography of the Prairie Hermit, 557
A Dream of Youth, 561
A New Spirit of the Age, 583
A Day With the great SEATSFIELD, 584
A Thrust with a Two-edged Weapon, 590
Another 'Pellet' from JULIAN, 595
B.
Benthamiana, 282
Belizarius: A Historical Sketch, 337
Birth-Day Meditations, 527
C.
Coronation of George the Fourth, 138
Curiosities of Foreign and Domestic Literature, 490
CLARK'S Literary Remains, 495, 578
D.
Descriptive Poetry, 1
Drawings and Tintings. By ALFRED B. STREET, 387
Disguised Derivative Words in English, 570
E.
EDITOR'S TABLE, 78, 180, 283, 389, 499, 584
Essay on a Passage in Macbeth. By JOHN WATERS, 153
Elementary Treatise on Human Physiology, 178
Early Spring at the Homestead, 438
English State Trials under the Popish Plot, 447
Exhibition of the National Academy of Design, 595
F.
Freedom's Beacon at Bunker-Hill, 132
Fragments from the Greek. By 'G. H. H.', 361
G.
Ganguernet: or a Capital Joke, 62
GOSSIP with Readers and Correspondents, 83, 192, 289, 396, 505, 599
I.
I Follow: from the French, 145
Isabel: the Death of the Young, 218
Idyll: in imitation of Theocritus, 323
Inscription for a Sarcophagus, 367
Italy and the Italians. By J. T. HEADLEY, Esq., 498
Impudence of the French, 499
J.
JOSEPH C. NEALE'S 'Charcoal Sketches,' 184
K.
KENDALL'S Narrative of the Santa Fe Expedition, 382
L.
Lines to a Fringed Gentian. By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, Esq., 28
Lines to Death, the Great Conqueror, 44
Letter to the Editor from Mr. JAMES JESSAMINE, 58
Love's Elysium: from the German, 61
Lines to an Evening Cloud, 73
LITERARY NOTICES, 74, 170, 276, 382, 490, 578
Lines to Time. By Mrs. J. WEBB, 113
Life's Young Dream, 119
Life: a Sonnet, 159
Lines to J. T. of Ireland. By C. W. DAY, Esq., 169
Life and Times of the late WILLIAM ABBOTT, 187
Lines sent with a Bouquet. By PARK BENJAMIN, Esq., 211
Legend of Don Roderick. By WASHINGTON IRVING, 262, 324, 418
Literary Record, 305
Lines with a 'Floral Messenger,' 534
Lines written under a portrait of Jupiter and Danäe, 430
Lines to my Sister. By R. S. CHILTON, 472
Legend of the Subjugation of Spain. By WASHINGTON IRVING, 572
Lines by Prof. Plutarch Shaw, of Tinnecum, 577
Life in the New World. By SEATSFIELD, 581
M.
Mexico as it was and is. By BRANTZ MAYER, Esq., 77
Music, Musicians, Musical Critics, and Ole Bull, 80
Mr. CHEEVER'S Lectures on the Pilgrims, 388
MARY MAY: the Newfoundland Indian, 523
Mental Hygiene. By WILLIAM SWEETSER, M. D., 581
Magazine Writing, 589
N.
Night and Morning. By 'POLYGON', 257
Night-Thoughts: to BLUMINE, 436
North-American Review for the April quarter, 492
O.
Old reflections on the New Year, 78
One Reading from Two Poets. By JOHN WATERS, 218
On Rivers and Other Things. By do., 349
P.
Poems of JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, 170
Professor Shaw, of Tinnecum, 549
Poetry and History of Wyoming. By WILLIAM L. STONE, Esq., 382
R.
Reminiscenses of a Dartmoor Prisoner, 146, 356, 517
Rêves et Souvenirs, 343
Religious Controversy. By 'FLACCUS,' 445
S.
Song of the New Year. By Mrs. R. S. NICHOLS, 25
Stanzas suggested by GLIDDON'S Lectures, 29
Sketches of East Florida: St. Augustine, 45
Sonnet to the Old Year, 53
Some Thoughts on the Country, 70
Scenes and Scenery in the Sandwich Islands, 77
Sicilian Scenery and Antiquities. By THOMAS COLE, 103, 236
Some Sentiments on Sonnets, with Sundry Specimens, 283
Stanzas to MARY. By Mrs. M. E. HEWITT, 348
Stanzas on the Burial of an Infant, 460
Stanzas to Niagara. By CLAUDE HALCRO, 489
Stanzas to my Three Departed Sisters, 556
Stanzas Written in Indisposition. By the late WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, 569
T.
