Marginalia — 1902 historical reading — reading text

“Hymn for Christmas,” by Mrs. Hemans, we find the following stanza: — Oh, lovely voices of the sky Which hymned the Saviour's birth, Are ye not singing still on high, Ye that sang “Peace on Earth”? To us yet speak the strains Wherewith, in times gone by, Ye blessed the Syrian swains, Oh, voices of the sky! And at page 305 of “The Christian Keepsake and Missionary Annual for 1840” — a Philadelphian Annual — we find “A Christmas Carol,” by Richard W. Dodson: — the first stanza running thus: Angel voices of the sky! Ye that hymned Messiah's birth, Sweetly singing from on high “Peace, Goodwill to all on earth!” Oh, to us impart those strains! Bid our doubts and fears to cease! Ye that cheered the Syrian swains, Cheer us with that song of peace! ————— A book(1) remarkable for its artistic unity. It is to be commended, also, on higher grounds. I do not think, indeed, that a better novel of its kind has been composed by an American. To be sure, it is not precisely the work to place in the hands of a lady; but its incidents are striking and original, its scenes of passion nervously wrought, and its philosophy, if not at all times tenable, at least admirable on the important scores of suggestiveness and audacity. In a word, it is that rare thing a fiction of power without rudeness. Its spirit, in general, resembles that of Reynolds’ “Miserrimus.” ————— Had the “George Balcombe” of Professor Beverley Tucker been the work of any one born North of Mason and Dixon's line, it would have been long ago recognized as one of the very noblest fictions ever written by an American. It is almost as good as “Caleb Williams.” The manner in which the cabal of the “North American Review” first write all our books and then review them, puts me in mind of the fable about the Lion and the Painter. It is high time that the literary South took its own interests into its own charge. ————— Here is a good idea for a Magazine paper: — let somebody “work it up”: — A flippant pretender to universal acquirement — a would-be Crichton — engrosses, for an hour or two perhaps, the attention of a large company — most of whom are profoundly impressed by his knowledge. He is very witty, in especial, at the expense of a modest young gentleman, who ventures to make no reply, and who, finally, leaves the room as if overwhelmed with confusion; — the Crichton greeting his exit with a laugh. Presently he returns, followed by a footman carrying an armfull of books. These are deposited on the table. The young gentleman, now, referring to some pencilled notes which he had been secretly taking during the Crichton's display of erudition, pins the latter to his statements, each by each, and refutes them all in turn, by reference to the very authorities cited by the egotist himself — whose ignorance at all points is thus made apparent. ————— A long time ago — twenty-three or four years at least — Edward C. Pinckney, of Baltimore, published an exquisite poem entitled “A Health.” It was profoundly admired by the critical few, but had little circulation: — this for no better reason than that the author was born too far South. I quote a few lines: Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours — Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers. To her the better elements And kindlier stars have given A forth so fair, that, like the air, ’Tis less of Earth than Heaven. Now, in 1842, Mr. George Hill published “The Ruins of Athens and Other Poems” — and from one of the “Other Poems” I quote what follows: And thoughts go sporting through her mind Like children among flowers; And deeds of gentle goodness are The measures of her hours. In soul or face she bears no trace Of one from Eden driven, But like the rainbow seems, though born Of Earth, a part of Heaven. Is this plagiarism or is it not? — I merely ask for information. ————— “Grace,” says Horace Walpole, “will save any book, and without it none can live long.” I can never read Mrs. Osgood's poetry without a strong propensity to ring the changes upon this indefinite word “grace” and its derivatives. About every thing she writes we perceive this indescribable charm; of which, perhaps, the elements are a vivid fancy and a quick sense of the proportionate. “Grace,” however, may be most satisfactorily defined, at least for the present, as “a term applied, in despair, to that class of the impressions of Beauty which admit of no analysis.” Mrs. O. has lately evinced a true imagination, with a “movement” (as Schlegel has it) or energy, of which I have been considering her incapable. Beyond all question the first of American poetesses: — and yet we must judge her less by what she has done than by what she shows ability to do. A happy refinement — an instinctive sense of the pure and delicate — is one of her most noticeable merits. She could accomplish much — very much. ————— One of our truest poets is Thomas Buchanan Read. His most distinctive features are, first, “tenderness,” or subdued passion, and secondly, fancy. His sin is imitativeness. At present, although evincing high capacity, he is but a copyist of Longfellow — that is to say, but the echo of an echo. Here is a beautiful thought which is not the property of Mr. Read: And, where the spring-time sun had longest shone, A violet looked up and found itself alone. Here again: a Spirit Slowly through the lake descended, Till from her hidden form below The waters took a golden glow, As if the star which made her forehead bright Had burst and filled the lake with light. Lowell has some lines very similar, ending with As if a star had burst within his brain. ————— I cannot say that I ever fairly comprehended the force of the term “insult,” until I was given to understand, one day, by a member of the “North American Review” clique, that this journal was “not only willing but anxious to render me that justice which had been already rendered me by the ‘Revue