€¦ · preface. the exile’s return,the author’s first production, having been passed sub...
TRANSCRIPT
THE MANIAC ’S CONFESSION,
A FRAGMENT OF A TALE.
J. W SIMMONS,
fluthor of the Ex i le’s Return.
Dark Spirits are abroad—and gentle Truth,With in th e narrow house ofdeath—is laid,An early tenant. s s BAILL IE .
PHILADELPHIA
PUB LI SHED BY M O SE S THOMAS.
J . MAXWELL,Pmrgm.n, j
BENJAMIN R. GREENLAND,M .D .
THIS TALE
IS INSCRIBED,
HIS SINCERE FRIEND,
THE flUTHOR.
PREFACE .
THE Exile ’s Return,the Author’s first production,having been passed sub silentio” by the critics,for rea
sons best k nown among themselves,he cannot be sup
posed again to publish,in consequ ence of any literary pa
tronage,which has been extended him,but simply,becau sehe prefers a cleartype toan obscuremanuscript. The numberless typographical errors to bemet with in the abovementionedPoem,togetherwith the desire the Author feelsofexpunging certain lines,very defective,and of substi
tuting others in their place,will induce him,inju stice tohis own feelings,to republish it some time hence ; Whe ther these proposed amendments may prove for the better,it will not be for the Au thor to determine . There i s oneremark relative to the Exile ’s Return,he begs leave tomake,which is,that the ingredients,” were not caughtfromMaturin’s Bertram,” as a writer in the CharlestonPatriot observed,and upon an attentive reading,it would
seemimpossible that any one should have formed thatG 2
v i PREFACE.
opinion . However will ing the Authormay be to admirethe gen iu s ofMaturin,he certainly does not think wor
thy of imitation,those disgu sting illustrations of the perverted principles of his moral Creed,that are found todarken the pages of his every work. Flavian,though
no doubt as mu ch aman of wo” as Bertram,is no grosssensualist however,nomu rderer of the innocent husbandof an innocent woman,innocen t but for that same murderer,no vile ingrate to the very being whombe pretended to love,no hair-brained enthu siast,who in a gu sh
ofphrenzy commits “self slaught er,” boasting that he
!lied no “ felon death .
” Bertram i s accidentallv ship
wrecked near the Castle ofAldobrand his enemy—i s re scued by its inmates from destruction,whose humanityand kind ofli ces he returns with s corn,because forsooth,they happened to be “men,” imploring themto replungehimin the waves,as in that case,the sin wou ld be on
the ir heads and not his,” wishing,it wou ld seem,that
they shou ld entail upon themselves responsibility for hi sfate,and that too in oblig ing him; here we have the lan
guage of confirmed mi santhropy,and not of revenge as
d irected against some particu lar i nd iv idual—and this
morbid spirit ofunfounded ho stility,unfounded becau segeneral,levels its shafts of venomindiscriminately—theoutlaws with whom,through motives of wild pol icy,hechose to league himself,he afterwards,when having at
PREFACE . vfi
his pleasure withdrawn himselffromtheir fraternity,theybecome no longer subservient to hi s purposes,inveighsagainst in themost contemptuous language,becau se theywere ou tlaws—choosing to forget v hat he himself had bu tlately been—the very woman,for whomat one momenthe makes such a di splay of affection,at another,he reviles in bitterest invective,stigmatising her name withevery Opprobrious epithet,and wherefore?Why,because,after a lapse ofmany years,when she might well havesupposed himlost to her, to save a famishing father,”
she marries a man,whom though she may not haveloved,she mu st have respected,becau se he was virtu -o
ous,and to whomshe mu st have felt grateful,becausehe was fond of,and cherished her; but Bertram,does notchoose to listen to any thing that she may have to say,in her own defen ce— no—though herding with the veryrefu se of society,still she shou ld have regarded himas“a thing of light;” though dead,at least to her,she shou ld
have been wedded to hismemory—though a father’s lifedepended upon her uniting herself with Aldobrand,sheshou ld rather have seen that father perish,than insult
the Spirit of her departed lover,by bestowing her hand
upon the man it hates—well,for these weighty reasons,he pronounces upon her the blessing of his curse,andthe curse - ofhi s bles sing,hopes that her childmay stab
herwith its smiles :”—a keenermalediction never was im
viii PREFACE.
plored—that shemay become the mark against which the
hand of scorn may point its finger,loathsome in l ife,andsleepless even in the grave; and to t0p this catalogue of
evils,which he himself has framed as destined to awaither,he wanton ly and fiend ishly triumphs over the pic
ture of her depravity and misfortunes,by mali ciouslylulling her into a criminal connection,and then Spurnsher for her infide lity—now,however wil lingly the author
wou ld imbibe the spirit of Maturin’s beau ti es,he feels
assured that no defects of the nature of tho se he has
ju st enumerated—whatever others may exist—are to be
found in the pages of the Exile,consequently,there can
be no imitation; for,as these are i nherent defects of charueter,of the inward man,no t such as the dramatistalone conce i ves him,but as he may be found in l ivingnature—diseased traits ofmind,given birth to in prominent passions that characterise the hero of the Trage
dy,the careful delineation of which is the peculiar bu
sine ss of the Poet,and whose influen ce and progress
tend to individualise the d rama—we say,that as theseare frailties of the natu ral character,which however d is
gu st ing,constitute the most striking lineaments of thepicture,with which we are presented in the Play—if the
agency of the same moral elements be not found to beemployed in the poem—Flavian cannot be said to bearany marked resemblance to Bertram—and that such
PREFACE. ix
agency has not been made u se of—the author,whomaybe allowed to know something of his own design,takesupon himto assert—the outlines indeed of the two charact ers may correspond in somemeasure,as the facesof those fabled Sisters,which are described as being somu ch alike,that at a distance,each was taken for theother,but when narrowly examined,were found to betotally dissimilar—and as to any general correspondenceof features,we observe the same almost daily in mendifferently constituted notwi thstanding,the very struc
tures of their minds may somewhat resemble one the
other,while no two men at the same time have ever beendiscovered to be perfectly alike; one might as well say,that M ilton ’s hero was copied fromthe Grecian Achilles,becau se both are drawn with high and martial qualities,as pronounce Flavian the counterpart of Bertram,because,like the latter,he is represented as actuated by
feelings of rev enge. Zanga is as unlike Iago,or Fitz
harding,as Falstaff differs fromMacbeth,yet the principle of action is the same in the Revenge as it is inOthello,and the Curfew : but without detailing examples,it may be observed,that the great fundamentalprinciples ofhuman nature are the same in allmen,andthat those shades of contrast,which mark the several
individuals of the same Species,are the result of variou scontingencies—were this not the case,all the heroes of
X PREFACE .
the Epi c Fable—fromHomer down to Cumberland,mightc laimaffinity so strik ing,one with the other,as to createa general identity. We have said perhaps much morethan the occasion called for,or the importance of thesubj ect demanded—but really,unless an Author 110Wthenpresume,in self- defence,to oppose the pompous judgment of the critic,such is the peculiar and happy com
placency of the latter,that,if let alone,he will not un
frequently endeavour to persuade a writer,contrary to
his senses,that he meant one thing,when he designedanother; Voltaire is said to have indited a fearful critique
upon the Lusiad,afterwards confessing he had n ever
read it; and Addison ridicules with mu ch fancied pleasantry,Sylvia’s Speech to the Flowers,in the Aminta of
Tasso,as an instance of bad taste in the Italian writers,without having been acquainted,as Dr. Blair remarks,either with the original or the translation of that per
formance . Of all the cants that are canted 1 11 this
canting world,” says the author of the Sentimental Journey though the cant of the Hypocrite be the worst,the cant ofCriticismis the most disgu sting.”