The Idleberg Papers: a Christmas Yarn, 11
Thoughts on Color. By JOHN WATERS, 26
The Quod Correspondence, 30, 120, 245, 368, 473, 529
Thoughts from Bulwer. By Mrs. M. T. W. CHANDLER, 52
The Mail Robber, 53
The Æneid of Virgil: with Notes by CHAS. ANTHON, 76
The Sacrifice, 127
The Death-Bed. By the 'COUNTRY DOCTOR,' 128
The Ruins of Burnside. By JAMES LAWSON, Esq., 137
The Smithy. By ALFRED B. STREET, Esq., 155
Two Pictures: Love Celestial and Love Terrestrial, 160
The Hermit of the Prairie, 161
Translation from CATULLUS. By Rev. Geo. W. BETHUNE, 166
The Painted Rock, 167
Thirty Years among the Players of England and America, 175
The Study of Woman's Life, 179
The American Review, 179
The North American Review, for January, 183
The Alms-House: a New-England Sketch, 212
The Tyranny of Affection, 222
The Fratricide's Death, 232
The Spectre Imp. By Mr. GEORGE HARVEY, 338
The Church Bell, 368
The Inner Life of Man. By Mr. CHARLES HOOVER, 389, 599
The Floral Resurrection, 417
The Dog-Star Spirit: or, Tray's Reflections, 431
The Poet Halleck: Epistle to the Editor, 437
The Plague at Constantinople in 1837, 511
The Song of Death. By MISS MARY GARDINER, 523
The Householder. by JOHN WATERS, 528
The Hearth of Home, 548
V.
Vicissitudes, 10
Voices of Affection, 336
W.
Winter Evening: an Extract. By J. G. PERCIVAL, Esq., 24
What is Transcendentalism? 205
Wanderings of a Journeyman Tailor, 281
What is It? A Lover's Query, 489
+-------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note: The page numbers in the |
| index convert to issues in the following way: |
| |
| January, 1844 1-102 |
| February 103-204 |
| March 205-306 |
| April 307-408 |
| May 409-510 |
| June 511-608 |
+-------------------------------------------------+
T H E K N I C K E R B O C K E R.
VOL. XXIII. JANUARY, 1844. NO. 1.
DESCRIPTIVE POETRY.
BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.
Whatever the poets may say, it is incontrovertible that the great majority
of men look upon the beauties and glories of Nature that surround them
with almost entire indifference. We shall not inquire whether this is the
result of a natural incapacity to perceive and admire the beautiful and
sublime, or whether it is that their impressions are so deadened by
familiarity as to be passed by unnoticed. Probably the former is the case
with the greater number; although we cannot believe with some writers,
that all our ideas of beauty are but the results of association, or of our
perceptions of the proportion, or fitness, or utility of things. When we
say that some things are naturally agreeable, and others naturally
disagreeable, we have said all that we know about the matter; and this
amounts to nothing more than a confession of our ignorance. Yet, if we
admit in all men the existence of a natural sense of beauty, daily
observation shows us that the pleasure arising from it is in most cases
very feeble and evanescent. How many live in the midst of the most
magnificent natural scenery, and never perceive its beauties until they
are pointed out to them by some intelligent traveller! And often if
admiration be professed, it is of that vague, undistinguishing kind, which
indicates little knowledge of the causes why they admire. Even among men
of cultivated tastes, there is much more of affected than real enthusiasm.
If what we have said be true, it is a curious subject of inquiry why
descriptive poetry has been so popular. How happens it that so many who
have looked upon Nature herself with great indifference, have been so much
delighted with the reflection of her image in the pages of the poets? We
suspect, indeed, that a part of the popularity of this class of writers is
factitious. THOMSON, the most popular, is we suspect oftener
purchased than read; and his 'Seasons' are not unfrequently spoken of with
admiration by those who know little of them but the episodes. The chief
interest of the 'Task' is to be sought for in other sources than its
descriptions, notwithstanding the _curiosa felicitas_ of Cowper's diction.
The pleasure which we feel in reading descriptive poetry may perhaps in
all cases be traced to one of the three following sources: the conception
in our own minds of objects corresponding in a greater or less degree to
those which exist in the mind of the poet; the train of associations which
his language awakens; or the moral interest with which he invests what he
describes. In the case first mentioned, the emotions we feel are similar
to those which the sight of the objects themselves would produce; if
beautiful, of pleasure; if terrible, of awe. A painting, which is an
accurate representation of nature, regarded irrespective of the skill of
the artist, would affect us in the same way. But the effects resulting
from this cause are too inconsiderable to require particular mention. The
picture which words are able to present is so indistinct and vague as
rarely to produce any strong emotion. If the objects themselves are
generally looked upon with indifference, much less can a verbal
description of them afford us any great degree of pleasure.
The language which the poet uses often suggests to the mind of the reader
trains of thought and imagery which were never present to his own mind.
Hence many expressions which are in themselves eminently poetic, will
arouse associations, oftentimes, that entirely spoil the passage. On the
other hand, an expression low and vulgar may be ennobled by its
associations, and give dignity and force to the composition. We not
unfrequently meet phrases which have great beauty in the eyes of one man,
which seem flat and insipid in the eyes of another. Every writer who has
attempted dignified or pathetic composition, has felt how difficult it is
to avoid those words which will suggest ideas that are unworthy of the
subject. If, however, the poet is sometimes a loser, he is also sometimes
a gainer from this cause. The reader often finds in his own associations,
sources of pleasure independent of the poet. The light that illumines the
page is but the reflected radiance of his own thoughts, and is unseen by
all save himself.