Francaise’ and the ‘Revue des Deux Mondes’ ’ — but was “restrained from so doing” by my “invincible spirit of antagonism.” I wish the “North American Review” to express no opinion of me whatever — for I have none of it. In the meantime, as I see no motto on its title-page, let me recommend it one from Sterne's “Letter from France.” Here it is: — “As we rode along the valley we saw a herd of asses on the top of one of the mountains — how they viewed and reviewed us!” ————— I blush to see, in the —— , an invidious notice of Bayard Taylor's “Rhymes of Travel.” What makes the matter worse, the critique is from the pen of one who, although undeservedly, holds, himself, some position as a poet: — and what makes the matter worst, the attack is anonymous, and (while ostensibly commending) most zealously endeavors to damn the young writer “with faint praise.” In his whole life, the author of the criticism never published a poem, long or short, which could compare, either in the higher merits, or in the minor morals of the Muse, with the worst of Mr. Taylor's compositions. Observe the generalizing, disingenuous, patronizing tone: — “It is the empty charlatan, to whom all things are alike impossible, who attempts everything. He can do one thing as well as another; for he can really do nothing. ... Mr. Taylor's volume, as we have intimated, is an advance upon his previous publication. We could have wished, indeed, something more of restraint in the rhetoric, but,” &c., &c., &c. The concluding sentence, here, is an excellent example of one of the most ingeniously malignant of critical ruses — that of condemning an author, in especial, for what the world, in general, feel to be his principal merit. In fact, the “rhetoric” of Mr. Taylor, in the sense intended by the critic, is Mr. Taylor's distinguishing excellence. He is, unquestionably, the most terse, glowing, and vigorous of all our poets, young or old — in point, I mean, of expression. His sonorous, well-balanced rhythm puts me often in mind of Campbell (in spite of our anonymous friend's implied sneer at “mere jingling of rhymes, brilliant and successful for the moment,”) and his rhetoric in general is of the highest order: — By “rhetoric” I intend the mode generally in which thought is presented. Where shall we find more magnificent passages than these? First queenly Asia, from the fallen thrones Of twice three thousand years, Came with the woe a grieving Goddess owns Who longs for mortal tears. The dust of ruin to her mantle clung And dimmed her crown of gold, While the majestic sorrows of her tongue From Tyre to Indus rolled. Mourn with me, sisters, in my realm of woe Whose only glory streams From its lost childhood like the Arctic glow Which sunless winter dreams. In the red desert moulders Babylon And the wild serpent's hiss Echoes in Petra's palaces of stone And waste Persepolis. Then from her seat, amid the palms embowered That shade the Lion-land, Swart Africa in dusky aspect towered, The fetters on her hand. Backward she saw, from out the drear eclipse, The mighty Theban years, And the deep anguish of her mournful lips Interpreted her tears. I copy these passages first, because the critic in question has copied them, without the slightest appreciation of their grandeur — for they are grand; and secondly, to put the question of “rhetoric” at rest. No artist who reads them will deny that they are the perfection of skill in their way. But thirdly, I wish to call attention to the glowing imagination evinced in the lines italicized. My very soul revolts at such efforts, (as the one I refer to,) to depreciate such poems as Mr. Taylor's. Is there no honor — no chivalry left in the land? Are our most deserving writers to be forever sneered down, or hooted down, or damned down with faint praise, by a set of men who possess little other ability than that which assures temporary success to them, in common with Swaim's Panacea or Morrison's Pills? The fact is, some person should write, at once, a Magazine paper exposing — ruthlessly exposing, the dessous de cartes of our literary affairs. He should show how and why it is that the ubiquitous quack in letters can always “succeed,” while genius, (which implies self-respect, with a scorn of creeping and crawling,) must inevitably succumb. He should point out the “easy arts” by which any one, base enough to do it, can get himself placed at the very head of American Letters by an article in that magnanimous journal, “The Review.” He should explain, too, how readily the same work can be induced (as in the case of Simms,) to villify, and villify personally, any one not a Northerner, for a trifling “consideration.” In fact, our criticism needs a thorough regeneration, and must have it.(1) [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 135:] 1. Some years since Mr. Poe wrote for several of the Northern magazines a series of critical brevities under the title of “Marginalia.” They attracted great attention at that time and since, as characteristic of the author, and we are sure that our readers will be gratified at his resuming them in the Messenger. By way of introduction, we republish the original preface from the Democratic Review. [See Introduction to “Marginalia.”] — [ED. Mess.] [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 140:] 1. “Highways and By-ways.” [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 142:] 1. “Confessions of a Poet.” [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 148:] 1. Printed by Griswold as a separate paper. — ED. XII. [Southern Literary Messenger, May, 1849.] If ever mortal “wreaked his thoughts upon expression,” it was Shelley. If ever poet sang — as a bird sings — earnestly — impulsively — with utter abandonment — to himself solely — and for the mere joy of his own song — that poet was the author of “The Sensitive Plant.” Of Art — beyond that which is instinctive with Genius — he either had little or disdained all. He