In Speaking as we have done of the tragedy of
Bertram,we wou ld not be understood as affecting to
undervalue it as a performance—on the contrary,we
cannot but entertain the highest admiration for thoseextraordinary powers of the writer,which have enabled
a e . x i
himto do justice to su ch a character,while we abhorthe character itself—is it no fault ofMr. Maturin ’
e that
his hero is stern,savage,and relentless—the error lies innature,that is if probabi li ty be allowed to be the stand
ard of poetical invention—this is a reflection not often
made .The Fragment that ensues—was written shortly afterthe publication of the Exile’s Return,at the commencement oftheAuthor’s twentiethyear; theObservations uponPoetry and the Drama,and American Literature,werealso wri tten some months previous to the Author coming of age—he does not mention this circumstance astending to ap ologi se for their very imperfect execution;apo logies are but awkward things at best,and for which
theAuthor has no predilectionwhatever—those whomaythink it worth their time to read them,wi ll no doubtfind much to censu re.
Phi ladelphia,March,1 821 .
THE MANIAC’
S CONFESSION,
A FRAGMENT OF A TALE.
THERE is a fever of the soul,
A cureless malady that prevs
Upon the heart,upon the brain,
That riots in each bursti ng vein,
And quick diffusing o ’er the whole,
Of ardent frames—more surely slays
Than arqu ebu s or atagan
When man in fight Oppos’d to man,
Meets d eath in ev’ry winged blow,
Dealt by the fervour of his foe .
3K 9K it:
It is that heated glow ofmind,T hat loves to revel in the wild
B
2 THE MANIAC ’S C ONFESS ION.
Of its own worlds—with power to bind
The victimof its phantasy,In fetters of such varied hue,
Asmocks the tongue that feign would tell
The magic of itsmiracle;Glittering chain s at first,
i
whose light
Disorders and deceives the sight;
Refu sing still to pour the beam,
Which might’
d issolve the fatal d ream;As shadowsmelt before the ray,That heralds the approach of day.
a a x 14
It i s a dark and fatal Spell,
That doth uncharnel its own hell
Too vai nly late fromhimto fly,Who hath been made its ministry
It is the curse thatmars the life
And beauty of this nether sky,
And wages -an eternal strife
With al l who spurn its potency
It is the blast that blights the heart,
THE MANIAO ’S C ONFESS ION.
And ev ’ry blossomof its bloom,Its chill and black ’ning ne
’er depart,
Until the substance they consume
Whereon they feed—until the tombHath clos ’d upon the sufferer’s head,
For there is quiet ’mong the dead .
This visitation nevers fails
To visit they that l east can bear
The after shock that stil l prevails,
The rankling of the wounds that tear,Enfeebling ev ’ry fiber’d nerve,
Until their functions fail to serve ;
And then they Wl nd into the core,
To riot there for evermore!i t >K' >fé 5K
Thou Soul of softness—wing’d withThine are the powers that conspire
To dazzle yet to torture life,
Whose stern afflictions ever rife
To feeling’s fineness—dash the bowl
0)
4 !THE MANi ac ’s'
C ONFESSION .
Of brief enj oyment with a drop,
Who se poison weighs upon the soul
Until it wastes—without the pr0p
Of one reflection,that can bring
A balmto ’su ag e the mortal sting,
Which,l ike to Scorpion,wounds the breast,
The very source within whose rest
Was nurtur’d first the venom’d bane
That doth inflict an age ofpain
Bought by amoment’s fleeting j oy;When Fancy loves to play the boy;
Dazzled with some glittering toy,It seeks to win the Splendid prize,
And weeps to find i t fled its eyes .JK 9K 916 9R 46
Oh!who can tell—sav e hewhose heart
Hath ree l’d in fullness ’neath the glow,
The pressure of those lava worlds,
That circumfuse o’er ev’ry part
Of the warmblood—who se currents flow.
Delerious fromthe source that hurl s
THE MANIAC ’S c onrnssron .
’Gainst billowy clouds whose bosoms Shake
With the eternal thunder’s roar
And far around the light’nings strew
Destru ction ’s splinters with a dash,
That dams the waters—and a flash,
That bears a naked world of wide
And dismal waste—Look back! the tide
Comes thund ’ring in redoubledmight,To reassert i ts ancient right,
And seek the chann el whence its course,
Had fled in terror fromthe force
Of the giant Stormthat wrapt in night,
Swept hideous upon themight
Of iron pennons - o’er the deep
It hurls tremendous—now its sweep
Hath reach’d the mountain wilds that stand,Like gu ardian Spirits of the land,
Pillar’d on their unbending base,
Immortal in the wing’d race
Of Time,alone inmaj esty,
*iTHE MANIAC ’S C ONFESS ION.
They view the course of things that die,
The Shadows of the world that pass,
In one d isord er’d varied mass,
Beneath their brow—yet still the same,These flourish in immortal fame .
Amid the stormsublime they rear
Their Shadowy front,and waving height,
Reechoing the madden ’d air,
Pregnant with such sounds of fear
As wel l accorded with the n i ght .
>l$ 3K 16 9K i f
T he,stormi s hush’d,the winds are laid,Gloomand silence now pervade
The scene which late the tempest shook .
And save the moan of the gust that swells,
Fromout the hol lowness of distant dells,There ’s not a sound in earth or air,
But stillest bubbling of the brook,
And the boughs that fitful ly wave on high.
Chanting their wild and midnightmelody.
8 THE MANIAC ’S cours ssxon
There i s a power in the E lements,To stir the soul to noblest thought
And when the terror of the tempest vents,
Itself around,as though it caught,
Themaj esty of Himwho gave
Itsmight unto the wing’d wave,
The giantmountain—and the wild,
Of the cloud embosom’d forest;
We feel unearthly,as the child
Of Nature,and her very wrath
Is beautifu l—along her path
We move mysteriou sly blest;
And converse holdwith shapes of air,A peopled infinite,for there,
In pathless wood and silent Shore
Are beings terrible and fair,
Such as the heart for ev ermore,May dwell upon,and ceaseless
‘pore
O’er recollections of the past,
When we were wanderers of the vast
THE MANIAc ’S C ONFESSION . 9
And unprun’d wild—ere step of man,
Profan ’d the awfu l and the grand
Of Nature ’s own primeval plan .
When e’en the shrub,the wave,the strand,
Bore impres s of that mystic hand,That stampt sublimity on all
T he world’s wide garden—ere the fall,Of erring man fromhis estate
Of envied greatness- threw the pall,
Ofmisery and littleness
O’er human Nature’s here tage .
Disease and death,the woes that press,
And grind to very nothingness
Ful l many a noble heart,which yet
Had else been purg’d fromev’ry taint
Thatmars it now—and doth beget
The sorrows that impose restraint
Upon the wings that fain wou ld soar
To noblest flights,but which nomore
THE MAN IAC ’S C ONFESS I ON .