But it is in the moral interest with which the poet invests the objects he
describes, that the chief source of our pleasure is to be found. The poet
paints Nature, not as she is, but as she seems. He adorns her with beauty
not her own, and presents her thus adorned to men, to admire and to love.
It is by interweaving human sympathies and feelings with the objects of
the material world, that they lose their character of 'mute insensate
things,' and acquire the power to charm and to soothe us, amidst all the
cares and anxieties of our life. The intellectual process which here takes
place is so interesting and important that we shall make no apology for
treating the subject at some length.
It is sufficiently obvious that an accurate description of nature, or a
beautiful work of art, is not poetical. On the other hand, in proportion
as the minuteness of the description is increased, the poetry vanishes.
The traveller who should give us the exact dimensions of the pyramids, the
precise height of the terraces, the width and height of the inner
passages, would give us much more definite ideas of those structures than
he who should paint to us the effects produced on his own mind by their
vastness, their antiquity, and the solitude that surrounds them. So in
descriptions of natural scenery, the geographer who gives us the
measurement of mountains, and rivers, and plains, is much more accurate
than he who describes them solely from the picture that exists in his
fancy. We wish to be rightly understood. We do not mean that vagueness and
generality are essential to poetical description. As on the one hand,
mathematical accuracy, by allowing no play to the imagination, produces a
feeble impression, so on the other the indistinctness arising from
indefinite expressions is equally unfavorable. But in neither is the
poetry of the description dependent on the greater or less degree of
minuteness with which particular objects are spoken of. When Whitbread
described the Phenix, according to Sheridan's version, 'like a poulterer;
it was green, and red, and yellow, and blue; he did not let us off for a
single feather,' he did not fail more egregiously than Thomson in the
following lines, in which, by the force of language, a flock of geese are
made highly poetical objects:
'Hushed in short suspense
The plumy people streak their wings with oil,
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off,
And wait the approaching sign to strike at once
Into the general choir.'
The poet indeed must give us a lively and definite image of the scene or
object which he undertakes to describe. But how shall this be done? Simply
by telling us how it appeared to him; introducing those circumstances
which had the greatest effect on his own imagination. He looks on nature
neither as a gardener, a geographer, an astronomer, nor a geologist, but
as a man, susceptible of strong impressions, and able to describe clearly
to others the objects which affected himself. This he will do in the style
which the emotion raised within him naturally dictates. His imagery, his
illustrations, his whole language, will take the hue of his own feelings.
It is in describing accurately the effect, not the cause, the emotion, not
the object which produced it, that the poet's fidelity to nature consists.
Let us illustrate our meaning by two or three examples. In Thomson we find
the following description of a thunder-storm:
'A boding silence reigns
Dread through the dun expanse; save the dull sound
That from the mountain, previous to the storm,
Rolls o'er the muttering earth, disturbs the flood,
And shakes the forest leaf without a breath.
Prone to the lowest vale, the aërial tribes
Descend: the tempest-loving raven scarce
Dares wing the dubious dusk. In rueful gaze
The cattle stand, and on the scowling heavens
Cast a deploring eye, by man forsook,
Who to the crowded cottage hies him fast,
Or seeks the shelter of the downward cave.
'Tis listening fear, and dumb amazement all,
When to the startled eye the sudden glance
Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud
And following slower in explosion vast,
The thunder raises his tremendous voice.
At first heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven
The tempest growls; but as it nearer comes
And rolls its awful burthen on the wind,
The lightnings flash a larger curve, and more
The noise astounds; till over head a sheet
Of livid flame discloses wide; then shuts
And opens wider; shuts, and opens still
Expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze.
Follows the loosened, aggravated roar,
Enlarging, deepening, mingling; peal on peal
Crushed horrible, convulsing heaven and earth.'
