The Literati of New York City — 1902 historical reading — reading text

Vigil of Faith and other Poems” is the title of a volume published several years ago. The subject of the leading poem is happy — whether originally conceived by Mr. H. or based on an actual superstition, I cannot say. Two Indian chiefs are rivals in love. The accepted lover is about to be made happy, when his betrothed is murdered by the discarded suitor. The revenge taken is the careful preservation of the life of the assassin, under the idea that the meeting the maiden in another world is the point most desired by both the survivors. The incidents interwoven are picturesque, and there are many quotable passages; the descriptive portions are particularly good; but the author has erred, first, in narrating the story in the first person, and secondly, in putting into the mouth of the narrator language and sentiments above the nature of an Indian. I say that the narration should not have been in the first person, because, although an Indian may and does fully experience a thousand delicate shades of sentiment, (the whole idea of the story is essentially sentimental), still he has, clearly, no capacity for their various expression. Mr. Hoffman's hero is made to discourse very much after the manner of Rousseau. Nevertheless, “The Vigil of Faith” is, upon the whole, one of our most meritorious poems. The shorter pieces in the collection have been more popular; one or two of the songs particularly so — “Sparkling and Bright,” for example, which is admirably adapted to song purposes, and is full of lyric feelings. It cannot be denied, however, that, in general, the whole tone, air and spirit of Mr. Hoffman's fugitive compositions are echoes of Moore. At times the very words and figures of the “British Anacreon” are unconsciously adopted. Neither can there be any doubt that this obvious similarity, if not positive imitation, is the source of the commendation bestowed upon our poet by “The Dublin University Magazine,” which declares him “the best song writer in America,” and does him also the honor to intimate its opinion that “he is a better fellow than the whole Yankee crew” of us taken together — after which there is very little to be said. Whatever may be the merits of Mr. Hoffman as a poet, it may be easily seen that these merits have been put in the worst possible light by the indiscriminate and lavish approbation bestowed on them by Doctor Griswold in his “Poets and Poetry of America.” The compiler can find no blemish in Mr. H., agrees with everything and copies everything said in his praise — worse than all, gives him more space in the book than any two, or perhaps three, of our poets combined. All this is as much an insult to Mr. Hoffman as to the public, and has done the former irreparable injury — how or why, it is of course unnecessary to say. “Heaven save us from our friends!” Mr. Hoffman was the original editor of “The Knickerbocker Magazine,” and gave it while under his control a tone and character, the weight of which may be best estimated by the consideration that the work thence received an impetus which has sufficed to bear it on alive, although tottering, month after month, through even that dense region of unmitigated and unmitigable fog — that dreary realm of outer darkness, of utter and inconceivable dunderheadism, over which has so long ruled King Log the Second, in the august person of one Lewis Gaylord Clark. Mr. Hoffman subsequently owned and edited “The American Monthly Magazine,” one of the best journals we have ever had. He also for one year conducted “The New York Mirror,” and has always been a very constant contributor to the periodicals of the day. He is the brother of Ogden Hoffman. Their father, whose family came to New York from Holland before the time of Peter Stuyvesant, was often brought into connection or rivalry with such men as Pinckney, Hamilton and Burr. The character of no man is more universally esteemed and admired than that of the subject of this memoir. He has a host of friends, and it is quite impossible that he should have an enemy in the world. He is chivalric to a fault, enthusiastic, frank without discourtesy, an ardent admirer of the beautiful, a gentleman of the best school — a gentleman by birth, by education and by instinct. His manners are graceful and winning in the extreme — quiet, affable and dignified, yet cordial and dégagées. He converses much, earnestly, accurately and well. In person he is remarkably handsome. He is about five feet ten in height, somewhat stoutly made. His countenance is a noble one — a full index of the character. The features are somewhat massive but regular. The eyes are blue, or light gray, and full of fire; the mouth finely-formed, although the lips have a slight expression of voluptuousness; the forehead, to my surprise, although high, gives no indication, in the region of the temples, of that ideality (or love of the beautiful) which is the distinguishing trait of his moral nature. The hair curls, and is of a dark brown, interspersed with gray. He wears full whiskers. Is about forty years of age. Unmarried. MARY E. HEWITT.(1) MRS. HEWITT has become known entirely through her contributions to our periodical literature. I am not aware that she has written any prose, but her poems have been numerous and often excellent. A collection of them was published not long ago in an exquisitely tasteful form, by Ticknor & Co., of Boston. The leading piece, entitled “Songs of Our Land,” was by no means the most meritorious, although the largest in the volume. In general, these compositions evince the author's poetic fervor, classicism of taste and keen appreciation of the beautiful, in the moral as well as in the physical world. No one of them, perhaps, can be judiciously commended as a whole, but no one of them is without merit, and there are several which would do credit to any poet in the land — still even these latter are rather particularly than generally commendable. They lack unity, totality, ultimate effect, but abound in forcible passages. For example: — “Shall I portray thee in thy glorious seeming, Thou that the Pharos of my darkness art?” · · · · · · · “Like the blue lotos on its own clear river Lie thy soft eyes, beloved, upon my soul.” · · · · · · · “Here'mid your wild and dark defile, O’erawed and wonder-whelmed I stand, And ask, ‘Is this the fearful vale That opens on the shadowy land?’ ” · · · · · · · “And there the slave — a slave no more — Hung reverent up the chain he wore.” · · · · · · · “Oh, friends, we would be treasured still! Though Time's cold hand should cast His misty veil, in after years, Over the idol Past, Yet send to us some offering thought O’er Memory's ocean wide — Pure as the Hindoo's votive lamp On Ganga's sacred tide.” The conclusion of “The Ocean Tide to the Rivulet” puts me in mind of the rich spirit of Horne's noble epic “Orion.” “Sadly the flowers their faded petals close Where on thy banks they languidly repose, Waiting in vain to hear thee onward press; And pale Narcissus by thy margin side Hath lingered for thy coming, drooped and died, Pining for thee amid the loneliness. “Hasten, beloved! — here, ’neath th’ o’erhanging rock! Hark! from the deep, my anxious hope to mock, They call me backward to my parent main. Brighter than Thetis thou, and, ah, more fleet! I hear the rushing of thy fair white feet! Joy, joy! — my breast receives its own again!” The personifications here are well managed, and the idea of the ebb-tide, conveyed in the first line italicized, is one of the happiest imaginable; neither can anything be more fanciful or more appropriately expressed than the “rushing of the fair white feet.” Among the most classical in spirit and altogether the best of Mrs. Hewitt's poems, I consider her three admirable sonnets entitled “Cameos.” The one called “Hercules and Omphale” is noticeable for the vigor of its rhythm. Another instance of fine versification occurs in “Forgotten Heroes.” “And the peasant mother at her door, To the babe that climbed her knee, Sang aloud the land's heroic songs — Sang of Thermopylæ — “Sang of Mycale — of Marathon — Of proud Platæa's day, Till the wakened hills, from peak to peak, Echoed the glorious lay. “Oh, god-like name! — Oh, god-like deed! Song-born afar on every breeze, Ye are sounds to thrill like a battle shout — Leonidas! Miltiades!” I italicize what I think the effective points. In the line, “Sang of Thermopylæ,” a trochee and two iambuses are employed, in very happy variation of the three preceding lines, which are formed each of an anapæst followed by three iambuses. The effect of this variation is to convey the idea of lyric or martial song. The first line of the next quatrain even more forcibly carries out this idea. Here the verse begins with an anapæst (although a faulty one, “sang” being necessarily long) and is continued in three iambuses. The variation in the last quatrain consists in an additional foot in the alternating lines, a fuller volume being thus given to the close. I must not be understood as citing these passages or giving their analysis in illustration of the rhythmical skill of Mrs. Hewitt, but of an occasional happiness to which she is led by a musical ear. Upon the whole, she has a keen sense of poetic excellences, and gives indication, if not direct evidence, of great ability. With more earnest endeavor she might accomplish much. In character she is sincere, fervent, benevolent, with a heart full of the truest charity — sensitive to praise and to blame; in temperament, melancholy (although this is not precisely the term); in manner, subdued, gentle, yet with grace and dignity; converses impressively, earnestly, yet quietly and in a low tone. In person she is tall and slender, with black hair and large gray eyes; complexion also dark; the general expression of the countenance singularly interesting and agreeable. ——— RICHARD ADAMS LOCKE. ABOUT twelve years ago, I think, “The New York Sun,” a daily paper, price one penny, was established in the city of New York by Mr. Moses Y. Beach, who engaged MR. RICHARD ADAMS LOCKE as its editor. In a well-written prospectus, the object of the journal professed to be that of “supplying the public with the news of the day at so cheap a rate as to lie within the means of all.” The consequences of the scheme, in their influence on the whole newspaper business of the country, and through this business on the interests of the country at large, are probably beyond all calculation. Previous to “The Sun,” there had been an unsuccessful attempt at publishing a penny paper in New York, and “The Sun” itself was originally projected and for a short time issued by Messrs. Day & Wisner; its establishment, however, is altogether due to Mr. Beach, who purchased it of its disheartened originators. The first decided movement of the journal, nevertheless, is to be attributed to Mr. Locke; and in so saying I by no means intend any depreciation of Mr. Beach, since in the engagement of Mr. L. he had but given one of the earliest instances of that unusual sagacity for which I am inclined to yield him credit. At all events, “The Sun” was revolving in a comparatively narrow orbit when, one fine day, there appeared in its editorial columns a prefatory article announcing very remarkable astronomical discoveries made at the Cape of Good Hope by Sir John Herschel. The information was said to have been received by “The Sun” from an early copy of “The Edinburgh Journal of Science,” in which appeared a communication from Sir John himself. This preparatory announcement took very well, (there had been no hoaxes in those days,) and was followed by full details of the reputed discoveries, which were now found to have been made chiefly in respect to the moon, and by means of a telescope to which the one lately constructed by the Earl of Rosse is a plaything. As these discoveries were gradually spread before the public, the