6
Can spread their anxious pennons now,’Neath fal len greatness’ yoke we bow
Like prostrate captives at the car
Of some imperial God of war.36
What‘
step is heard upon a night,
Whose depth of darkness might affright,The very forms that cle ave the clouds,Whosemidnight sableness enshrouds
Theirmysticmeetings fromthe eye
Of the hush’d world—that would descryThe strife of fiends,the glare of hell,
Their frantic laugh and hideous yell?
No mortal step it su re can be,
But some infernal Deity
That dares walk forth at this dread hour,
When Nature sleeps,yet tempe sts lour
A human formby ev’ry fear,That
'
blackens in impending air!
THE MAN IAC ’S c o nrEssrou . 1 1
What doth it here alone and dark,
More terrible than all—but hark!Mysterious accents,broken,Wi ld,
Like hollow winds in cavern- tomb,Where cabin’d - cribb’d,confined in gloom,Their yawningmoans come fitfullyThrough dreariness of space—a child
Of with’ring woes must sure be he .
And now his step h’ath gai n’d the verge
Of yon steep precipice—the surgeHeaves darkly boiling frombelow
To himth ere’smu sic in its flow;For there he listens,and he stands
With fixed eye and clasped hands;
Like one wrapt in a spell-born dream
He gazes on that sable stream
A l ong and hideous trance I ween,
To mortal of so wreck ’d estate
Though seeming his unconsciou sness,
Yet thought is busy,forms are seen
1 2 THE MANIAC ’S c onrE s sron .
No other eye but his can see;
And there he stands,and seems to blessSome phantom- formin his caress,And now in j oy he seems elate,
And now again comes agony
A deep o’erwhelming tide of wo
Seems urging himto leap below
Why doth h'
e pause—to one unblest,That wave affords the surest rest;
And yet he lingers—now away
He Speeds like one whomlong delay
Hath startled intomemory,Of something he had forgot,
Away he speeds—but who or what
This human Spectre formcan be?
His l ife seems wrapt in mystery.
as a re
He sudden came,as sudden past,As gloomy as the desert blast,
1 4 THE MaN iAc’s C ONFESS ION .
A lovelier light ne’er lit the sky
Than that which now beam’d tranquilly
Upon the C ity’s gl itt’ring Spires;
A golden flood of living fires
Stream’d broad upon the Mountain ’s brow,
And circling form’d a radiant bow,
Whose dazzling glories shed below,
Above,around,a genial glow,
That lit all hearts to love and life
Within that bu sy city’s strife;
A che cquer’d scene ofmany cares,
Ofmany pleasures,many tears;But Grief’s a solitary guest,
And while the Mass of j oys possest,
Float gayly o’er life ’s smiling sea,The wit h’ring shade ofMisery
Ne’er throws a damp upon the scene,Or clouds the laughing Sun serene,
Of libertine Prosperity;
M erit pines within the shade,
THE MANIAo ’
s oonrnssron .
And Virtue droops for want of aid ;
In many a hard extremity,Sorrow sheds i ts secret tear,
Within the city wan Despair“Is often seen to stalk alone,
While gayly sounds the general tone
Of festive mirth and revelry;A t height of noon the peopled street
IS often trod by naked feet,
And unhou s’d heads and unfed sides,
The city’s splendid pomp derides;For still the Mass bru sh gayly by,
Nor pause to pity they that lie
Along their path—or darkly die,
The children of adversity.
And yet ’tis ju stice to aver,
That though the many,’mid the stir
Of eager haste and duty’s call,
Feel not the wound that silent winds
1 5
1 6 THE MANIAC ’S conrns sron.
Into the solitary heart,
Where neither tie of nature binds,
Or friendship’s sympathy impart
A feeling thatmay mourn the fall
Of that it lov ’d—yet st ill they feel,And deeply,when the general weal
Of themoral world is clog’d by crime,Or sour calamity in any shape,
Call it self- love,or what youmay,Ye t stil l themultitude betray
Solicitude in peril ’s time,Though even then some id ly gape,And heedless pass what other eyes
Behold with tend ’rest sympathies;But still the greater number far
Are subj ect to the Shocks that j ar
The feeling frame—at sight or sound
Of guilty deed s—impelled by fear,Ambition—phrenzy—whatsoe’er
TE E MANIA C ’S oomnssron. 17
Can sway the soul to acts ofblood
And su ch afforded now its food,
To nurse the appetite of they
Whomdeeds of terror ne ’er betray
To Nature’s holiest charity;
The tear that flows fromPity’s mine,The littl e al l ofM isery
FromSplendour’s minionsmore divine
Than glories of ancestral line;
Ay—words are waxing wild and wide
Throughout that city’s far domain,
That seemto quell awhile its pride,Restoring Nature’s reign again ;
Words that breathe of some dark deed,The trembling spirit fears to heed,
And pale the lip and sad the eyeOf they who pass in silence by
The stranger whomthey frequentmeet,Yet without l iberty to greet;
c 2
1 8 THE MANIAo’s conrnssxon.
And echo back the tidings wild,
That seemto startl e e ’en the child,
As resting on its mother’s heart;And well may child and mother start
It is a tale that sure mu st freeze
The current of its purple seas,
And spread the pall of dunnest night
Upon that guilty city’s light.
Jlé a are a a
oh God! ’tis fearfu l Sight to See
The desert of a ruin ’d mind,
The wreck that Memory leaves behind,When She takes fl ight on wing of fire,
And l eaves a black en ’d mass to be
The all that tells of heaven ’s ire
To mark the lip of infancy,
Withou t its bloomofpurple light,
The wildness of the unconsciou s eye,
Without its beamof cherub glow,
THE ManIAo’s oonr‘E s sxon . 1 9
But flame that breathes of inward night,And desolation ’s work below
Thehectic of so young a cheek,And the faint veins that sadly streak,
Its pass ive langour,like the bloom
That haunts the flowre t of the tomb,As soft—as melancholy fair
Caught fromits with’ring death bed there,
The doubtful tinge thatmantles o ’er
All that was beautiful before .
as a are
The wormthat feeds upon the leaf,Is veiled in fu lness of perfume,Till stampt with an eternal grief,
That bud betrays the settled doom
That earlymark ’d it for the tomb;And Oh!to view each darker day
Returning,waft its hues away
In solitary—stil l decay,
Each wasting hour with it bring
The blast that blights its early spring,
20 THE MANIAC ’S conrs s sron.
Till hue,and bloom,and beauty fled,’Tis left to wither on its dreary bed :
The source whence first its beauteous head
Waved richness to the winged gale,
But rifled now its morning bloom,No gentle breeze to breath its tale,
It silentmeets its certain doom.
9K 3K all
So falls the Son of sterner fate,
Dark victimof eternal Hate,The phial ofwhose wrath was pour’dUpon the heads of they that first
Incur’d the weight ofwoes that hoard
Their mountain for the wretch accurst,Who stands hereditary heir
To all his fated sire bore
A livingmonument of fear,A few brief seasons winged o’er,
He rears his blasted front on high,
The terror of each passing eye.
22 THE MANIAO’S C ONFESSION.
A dismal change effecting thence,That leaves of life but twilight sense .
i f 9k >I6 i t BIG
The weary Sun hath sunk to rest
Beneath the Mountain ’s shadowy brow
He Slowly Sinks into the West,
But leaves behind a summer glow,That tells of his bright presence fled,
Hesperian hallo of the dead .