MR. IRVING describes a similar scene in the following terms: 'It
was the latter part of a calm sultry day, that they floated quietly with
the tide between these stern mountains. There was that perfect quiet which
prevails over nature in the languor of summer heat; the turning of a
plank, or the accidental falling of an oar on deck, was echoed from the
mountain side, and reverberated along the shores. To the left the
Dunderberg reared its woody precipices, height over height, forest over
forest, away into the deep summer sky. To the right strutted forth the
bold promontory of Antony's nose, with a solitary eagle wheeling about it;
while beyond, mountain succeeded to mountain, until they seemed to lock
their arms together, and confine this mighty river in their embraces. In
the midst of his admiration, Dolph remarked a pile of bright snowy clouds
peering above the western heights. It was succeeded by another and
another, each seemingly pushing onward its predecessor, and towering with
dazzling brilliancy in the deep blue atmosphere; and now muttering peals
of thunder were faintly heard rolling behind the mountains. The river,
hitherto still and glassy, reflecting pictures of the sky and land, now
showed a dark ripple at a distance, as the breeze came creeping up it. The
fish-hawks wheeled and screamed, and sought their nests on the high dry
trees; the crows flew clamorously to the crevices of the rocks, and all
nature seemed conscious of the approaching thunder gust. The clouds now
rolled in volumes over the mountain tops; their summits still bright and
snowy, but the lower parts of an inky blackness. The rain began to patter
down in broad and scattered drops; the winds freshened, and curled up the
waves; at length it seemed as if the bellying clouds were torn open by the
mountain tops, and complete torrents of rain came rattling down. The
lightning leaped from cloud to cloud, and streamed quivering against the
rocks, splitting and rending the stoutest forest trees; the thunder burst
in tremendous explosions; the peals were echoed from mountain to mountain;
they clashed upon Dunderberg, and then rolled up the long defile of the
Highlands, each headland waking a new echo, until old Bull Hill seemed to
bellow back the storm.'
We think that no one who attentively reads the foregoing extracts can fail
to see the infinite superiority of the latter over the former, in every
thing that pertains to a faithful representation of nature. Irving has
given us the scene just as he saw it, unmixed with any hue or coloring
with which the mood of his own mind might have invested it. We see the
objects themselves, disconnected from the associations of the spectator.
Had there been a thousand persons looking on, each would have heard the
same sounds, and seen the same sights. There is nothing that is
extraneous. He has given us an exact copy of his original, and nothing
more. Thomson, on the contrary, has not described a thunderstorm as he saw
it, but according to the effect that it produced on his own mind. His
epithets are rarely descriptive of the qualities that exist in the objects
to which they are applied. They have reference rather to the emotions
which their presence produces in himself. Thus, in the first line,
'boding' is not a quality that can be predicated of silence. To the
feeling that the silence preceding a storm is wont to excite, the epithet
is properly enough applied. So with the expression 'dubious dusk.'
In connection with these extracts, we will look at one taken from
SCOTT'S description of the scenery around Loch Katrine:
'Boon nature scattered free and wild,
Each plant, or flower, the mountain's child;
Here eglantine embalmed the air,
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;
The primrose pale, and violet flower,
Found in each cleft a narrow bower;
Foxglove and night-shade, side by side
Emblems of punishment and pride,
Grouped their dark hues with every stain
The weather-beaten crags retain;
With boughs that quaked at every breath,
Gray-birch and aspen wept beneath;
Aloft the ash and warrior oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock;
And higher yet the pine tree hung
His scattered trunk, and frequent flung
Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high
His boughs athwart the narrowed sky.
Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,
Where glistening streamers waved and danced,
The wanderer's eye could barely view
The summer heaven's delicious blue.'
The same remarks which we applied to Irving are applicable with some
little restriction here. With one or two exceptions, the epithets mark
attributes that exist in the subjects. Every one can see at a glance the
appropriateness of such terms as _pale_ primrose, _gray_ birch, and
_narrow_ bower. They are not dependent for their effect upon any fanciful
train of associations which their names may excite.
If we compare the above extracts together, we arrive at certain results
which we shall briefly state. We will throw out of view for a moment any
pleasure which the rhythm may give us, as foreign to our present purpose.
Each of these writers is describing a scene from nature. Each of them has
the same object, to interest others by a representation of those sights
and sounds that interested themselves. Scott accomplishes his purpose by
presenting as exact a picture of nature as it is possible perhaps for
words to give. He does not tell us how he is affected by what he sees, and
looks upon neither directly nor indirectly. He does not search for any
resemblances that are not palpable, and founded in the nature of things.
All similes and metaphors which serve to express his own emotions are
carefully avoided. The whole is picturesque and life-like in the highest
degree, yet every circumstance is mentioned in the cool, unimpassioned way
in which we mention any common occurrence.
Thomson accomplishes his purpose by portraying his own feelings; not
indeed in so many words, but by the use of those expressions, and by those
transitions of thought, which mark a state of emotion. The epithet
'boding,' to which we have referred, is an example. It is an indirect
disclosure of the mood of his own mind. At another time it is not
improbable that an epithet of a directly opposite meaning would have been
selected. The reader is affected by it, because by a law of sympathy, we
are affected by whatever reveals the presence of passion in another. It
influences us precisely as the tones of the voice of a person in distress
influence us. Both are expressive of emotion, and we cannot remain
unaffected by them.
This is the main source of the pleasure we feel in reading Thomson's
description. It conveys to us but a very indistinct idea of the subject
matter. Different readers, according to their mental peculiarities, will
be differently affected by it. He does not paint to the bodily eye, but to
the eye of the mind; and he will feel most pleasure who puts himself in
the same position as the poet, and sees with his eyes and hears with his
ears. Unless he can do this, he will derive but little gratification from
the perusal.