Twin -born with Silence—Twilight waves
Her dewymantle o’er the scene,In the blue Deep her formshe laves,And noiseless as a dreamappears;Her cherub eye suffus’d in tears,
She pensive glides along the green
Of far extended plains between,
And sheds her balmy presence o’er
The land that Phoebus parch’d before;
Upon her virgin brow a Star
Is softly seen to shine afar,
THE MANIAO’S conrnssrou . 23
As if his pensive vigil there
Was meant to guard a world so fair;Enamour’d of her loveliness,He lives but in her fond caress,
And when shemeekly bids adieu
To al l the world—her Lover too
Sleepless near the spot he mourns,
Like early Love at M em’ry
’s shrine,
But oft again her formreturns,
And oft renew their j oys d ivine
N ot thu s in fleeting life’s young day,
Whenmingling hearts delight to blend,Our promis’d j oys,once passed away,Do ne ’er return their light to l iand .
ale as as is as at
There is a voice of deepest wail,
That fitfully upon the gale
Comes—bushing ev’ry sound beside,In depth of its agony’s tide
At times ’t is lu ll ’d—and then again,
It wakes in Sorrow’s loudest strain,
24 THE MANIAG ’S ooa ssron.
What Spirit on an eve likethis
Should breathe its woes ’mid somu ch bliss,As woos around the softest kiss,
Fromev’ry flowret and leaf,That wonton s in the laughing breeze?
As gayly ’mid the clust ’ring trees,It snatches j oy rich,but brief
As Her’s I ween—poor child of grief,
Whosemisery would seek relief,
In venting thu s the inward throes,
Which tell at every pau sing clo se,
How keen they search that bosom’mid its woes .’Tis Woman’s voice—for soft,though deep,The accehts
’
on the gale that sweep
’Tis Her—that city ’s boasted pride,Young Lora—destin ’d Osma’s bri de
Osma—man of doubtful fate,Whomit were well if thou didst hate;But where is be,thy plighted love?
THE MaNmo ’s co nrnssron. 25
Some fearful il lmay soon betide
The blooming partner of his heart,And he should ne ’er forsake the side
Of her he loves—should n ever part
Fromformas fair as thine,youngmaid ;But surely now thou art betray
’d
Or he coul d ne’er thu s have stray’d,
And left thee wand ’ring—no,his word
Hath duped thy young simplicity,What else cou ld cause himto desert,Save that thou art not what thou wert,
To his impetuou s spirit—girt
By fiery pass ions—Ah!—you wrongHis thoughts—to deemfidelity,
Which doth to himalone—of all—belong,Had ever lost its influence,
With heart,whose love was so intense
For thee,his sou l’s Divmity;But thou wilt pardon himthat he
Should thus appear to banish thee,
926 THE MANIAo’s CONFESS ION.
He is aman ofmusing mind,Nor loves tomingle wi th his ki nd,And thou should ’st sure have somewhat glean’d,
Of his strange t emp’rament—not weaned
Fromthe suggestions ofhis thought,Which still effect,as they have wrought,
Strange phantasies that gather round
His mystic being—and have bound
Their victimin a fatal chain,
Whose bondage ne ’er may cease again .
Bu t wherefore art thou here thu s l one?
Thin e eye i s wild,thy cheek is pale,
Night wears apace—thou mu st begoneOr seek repose in yonder vale;
Where evening winds are at their solemn song,Mystic mlns tre lsy that to wilds belong
It cannot be that thou art here,
To seek for him—thatman of fear,Fond Lora—beauteou s maid—beware
He is not now that he hath been,
THE MANIAC ’S C ONFESS ION. 27
And thou wou ld’st shrink fromhimI ween,Could’st thou behold his al ter’d mien;Some little hours much change have wrought,A wand’rer now is he in thought;
He ’d gaze upon thy stranger brow,
Unconsciou s of his early vow;
And thou wou ld’st ch ide hi s apathy,
Or else thy bosomheave the Sigh,Thatmourn ’d his infidelity;
And he would grasp thy dewy hand,
And wave his own like wildest wand,
Commune with forms unseen by thee,Then hush ’d in tran ced vacancy,
His ev’ry n erve would seemenchain ’d,
And then as if a something pain’d
The recollection of his brain,
As if a fiery chain around
His throbbing temples fiercely wound,
He’d gently wave his finger o ’er
Its beating pulses—and implore,
28 THE MANTAO’S courEs sron .
With supplicating look on high,
A respite fromthe agony,That preyed upon his ev’ry nerve,
And caus’d himthus to turn away
Fromone he lov ’d—through ev’ry day
Of better life—ere dark decayHad yet commenc’d its with ’ring Sway.
Yes—su ch is he,young Lora—su ch,Whomthou dost love with far toomuch
Of pas sion’s deep intensity;
But who hath heart to tell thee this,
And mar a world of somu ch bliss
Asmantles round thy faithful sou l,And drug the draught of the gl itt
’ring bowl,
That early life now proffers thee,
With venomof such subtlety?
But thou mu st wake—and wake to weep
The dismal tale that sure must steep
Thy senses in oblivion’s wave,
Or‘
sweep themto the happier grave.
80 THE MANIA C ’S C ONFESS I ON
Since first he forced himself to sever
FromLora’s heart—nor dar’d obey
The fonder dictates of his own
That urged himstill to l inger near
The spot that held a thing so dear;
But other powers posse ss’d himthen,
That struggled for stemmastery,Which being gained—he ne’er again,
May look upon a formas fair
As her’s—whomhe hath darkly flown,
And left to waste away in lone
And painfu l vigil,set within
A heart that ne’er knew taint of sin,
Till first it loved— then so intense
The flame that burnt within the vein
Of her affections—penitence
Can ne’er performlustration o’er
The heart thatmadly knelt before
An earthly image as divine .
I
THE MAN IAC ’S c ons ns sro u .
But such all truer feelings are,
Whate’er this callou s world may say,
Though su ch alas!—too oft betray
Their own sublime intens ity;
Of j arring elements—the war
Then comes like an Eternity,
And revels in the reeking spoil s
Of human agony—that boils
Deliriou s in each bursting vein,
Till consciousness awak e— in vain
She struggles—shudders,and recoils,
Frominward desolation ’s waste,
She hath no power o ’er the past;
And then comes settled ru in ’s reign ;
That ever loves to wear the smile,That i s amockery ofpain ;
As if the spirit bloom’d the while.
The beamthat paly chequers o’er
The features that it warm’d before
3 1
3 2 THE MANIAC ’S co nFE ssron.
That Sheds a calm’ serenity
Upon destruction ’smass around,Is like the Moon,that tranqu illy
Looks down upon an Earthquake’s wreck,
That darken s o ’er the barren ground,
Revealing e v ’ry
'
g‘
hastly speck,
That shadows forth within the light,
Which on ly serves to aid the horrid n ight.
a ate a a
Around her dark eye’s pensile orb,
I’vemark ’d i the beams of sorrow play,LikeNight upon the verge ofDay.
Hermental being did absorb
All other powers—and the light,
Which Should have lit her you thfu l cheek,
With hues that richly burn and speak,
Had vanish’d fromall outward s ight,
But doubly fervent glow’d wi thin .
Oh! there it was the Spirit wrought,
THE MANIAC ’S c o a ssro u . 3 3
And could external glance but win,
The beauty of her ev ’ry thought,
Survey the features of hermind,The world would bend to womankind,As to the Deity we adore;
Then Scandal ’s tongue would cease to
Its venomo ’er each purer name,And lovely woman ’s worth and fame,Would reascend the purity,
Upon whose height they lov ’d to soar,
And be a worship as of yore.
35 Jlé if?
Her beau ty was the light of Love,
Its purity and grace,
Her worth was virtue fromabove,That nothing could efface
Her stern fidelity was tru th,
That heaven might adore,It was the glory of her youth,
A solitary power
3 4 THE MANIAO’S C ONFES S ION.
That nought cou ld weaken or destroy,
The source of all her tend ’rest j oy,
Nor wou ld admit the least alloy,Fromany thought that was not his;
What was the world to her—the bliss,
That flow’d fromlove of one fond heart,That world she felt could ne’er impart;And well she d eem’d it waste of life,
To mingle in its wretched strife
To be that busy,idle thing,
That buzzes upon s ilken wing
The in sects of our fleeting Spring
That sun themselves within the ray
Of the poor heart’s prosperity,
But when the Shadows of dismay,The glooms of chill adversity
Aremantling round our little day,
And promise cheerless night to corne
These gayer things with gayest hum,
Then wing their glitt’ring plumes aa
To sun themin some happier sky.
THE MANIAC ’S c o a s sro n . 3 5
And thu s they flit fromscene to scene,
Creatures of a sou l less being,
Without a moment’s real pleasure,
Simp’ring on in Folly’s measure
Striving fromeach stranger flower,
To win thejoy of one poor hour,
Without a heart that throbs in sooth,
Withou t an eye that wakes to bai l,
Return—or sight of absent love,
Without fidelity in youth,
Without—when life begins to fail,That friendship which is fromabove.as a as re
A Maniac fromhis dungeon bed,Where fett ’ring chains had held himlong,Plunged in the hell that glar
’d around,
His youthful l imbs in iron bound,Hath Osma burst his bonds—and fled.
Report i s busy with his fame,
But Scandal ne ’er can mar a name
3 6 THE MAN IAC ’S C ONFES S ION.
That hath descended froma l ine,Of high and martial ancestry ;Bu t he’s inheri tor of woes,
That chill the warmth of soul divine,And to the malice of his foes,Of food afford the full supply;
E ’en in his boyhood stemand proud,
He bore the mem’ry of his race,
Stamp’d in each lineament of face;
Though o’er his brow a fatal cloud
Hung dark and d reary—in each look,
A Sou l beam’d forth that ne ’er cou ld brook
Dishonour’s slightest taint or stain,
Inflexible in ev’ry vein,
That throbb’d alarmat sound or dread,That rose indignant at the breath,
That dar’d to breathe susPicion’s breeze ;
The wisper’d subtlety that said,
Who wins a glance ofcharacter,
Through human nature shrewdly sees,
3 8 THE MANi Ac ’s CONFES S ION
Through fell,and flood,and mountain -wood,
Mutt ’ringmysterious spells are heard
In nightly converse stil l to keep‘When not a leaf upon the gale,
And not a solitary bird,
Wakes mu sic in the azure deep
Of the hush’d Sky—and heaven and earth
Stand mute—as if an earthquake ’s birth
Were darkly struggl ing in its womb
And al l the powers of nature stood
In hideous trance—as if a taleWith potency to damn—were then
To be disclos ’d—as if the tomb
Of the slumb’ringworld were yawning wide,And they into the whelming tide,That rolled themto eternity
The awful leap not yet qu ite ta’en
Were pau sing their last glance to take
The freshnes s of this upper Sky,
Awhile to breathe—ere yet th e sleep,
THE MAN IAC ’S C ONFESS I ON. 3 9
That rounds the span of this poor l ife,
And close s upon all its strife
The only s lumber sorrow cannot wake,
Its cloudy curtains round themsweep
And whelmthemin obl ivion ’s wave,
That soothing solace of the grave.
36 X if
But there are mortal steps that tread,
And sudden wake the slumb’ring voice
Of echoes o ’er the distant plai n
And hills resound the hideou s plain
A low—du ll murmur—ofdread tone
Like midnight warning fromthe dead
It comes again—in hollow moan
And now a louder—and a deadlier burst,
And s ilence all—some Soul accurst
Some Spirit thatmay not rej oice,
Thatman and nature seemso fair,Some Maniac—madden ’d by despair.
40 THE MANIAC’S C ONFESS ION.
Oh!who can tell,save he who keeps
His secret watch with thee—old Night
And pries wi th thee into all place
And wanders with thee in al l t ime
How many a damning sound and sight,Pollute thy san ctity,and mar thy grace
Howmany a deed of crimson crime,Thy holy vestment in its co lou r steeps .
And Oh!when s leeps the peacefu l eye,
And when the happy breast is still,”
Then starts the tear—and swell s the sigh
Of hearts o ’erflowing fast with sorrow’s fill .
Cold as that starry sky She lay,
All bare and beautiful the snow
Of her bleak bosom,bleach ’d to night
Oh God! it was a straining sight,
To view the heaven of that decay
When not a breeze that seem’d to blow,
THE MANIAC’S c o nrassrom
To fan her dewy tresses there
But wafted on i ts wing away
Some perfume richer than the tear
Of orient worlds—when not a breath,
That breath’d its mu sic fromon high,
But seem’d the fervour of her Spirit’s sigh
The plaining of that purple wound
That gleam’d a rose -tint on the cheek of Love
A warmsuffusion fromabove
Blu shing unutterabl e thought
As pure—as eloquently wroughtYes—there all beautiful in death
A blessed smile around her lip,The sunset - softness of a cheek,
Where Love had lavish’d all his breath,
Where parting pass ion stil l might sip
Amid the fragrance of its streak,
So softly sweet—and sweetly weak
The last—cold dews of its despairE 2
42 THE MANIAO ’S c ourns srou.
And Madness,in an hour like this,
M ight well have ta’en its icy kiss
And there too lay the willow- hand,
With frozen vien of lifeless blue
Whereon the waves ofmidnight dew,In genial icyness repose .
That hand—which late was warmWi th love
Which late return ’d its pressure’s thrill
Is languid—impotently still
One snowy armwas resting there,On leaflets of a rifled rose
Whose tints Where emblemof her fate
Too rudely torn fromtender wand,Where in its pride it bloom’d of late
Yet breathing o’er th’enamour’d air,
The richness of a warmer glow
The other resting—as in prayer
Upon the heart—seem’d yet to say,
Oh ! spareme—I have lov ’d thee well,Better than human tongue can tell.
a x as as are
THE ManiAc’s o o nms srox .
Her Spirit fled to realms above
That s titfen ’d tenement of clay,Alone may feel the sterner blow,That Phrenzy dealt—and there the
Once fraught with Passion ’s holiest fire
A shrouded orb of rayless light,
Withou t the love of yesterday,
Withou t the beamthat e ’en to night
Fewmoments ere her spirit’s flight
Had lit the temple of a soul of flame.as as as ale
Oh God! ’twas chilling to survey,
The progress of that stil l decay,
That slowly dim’d Expression ’s ray
Like some dark C loud—whose dull advance
Is heralded by shadows cast
Faintly and fitfully at first,
On trembl ing light of a loneMoon
Its lustre fades by slow degree,
A s the vast volume nearer winds
THE MANmo’s oonms sron .