Less minute than Irving, and more picturesque than Thomson, Scott will
probably to most readers give more pleasure than either of them. In
conveying lively impressions of natural objects he is unsurpassed, but he
is scarcely less successful in inspiring the mind of the reader with the
same emotions that fill his own breast. There is ever between the thought
and its expression a perfect harmony. It is only when agitated by passion
that he uses the _language_ of passion. Hence we never find that timid
phraseology which so often disgusts us in Thomson; _vox et præterea
nihil_. No one delights more in the use of figurative language, nor
employs metaphors that more appropriately convey the sentiment that
pervades his mind. In the passage we have quoted are the following lines:
'Aloft the ash and warrior oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock.'
The poet looking up at the trees firmly rooted in the rifts of the rock,
defying the tempest and storm, felt an emotion of pleasure which the sight
of their lofty position, and the apparent danger of their being hurled
headlong at the first blast of wind, contrasted with the sense of their
real security, produced. To express this pleasurable emotion, he fastens
upon the resemblance between a root of the tree and an anchor; a
resemblance not between the things themselves, but between their uses.
Neglecting all the points of difference, and confining his attention to
this single point of similarity, he presents an image which all admit to
be highly forcible and poetical.
The great merit of all descriptive poetry consists in the unity of feeling
which pervades it. Unlike the epic, or the drama, it has none of the
interest which arises from a connected narrative, or the development of
individual character in reference to a certain end. The poet confines
himself to the expression of those feelings which are awakened by the
sight of the beauty and sublimity of nature. Passing, as he necessarily
must, from one object to another, each fitted to excite in his bosom
conflicting emotions, his attention is so much diverted, that none of them
produces upon him its legitimate effect. There is wanting some central
object of interest to which all others are subordinate. Hence is explained
the listlessness of which every one is conscious in the continuous perusal
of the Seasons. We find the greatest pleasure by reading a page here and a
page there, according to the state of our feelings.
It is never in short poems that the descriptive poets succeed best.
L'Allegro and Le Penseroso are gems; but all Milton's genius could not
have made the Paradise Lost readable, were it deprived of its unity as an
epic, and broken up into a series of detached pictures. The Deserted
Village of Goldsmith is the longest poem of this class that we now
remember, having all its parts so pervaded by a common spirit that a
succession of new objects does not impair the designed effect. Sweet
Auburn as it was in its palmy days, and as it is in its desolation,
presents two distinct pictures, yet so closely connected that each
heightens the effect of the other by the contrast. Nothing can exceed the
exquisite art with which Goldsmith has seized upon those circumstances
that tend to make the desired impression, and rejected all others. How
perfect are each of the following descriptions, and how much would their
beauty be marred by the transfer of a single circumstance from one to the
other:
'How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm;
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topped the neighb'ring hill;
The hawthorn-bush with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made.
* * * * *
'The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove.
* * * * *
'No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But choked with sedges works its weedy way;
Along thy glade, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires the echoes with unvaried cries;
Sunk are thy bowers, in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall.'
It is by the selection of such objects as have in themselves no common
bond of union, but which combine to raise a certain emotion, that the
essential distinction is to be found between the descriptions of the poet
and the prose-writer. The latter joins objects together as they are joined
in nature, following a principle of association which is simple and
obvious. His resemblances are usually such as are cognizable by the
senses; a likeness in the sensible qualities of things. The poet's
principle of association is in the effect produced on his imagination.
Things which have not in themselves a single point of similarity, are
connected together, because they produce the same emotions of pleasure, or
pain, or hope, or melancholy. A beautiful illustration of this is found in
the opening stanzas of Gray's Elegy:
'The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.'
A summer evening in the country is associated in most minds with images of
mirth and joy. Thus Goldsmith has described it:
'Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There as I passed with careless steps, and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school,
The watch-dog's voice, that bayed the whisp'ring wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.'
With what consummate skill, if indeed it be not rather the instinct of the
poet, has Gray avoided all mention of those objects which might awaken
associations discordant with the mood of his own mind! Each epithet is
full of a plaintive melancholy. There is not one that does not contribute
something to the effect; not one that can be omitted; not one that can be
altered for the better. Yet there is scarcely one that is descriptive of
any quality actually existing in its subject. The fitness of each is to be
felt rather than seen.
In the selection of those circumstances and objects which Gray has
enumerated, he was governed by the effect which each had upon his own
feelings. He looked upon nature in the reflected light of his own heart.