More feeble now - and nowmore light
Each tint successive varying still
And each still lovelier than the last
Till—as the sable density,
Full circumfu sing round its noon,Of gath
’ring night—and nigher—nigher
Suspended o ’er its surface blends
Its du ll shadows into one—til lO’er its lu stre,with sudden burst
Substantial darkness comes—as came
The fearfu l midnight of that cheek
Yet still the Spirit se em’d awhile,
To linger there—so coldly pure
She slept like one in dreamy trance
The lips cou ld scarce forbear to speak,
Ju st parted by a placid smile
To sever e ’en a breath had power;
Oh God!—that smile smote on the heart
And told a truth too dearly prov’d,
4 6 THE mamao ’s CONFESSION.
Again in all her cherub grace,
Of gracile formand moon light face
Young Lora wakes to love again
And Osma kneels beside his bride,
T0 press a lip of purple pride
And strain a bosomto his heart,
A breast—his own scarce knew it loved,
Till now—more passionate ly dear,Than aught of human birth—this night,
Hath prov’d her to her wayward Love .
And there beneath that large clear star,
He bows himto the formwhose light
Was all that earth stil l held for him,
And scarce refrains fromlaughing wild,To think that vagrant had begu il
’d,
So long—the eyes in vigi l dim,That on ly wak ’d and watch’d for him,
Through long and dreary lapse of time,For one who looks far lovelier,
THE MANIAC ’S conrns srom 47
To his distemper’d vision now,
Than when she blush’d to earliest vow.
He sought to rouse her fromthat trance,He sought once more to win a glance
Fromthat large eye that rolled in love,And in his melancholy j oy
A plaintive song for her he wove,
Unmix’d with aught of light alloy,A deep—pure streamas musical,
And sadly sweet—as Even - fall,
And Silence woo fromairy dell :
It breath’d of love a Witching spell,
And touch’d on memory of days,When he had blush’d to s ing her praise,
And she had lov ’d to list the lays
His spirit woke in Nature’s glow,
When Nature smil ’d—ere human wo
Had dash’d his little all ofjoy belowHe ceas ’d—and turn ’d his ’wi lder’d eye
Why doth he startP—Oh!God—ofpain,
4 8 THE Man IAc’s conrns sron .
An agomzmg smile did seem,To mantle that embodied dream
A light of suffering—that shone
O’er ev’ry feature—vein and bone
Alike were stamp’d with its impress,
Yet she was still all gentleness
’Twould seemunto the s ight as though,The sudden sternness of the blow,
That pl ere ’d into her very heart,
And shatter’d n erves with one rude crash,
And blasted with an iron dash
The functions of that feebl e frame.
Somomently they ceas ’d their part
To ply—that like a rapid stream,Damm’d fromits course by sudden wrath,Leaving awhile a bared bed
Al l was compression—wound in steel,The bounding elasticity
Of powers - that had ceas ’d to feel,
Had now subsided—without aim,
THE MANIAC s conf s s sron. 4 9
So sudden wrap t in fiery chain,
That darted round her heart and brain,
Suspended o’er their wither’d path
Held back as by a single hair
Fewmoments fromtheir strong career,Their bondage now they burst at last,
Reco iling with a forceful blast
The plastic Springs of life did seem,
Although v itality be dead
Thus sudden to resume again,
Their fu ll dimens i ons and their place.
And this it was that o ’er that face,
Stamp’d so indelibly the trace
Of her poor Spirit’s inward pain .
as 16 ace xe x are
The blow that smote so true a heart,
Was dealt by hand her own had press’d,
By one whomshe ha¢lov ’d too well
And thu s she died upon a smile,
That seem’d to say—we cannot part
50 THE MaNl ao ’s C ONFESS ION.
That seem’d to woo h im—but to spare!
And the stern steel that stabb’d that breast
Stabb’d through her smile and speechlesspray’r
That holy light of love the while,
That lit the murmu ring lip to tell,’Ti s sweet to die—when passion deal sThe fervid blow—the spirit feel s
That heavenly gu sh ofmartyr’d faith,
That triumphs o ’er the s trife of death
And thus so soft,so calm,and fair,
With all the while a blessed tear,
That stole from’neath the closed lid,
And spoke ofjoy dash’d by dread,Ere yet her Spirit’s light had fled
So placid thus at first did seem
The sleep that o ’er her senses shed,
That Man iac murd’rer would not deem,The shaded orb for ever hid;
He wou ld not deemthat snowy hand
Lay lifeless there upon the strand
THE Manu o‘s CONFESS ION.
The lip his own had press’d in love,
He stealing sought to thrill again,
By softest kis s—but sought in vain’Twas fixt in death—yet stil l he strove
To win fromslumber its caress,Of so mu ch luscious loveliness
But when that flood of agony,
Came rushing o’er each feature there
When something strange and doubtful caught
Amoment his unsettled thought
When ev’ry sense se em’d st ill’d for ever
And not a breath appear’d to sever
The ringlets of her clust ’ring hair
And not a pul se that beat reply,
To sen se of tou ch,or sound,or sight
He sudden rose—as though the light
Of that high Moon scarce shone aright
Upon the face that he survey’d
Awhile he strode around the dead,
5 2 THE MANIAc ’s C ONFESS ION.
Then sudden paused,and smote his brow,As if a veiling cloud hung low
Around it there—to dupe his senseAnd now as though rememberance
All sudden broke upon his brain
With one loud shriek impel l ’d by pain,
He fell to earth i f it i f
DIG 9?
Fromhe r blu e home the Moon is keeping
Vigil o’er those Spirits sleeping
Within her soft—voluptuous rayWill they awake; with waking day?
For Day within her dewy vest,
Is laughing in the Ori ent
Fewmourns and one—was doubly Nest
In al l she lov ’d—a parent—friend
Though grief with j oy would ever blend,
And pleasure scarce begun—would end
Though life with pain frombirth began,And only dark en’d as it ran
54 THE MAN IAC ’S conms smm'
Impell’d along his dreary path,
By heaven ’s hand ofmystic wrath.
She sought tosooth each troubled hour,When wou ld his brow in darkness lower,
Nor sought in vain—she had the power,
Albeit but seldom—to assuage,The fever of delirium’s rage
It was the aimofher pure life
To lull his bosom’s stormy strife;She reck ’d not the world beside,
Its fleeting change of time and tideIt was a solitary pride,
That link’d her to that Mamiae’s sideNor heeded voice that oft would chide,
Her Spirit’s fond fidelity;
She clung to himthrough weal and wo,‘Vith himthrough life she hop’d to share,Its varied scenes of j oy and care,
And when their course had run below,
To j oin himin Eternity.
THE MANIAC s C ONFESSION. 5 5
Oh God! it was her lates t hope,
That she with madness still might cope
Her ev’ry word and action proved
Howmore than well her bosomloved
And what requital met that love?
What deed i s there hi s heart to prove?
Let that pale formalone attest
With closed eye—and bleeding breast.
us 956
And He—who lay beside her there
The other Spirit of the night
What cause had he for his despair
That wrought around su ch fearful s ight?
The G od who lit his soul may tell
Why it was fram’d thu s terrible
And he -was frenzied—wherefore so
It rests not with the world to show
But he was frenzied—and insanity
Must plead its cau se in after time
With Heaven ’s judge imparti ally
Who doth award to good or crime
5 6 THE MANIAO’S C ONFESS ION.
The measu re of its just decree
Of late at least unstain ’d by ought,
Of savage or ofmurd ’rou s thought
He moved—aman for whom—who .met
Felt deepest pity and regret.
And he—’tis sai d—at times wou ld seem,Himself to feel the darkness of that dream,Fromwhose strong spel l—no power could re
deem.
But still though wild—with gu iltless soul,Hejourney ’d tow’
rds life’s final goal
And promis’d yet to close in peace,
His tortur’d davs of deep disease
As meek asmartyr’s breast,his course
He held—unclouded by remorse.
And whilome too—he seem’d to l ove,
The friends fromwhomof late—to rove
Each stronger passion—sternly strove
Oh!God—’twas fearfu l sight to see,
How surely his adversity
THE MANIAC’S co a ssro n.
Around himwound its cankering way
But still amid the clouds that flung
Their darknes s o’er his morning rayTo one his mem’
ry fondly clung
And on his weak and wand ’ring tongue,
Her name in mildest accents hung.
That passion ’s power o ’er himthrew,The freshness of its morning dew;Though wilder’d in his thought was he,
To him—She was all melodyAnd though weak friends would shun himnow,
Y et she was faithful to her vow
And though the world forsook bes ide,
Unmov ’d was Lora’s love or pride
Then wherefore—God of Heaven—say,
Did Osma’s hand his Lora slay?
Was there around himno dark foe,
On whomhe might have dealt that blow?
Cou ld not on vi llain heads his steel,
Delayed doombeen made to deal?
5 8 THE MANmo’s CONFESSION.
The champion of thy just law,Why smote he not the perjur’d heart?Or fromthe murd ’rer’s bosomdraw
The streamthat n e’er had stain’d his dart?
Oh!wherefore did he not obey
The dictates of thi s pu rer sway?
Why—God inexorable—whyImpell ’d to deed of such a d ie,As hush’d in death—his Lora’s latest sigh?
But theymay j oin their hands in Heaven,For su rely hemust be forgiven
Not he the cause—though his the deed,That made that guil eless bosombleed
And even now she i s at rest
While angu i sh waits another breast
Her eye is closed—in darkest nightHe only wakes—to curse the light
The blow that‘ smote her heart—is o ’er
His—stil lmust rankle at the core
THE ManIAC’s ooa s sron .
Though sleeping upon earth so cold
She’s freed fromstorms of this world ’s
While he who spurns the du st below,
Is humbler than that clay - cold form
Companion of as co ld a worm.
Though never earthly breeze may blow
Its freshness o ’er her cheek again,
There is no hectic there of pain;
No burning brow or bursting vein,
O’er which in life the breeze may pass,’Twill ne’er be cold as hers,I ween,
Who sleeps ’neath yonder waving grass.
His sou l is yet unstain ’d by sin
For he is not—that he hath been;
And when he bared his steel to strike,
He deem’d that G od approv’d the deed
For she was bound to him—alike
By ties ofpassion and of blood
And when the world had chaf’d amood
60 THE MANIAO’S coe s srox
Fromnature proud and desolate
By thembut little understood
His spirit langu ished to be freed,
And rose indignant’neath the weight
Of wrongs and sorrows—th at impressed
Their burthen on his troubled breast
Till he became a thing all worn,
And drooping in the haunts ofmen
Whatmarvel that his nature then,Was changed—that as he on ce had been
He could no longer stand the scath,
Of idiot driv ellerSP—his faithIn l ife—was broken—and hismind
Tinged fromits birth by darkest hue
To melancholy thoughts resign ’d
Became in its deep workings blind ;Till all distinctions overthrown,
Within itself of right and wrong,
A chaos of dark doubts had grown,
62 THE Man i ac ’s CONFESS ION.
That wake s i ts smilen - or draws i ts tear
M u st end at last in the de spair
Which mourns,that life hath nought to give,Requital of the task -to live .
Whatmarvel then—thatmind lik e his,Became in its o ’
e rboiling,fraught
With those wild feelings—that have wrought
The wreck of al l that promis’d bliss?
To Osma’s heartwas Lora bound
By ties - that daily deeper wound
Their Spells of intense sorcery
And when he saw that Tre achery
Would tear that bosomfromh is own
He smote her—and withou t a groan
She peri sh’d—d ied—as al l should die
W ithout amurmur—s or a sighWithou t a word—save that which said
For his—fi ber Spirit freely bled .
Such was the e nd of one,whose faith
The world may smile at—but which h ath
THE MANIAC ’S C ONFESS ION . 6 8
Within itselfmore loveliness,
Than brazed heartsmay dare confess .
as are
For Him,who sleeps beside her there
He yetmust wake to his despairh
And heavier chains,and darker fears
Maymantle round his coming years;For words are waxing wild abroad
And he mustmee t that they accordA darker dungeon—and a death
Thatmocks the gasp of his last breath;God nerve his sou l with might ofpower
To bear the struggle of that hour’When—like a felon—to the wheel
His brain mu st yet deliriou s reel
And the bru te multitude around,
Upon that fiery death- bed bound
Will smile to s e e his writhing limb
And mark his eye in phrenzy swim
And hear his heart—with sudden crack
Yield to the torture of the rack
64 THE MaNIAO’s CONFESS ION.
Oh!wou ld to God—ere come’ that day
His sou l might long have pass’d away.
36 9K 26
Light breaks upon the world again
Young Day is on the eastern Main,
And back upon the West displays
The radian ce of her blu shing rays
’Twixt Man and Nature,there appears,
No sympathy of human fe ars
The one all smiles,the other tears
And well may tears of sorrow flow
Fullmany a heart is stricken low
By Osma’s darkest deed of death,
Within that city,where but few
And transien tmourn s—young Lora grew
The loveliest blos somto the view
And now a wither’d leaf—by breath
Of angry tempest blighted—strewnIn wintery waste—alas! too soon .
THE MANIAC ’S coe s sron .
And-u- Lo'i n saddest gu ise they come
A melan choly band ofmourners byIn sable weeds of sorrow drest
They bear her to her dusty home
Thatmarble couch of sabath rest,
Where anguish ne’er disturbs the guest
And there is one—amid that train
With folded arms—and unmov ’dmien—e
And steady eye—and look seren e
As though she scarcelymark ’d the scene
Her heart was buried in its pain
And voiceless in its utter wo.
Fewmoments—and a mother prest
An only Daughter to her breast
And now thatmother childless stands
With eye resign’d and clasped hands
To take a last farewell—of all
That still to l ife—her years could bind
But who art thou,with frantic call,
And light’ning Speed upon the wind,
G 2
6 6 THE MaNIAc ’s C ONFESS ION.
In terror comes? —He burst the crowd
Impetuou s—like thunder cloud
He forced hi s way—the ranks oppos ing
To save—o’erwhomthe grave was closing
In midn ight— an d in wrath he came
His visage stream’d like comet-flame
He hurl ’d his iron hand on high
And swore with Her to live or die
WhomGod into his soul had given,
To lead himby her love to heaven
Bu t when he caught the eye ofone
The mother he had thus undone
Who Silent stood,with look ofwild,
But heart- stru ck angu ish,on her child
Whomhe had made so humble there
He sudden knelt—as if in prayerHimself as humble—humbler nowBeneath thatmourner’s feet full low
He bowed himto the wreck he wrought
And seem’d as if fromher—he sought,
THE MANrAc ’s co nrns sro n.