He was mournful in view of the destiny of man; and wandering amidst the
graves of the lowly and obscure, he saw all the external world colored
with the hue of his own sad thoughts. The melancholy spirit within him
transformed all things without into its own likeness. His imagination,
darting hither and thither, and governed in its flight by laws too subtle
and delicate to be analyzed, reposed itself for a moment amidst the gloom
of the historical associations that cluster around the curfew, hovered
over the lowing herd, and followed the ploughman as he homeward plods his
weary way. Goldsmith, recalling the scenes where he had spent many happy
hours, looks upon nature under a far different aspect. Every thing to him
is gay and joyous. He hears not the hollow tones of the curfew, nor the
drowsy tinklings that lull the distant folds. He sees not the wearied
ploughman, caring for nought but to forget his toils in the sweet oblivion
of sleep. He hears but the song of the milk-maid, and the soft response of
her rustic lover; the watchdog's voice, and the loud laugh of the happy
idlers. He sees but the children just escaped from school, running and
leaping, and romping in their innocent glee. Happy himself, he fastens
upon whatever in nature around him seems to sympathise with him, and
dwelling fondly upon it, casts away from his thoughts every thing that can
obstruct the full, free flow of his joyous emotions.
We may remark in passing, what has probably been before remarked by the
attentive reader, that both Gray and Goldsmith, excited as they are by
different passions, refer to the 'lowing herd' as raising on the one hand
a cheerful, and on the other a melancholy feeling. To our thought, the
associations connected with the return of the herds from the fields at
sunset are best fitted to awaken that quiet, reflective state of mind
which is most congenial to the mood of the elegiac poet. To another, these
associations may be of such a character as to produce a directly opposite
effect.
The writer of prose who should describe scenes like these, would aim to
give us a distinct and accurate picture by presenting all their prominent
features, omitting nothing, and grouping them as Nature herself had
grouped them. Such descriptions we daily see in all books of voyages and
travels. Or if the descriptions be of scenes wholly imaginary, their
essential character is not changed. Although they cease to be real, they
do not become poetical. The extract which we have made from Irving is not
poetical. Accurate, vivid, life-like, it is. We cannot read it without a
feeling of pleasure. We admire the genius of the writer; we wonder at the
magnificence of the spectacle which, by a few masterly touches, he has
raised up before us. But there is no more poetry in it than in his
description of Herr Van Tassel's supper table, covered with all the
luxuries of Dutch housewifery. It is true, there may be more of beauty and
sublimity in the scenery of the Hudson, in the gathering clouds and
muttering thunder, than in the sight of dough-nuts and crullers,
sweet-cakes and short-cakes, peach pies and pumpkin pies, slices of ham
and slices of smoked beef; yet the spirit of poetry exists no more in the
one than in the other. Poetry has its abode in the _heart_ of man; not in
the winds, in the clouds, in the mountains, or in the vales. It does not
derive its power from the outward world, but breathes into it its own
breath of life, investing the earth with a beauty which has no existence
but in the human soul, and filling the air with sweet harmonies, which are
unheard save by the inspired ear of the poet.
We have now, we think, sufficiently answered the question, why so many who
read descriptive poetry with pleasure, look with indifference upon what is
beautiful or sublime in nature. The poet is to them like one who gives
sight to the blind. The landscape which formerly lay before their eyes
unregarded, almost unseen, is now 'beautiful exceedingly.' Nature has not
changed; they themselves have not changed; yet there _is_ a change. There
is a glory unseen before, cast over the earth. It is, as it were,
transfigured before them, and made radiant with celestial light. This is
the poet's work. With a keener perception of the beautiful and sublime
than other men; with a greater facility of association, and with the power
to give to language the hue and intensity of his own feelings, he clothes
lifeless nature with the attributes of humanity, making it instinct with
human sentiment and passion. Like Burns, he pours forth his lament over
the mountain-daisy cut down in its bloom, in a few simple words that find
a response in the hearts of all men; and henceforth it is embalmed in our
memories, and shall be as immortal as the star that shines in the far
depths of the heavens. Like Wordsworth, he wanders upon the banks of his
native lakes, and mingles his song with the noise of their waters, until
the faintest whisper of the rippling waves seems but the echo of his
voice. Wherever he goes fruits, flowers, and herbage spring up in his
footsteps. A divine Presence goes with him; Nature speaks to him with her
thousand voices, and he hears, and answers, making sweet music in the joy
of his heart. Nothing is so inconsiderable as to be without the pale of
his sympathy; nothing too humble to stir the fountains of love in his
breast. The solitary flower that blossoms by the way-side, the rivulet far
away amid the hills, is but the starting point of that wondrous chain of
thick-coming fancies, that fill his eyes with light, and his ear with
harmony; as if multitudes of angels were hovering around, and he heard on
every side the rustling of their wings.
Such are the gifts of the poet. They are God's gifts, and are indeed
'wonderful in our eyes.'
VICISSITUDES.
Hast thou not been where wild winds, freshly blowing,
Brought odorous gladness on each passing gale;
Hast thou not been where the pure streamlet flowing,
In each soft murmur told a gentle tale:
As the bright flashing of its gushing water,
Glad as the tones of merriment and glee
That joyous burst from children in their laughter,
Swift dashes onward to the boundless sea?
Hast thou not been where the enamelled mead
Its beauty gave to the enraptured sense,
And the crushed lily, from the elastic tread,
Yielded its life in breath of sweets intense?
Hast thou not been in spring-time's early hours,
Where the lone bird its short sweet carol gave
To the young bursting leaves and budding flowers,
Beside some wildly-rushing mountain wave?
Not such the lay it sings in summer hours,
When love beats high within its little breast,
And its exulting song it joyous pours,
Where thick embowering leaves conceal its nest.
Hast thou not marked, when autumn's gorgeous glory
Fled in the rushing of the hurrying blast,
The deep'ning pathos of the moral story
Sighed in each cadence, as it onward passed.
Hast thou not heard the ancient forests, bending
To the far sweeping of the mighty wind,
Send forth a solemn sound, as though responding
To voices deep that secret powers unbind?
Hast thou not stood where ocean madly raging,
Rolled onward as with overmastering shock:
'Till hushed the storm, the chaféd surge assuaging,
It gently laved the firm-opposing rock?
Hast thou not gleaned a lesson to thy reason
From winter's fostering power and spring's awakening reign;
Summer's brief heat, autumn's maturing season,
And learned vicissitudes are not in vain?
But from the varied page outspread before thee,
Garner'd of wisdom for thy fleeting days,
Whether the sunshine or the storm be o'er thee,
Forward to look with hope, and trust, and praise?
_Newport, Rhode-Island, Dec., 1843._ E. R. G. H.
THE IDLEBERG PAPERS.
A CHRISTMAS YARN.
At Christmas every body is or should be happy. The genial influence of the
season lightens alike the lofty hall and the lowly cottage. It is the same
at home or abroad, on the land or the billow, in royal purple or in ragged
poverty; here and every where, to one and to all, it is always 'merrie
Christmas.' At such a time there is an obligation due from every man to
society, to be happy, and the more cheerfully it is paid, the better. The
man who would be found scowling and glowering like a thunder-cloud,
cherishing his private griefs or animosities at a time when every other
countenance is glowing with light, and hope, and sunshine, should be
denied all the charities of humanity, and exiled to Kamschatka, or some
other inhospitable clime, to growl and fret with the wild beasts, or the
wilder elements.
How dear is the light of home when glowing with the fires of Christmas!
What though the elements be wild without, or Jack Frost blow his whistling
pipe at the door, or fierce winds rumble down the chimney, and tell of
sweeping gusts and howling storms abroad, if within and around that
charmed circle is breathed the spirit of kindness and affection! Should
the titled stranger or the ragged beggar knock, throw wide open the doors
of thy hospitality; and while prattling infants recount the joys of the
season, and school-boy striplings pursue their holiday sports, and
gray-haired men who have traversed the wide world over, tell how in all
their wanderings they have never passed a Christmas from home; he will
turn his thoughts with a melancholy pleasure to the distant fireside
beyond the sea, and to the friends who are gathered there, and wonder
where the wanderer is spending his Christmas.
With all respect for the ancient and honorable class of 'old bachelors,'
whose sympathy and good fellowship we most earnestly desire, be it said,
that if to any it is allowed to be miserable at Christmas, it surely is to
them. We would not for the world say aught to heighten the sad picture of
their social desolation, by dwelling on the thousand tender endearments of
home, the ten thousand cords of love, of which they know nothing. Certain
it is, that to many of them 'merrie Christmas' brings only pangs of
remorse; and we have known more than one crusty member of the fraternity,
who on such occasions would rush incontinently from the scene and the
sound of merriment, and shut themselves under lock and key, until the
storm was passed, and people have recovered their lost senses.
Such an one, however, we are proud to say, was _not_ TOM HARDESTY, though
bachelor he was, in the superlative degree. Every body wondered how he
managed to preserve his good-humor and vivacity under the frosts of
three-score winters. At the period of this authentic history, Tom was the
village grocer; a station he had filled to his own profit and the town's
convenience until he had become a piece of village furniture, necessary to
its existence as a corporation. His little store, with its great variety
of commodities, adapted to every human want, was in itself a perfect
'curiosity-shop.' Odd-looking boxes, kegs, chests, casks, barrels and
hogsheads, contained his groceries, drugs and dye-stuffs. A few remnants
of domestic prints and muslins, together with stray fragments of
broadcloth, constituted his stock of dry-goods. Then there was a modicum
of hardware and cutlery; a few spelling-books and new testaments for a
book store; and sundry jars and bottles filled with fancy-colored powders
and liquids, for an apothecary shop. His remaining list of commodities was
made up of hats, caps and bonnets, boots and shoes, tin-pans and
looking-glasses, slate-pencils and sifters; and as his standing
advertisement in the village newspaper duly notified the public, 'other
articles too numerous to mention--call and see for yourselves.' If any
body desired an article nobody ever heard of before, he could find a large
lot thereof at Tom Hardesty's; and if any lucky or ingenious wight had
found or made any thing that nobody else would have as a gracious gift,
let him call on Mr. Hardesty, and it was the very thing he wanted. In a
word, his shop was a grand dépôt for every article the ingenuity of man
could devise, or his necessities require.
What a blessed convenience was Tom Hardesty! How could we have gotten
along without him? How honest and affable! What long ells and heavy pounds
he gave! And then his tea! how it inspired the village gossip on long
winter nights in a chimney corner! All the matrons of the village were
quite in love with Tom, or his tea; and many an old crone, as she sat
inhaling cup after cup of the divine beverage, has been known to pause in
the midst of her inspirations, and exclaim with uplifted hands, 'God bless
Tom Hardesty!'
And yet Tom Hardesty was a bachelor, and kept 'bachelor's hall.' The only
members of his mess were an orphan boy of his adoption, who waited in the
store, and a brindle cat which the master had honored with his own name.
This point, however, is still wrapt in obscurity, for Tom and 'Tom' were
both so venerable that nobody could swear whether the cat had been named
after the master, or the master after the cat. It had been rumored by
those who should know, that Mr. Hardesty should not be held strictly
accountable for this sin of celibacy, since he had offered his hand, his
heart, and a partnership in his worldly goods, to more than one village
beauty, each of whom had found it impossible to 'love for antiquity's
sake,' and rejected his matrimonial offers accordingly. Still Tom never
repined. His daily experience behind the counter had taught him the useful
lesson, that each applicant does not necessarily always drive a trade, and
the commodity which one rejects may be eagerly sought by another; and
acting on the faith of this philosophy, he lived cheerfully on, cherishing
the hope that even yet some fond heart would beat responsive to his own,
and promise before the competent authority, to 'love, honor and obey' him,
Tom Hardesty.
On a memorable Christmas-eve we enter his little counting-room. A cheerful
fire blazes on the hearth; and at the moment grimalkin is purring on the
rug. Master John, the adopted, is poring over a picture-book, probably an
early edition of Peter Parley's Travels, and Mr. Hardesty is standing
before a broken fragment of looking-glass, diligently brushing his scanty
locks.
'John!' said Mr. Hardesty, turning from the mirror, and looking full at
the boy, 'do I look very old to-night?'
The boy turned up his innocent face, gazed steadily on his master from top
to toe, and answered, 'Sir!'
'Do I look very _old_ to-night, John?'
John scratched his head. 'Not much older than you did this time last
night, Sir.'
'Humph!' said Mr. Hardesty, appealing to the glass, and renewing his
efforts with the brush, while John resumed his reading.
'But, John,' resumed Mr. Hardesty, seating himself beside the boy, 'do you
really think that a middle-aged lady, of right comfortable property, would
have, _could_ have, any rational objection to be called Mrs. Hardesty?'
'I think not, Sir,' replied John, taking up the cat; 'I'm sure you have
been very kind to me and old Tom here, and I know you would be so to her.'
'Very true, John,' said Mr. Hardesty, whose feelings were touched by this
expression of the boy's gratitude; 'but I wish to extend the sphere of my
usefulness; and I may venture to hope--but don't mention it--that in the
course of three or four years, or may-be a little longer, there'll be a
little boy at our house for you to play with; and if it's a girl, John,
you shall marry her when you get old enough. Eh, John! how would you like
_that_?' And the old gentleman chuckled himself into a fit of coughing
that seemed to threaten his longevity, and prevented John's reply to a
suggestion that had never occurred to him as being within the bounds of
the most remote possibility.
Having amused himself sufficiently with these flights of his fancy, Mr.
Hardesty rose from his seat, gave John eighteen-pence for Christmas-money,
stroked his namesake's back, put on his cloak and cap, and after bidding
John be a good boy, and not to mention it, and to take care of the fire
till he came back, left the house on his errand of love.
Christmas eve! Surely the village streets were never so gay before! You
may know there is a moon, for though the sky is darkened with clouds, and
the snow is falling as it never fell before, there is a glow of light
above and around, that would burst on the eye like dim revealings of
fairy-land, but for the mist that floats through the dim upper air, and
seems striving to bind the earth as with a mantle.
What a merry, merry Christmas! Gust after gust comes whirling on,
full-freighted with the virgin snow. There are shouts of revelry that rise
and fall with the sound of the blast. There are hurried footsteps that
glide over the crackling snow. There are merry hearts within those
bounding sleighs, and hands that clasp the hands they love, though wrapped
in countless furs and muffs. Gay steeds dash on with steaming nostrils, as
if their toil were sport; and their bells, as they ring cheerily out in
the sombre night, give promise of marriage-bells to come.
Through all this busy scene Tom Hardesty pressed on, turning neither to
the right nor left, except when he turned a corner. As the wind dashed the
driving snow in his face, he drew his cloak more closely around him, and,
shivering, passed on with cheerful thoughts of love and matrimony.
Sometimes the boys pelted him with their snowy artillery, or old
acquaintances inquired after his health, but he glided on like a dim
shadow, heedless alike of all. By degrees the holiday din of the village
waxed faint in his ears, and as he approached the suburbs, his heart beat
fast while his steps were slow with indecision, for he was approaching the
end of his pilgrimage--the dwelling of Miss Peggy Sidebottom.