That she would Spurn the felon head,
That plau ’d the blow,which s truck the dead
But when he found she strove to raise,
With feeble hand—hi s prostrate form
He rose—and fixed with her his gaze,
Upon that partner of the worm,Descending gently to the tomb
And when at last—its pondrous gloom
C l osed slowly o’er the formthey l ov ’d
In infant helplessness she moved
And bore his tott’ring steps away
Supported by the aid of those,
Who yetmight prove his bitt’re st foes
And doomhimto the vilest death
That ever closed a felon’s breath.
A painful—intell ectual Being,
Invisible—or—if e ’er seen
To Fancy’s wizard eye alone
Those mad’ning forms of love are known
6 8 THE MAN IAo’s cournssros .
Creatures of the heart—that never die
Immortal as the agony,Around the sou l their presence fl ings,
AS if ’twould burst its frenzied strings
And then—alas!we weep—that t hey,Like earthly forms Should pass away
I llu sive dreams,inhuman sent
To torture this frail tenement
And when the first—convu l sive burstOf cru sh’d affections doth subside,
They come like spectre-forms accurst
The images of things that died
As bodies’ elasticity
Al l durable impressions Spurn
And softest surfaces alone
Retain through time the pressure strong
Thu s in the heart’s affin ity
To plaintive Spirits aye belong,
Capacity for deepest wound
79 rrHE maurao’s ooa ssron.
Condemn ’d to winter in the gloom
Of woes—that shudder at the tomb
But scarce may hope for peace—before
Its tranqu ilisingmound close o’er
The sufl'
erer’s head—the grief that’s born,
Fromloss of all—that o’er themorn
Of chequ er’d life,sheds warmth and l ight
That lends to youth,its strong delight
That pictures happiness to comeAnd wiSpers to the heart,that some
Amid the crowd,the shock,and hum
Of the precious world—are yet'
endu’d,
With feeling for our solitude
That we,though desolate,are not,
By every bo somall forgot
That still there be some two—or one
Whose soul smay beat in unison
In kindred sympathy and l ove
The gri ef that wakes fromloss of this,
THE MANIAC ’S c oa ssrox. 71
Cares lit tle int o what abyss
It after fall s—and as we strove,
We yetmay s trive,’gains t il ls that wai t,
To darken o’er ourmortal state;
Oh!G od—’ tis cheerless stil l to be,
Companionless in misery
Within a bu sy,bitter world,
By none belov ’d—with none to love,
But live as froman other hurl ’d,
Whose fearful destiny was wove
Bymystic fate in dark e st lo om,And shrouded in eternal gloom.
as a are
And Love—thatmakes ormars u s hereSuspended ’twixt a smile and t ear
L'ov e tempts the heart to leave it lone
Oh! bet ter far '
b e with the dead,
Than travail through a drearyT l ife,
When all it s brightest c harms are fled
72‘ THE MANIAO
’S ooa s smu .
To dreamof j oy,when j oy is gon e
Til l wre ck ’d at last by inward s trife,
We struggle with convu lsive throes,
That j ar u s to the latest close
Of years—that seemto feed on woes.
Ye s—Love will fix the fated heart
And to its fev erish’d hope impart
A momentary j oy
And then like ev ’ry earthly thing,
Away it flie s on swiftest wing
To leave a dark alloy
Of feelings—that n e ’er trust again,The smile that only woos to pain .
Oh God! to live,and look around,
View Beauty - You th —and Pleasuremeet,To chase the hou rs with glowing feet
And on a wheel of torture bound
Self- exil’d to a dark profound,
Of agonizing thoughts—that eat,
THE Man iAo’s OONFE3 8 10N.
Into the very core—though fair,And fresh all outward formmay seem
For spaces ’twixt this life and death are there,
Philosophy ne ’er dreamt of—nor can dream.
il6 X6 9k 916 3K
Within a Dungeon’s cell remote,Sat Osma—fetter’d and alone
There was a fu ll—unnatural pu l se,Whose beatings almost eche ’d through,That ample vault —the icy dew,Rung fromthe woes that did convulse,His wasted frame—bespoke the tone,Of his broken mind—he did not smote,His brow—nor rend his sable hair,
That hung in ringlets ofdespair,
Around his front ofmarble hu e
He did not rave in accents wild,
Lamentings fitfully that swell,
Fromtortures of an inward hel l
74 THE MANIAC ’S 00NFESSi ON.
He did not call on her he slew
No—nor the mother of that child,
Whomlate his troubled memory knew
And still who rose upon his view,
With clasped hand and—streaming eye,In all that utter agony
That bow’d her hoary head to earth,
Upon that n ight—when in the dearth,Of cru sh ’d affections—she survey’dThe ruin ’d tru st -he had betray
’d
He did not crave a curse to blast
One effort—and but one at last,
In hideous convu l sion made
He how’d hi s head—and would have pray’d
But scarce his fau lt ’ring tongue e s say’d,
To name i ts God—when sudden dread,Quick mantled o ’er his qu iv ’
ring frame
And then as if a bolt had sped,
And faithful to its murd ’rous aim
THE MANIAG’S C ONFESSION. 75
Had pierc’d his brain—he nerveless fell,
With half suppress’d—convulsed groan,
Upon his dungeon’s echoing stone,
Which did resound that wild farewell,
To earthly peace,and heaven ly hope
Some blasted moments there he lay
And when his tortur’d senses woke,
He feebly struggled to arise
But something doubtful caught hi s eves,And held himthere in stem surprise
A sudden hectic flush’d his cheek,’Twas struggling passions farewell streak
A moment came—amoment past
His face resum’d its livid cast
My hours are few at best—I feel
And scarcely worth a felon ’s wheel
I think I was not born to d ie,
A death that dooms to infamy
But—takemy life—’tis fleeting fast,
I reck not—so I rest at last
76 THE MANIAO’S ooa ssron.
But quickly villain—or I smite,The formthou d eem’
st i s thine by right
Quick ly tak e i t”—as he said
He bar’d from’neath his garb a blade
Of gl itt’ring steel—and wou ld have smote
But ere his impiou s hand he rais ’d,He felt a grasp his own disarm,
And sprung to wrestle with his lot
But curs ’d in vain the palsied nerve,
His will—whose functions fail ’d to serve
And shrunk fromweakness—whi le he gaz ’d,
With eye that glar’d as ’
neath a charm,
Fix’d in stern s crutiny upon,
The formthat knealt beside himthere“Forbear—Oh! God—my Son—my Son,Nor drive this old brain to
What voice was thatP—alas! a voice,
He lov ’d in boyhood—and whose tone,
Was ever wont to bid rej oice,
The bosomthat it hail’d in lone,
78. THE MAN IAC ’S coa ssron.
Itmay be some ancestral crime,Hath stain ’d mine earthly heritage
And yet—for deeds that were notmine,’Twas hard to suffer orphanage!
For oh! I have surviv ’d the hope,
That pictur’d promis
’d happiness
And now,I can no longer cope
Withmy lost state of wretchedness .iii Jlé as is
Dost see yon solitary grave,
Where the luxuriant wi ld flow’rs wave,
As if tomock the mouldering dead?
There—on the cold,bare ground,this head,
Onmany a night,I’ve how’d in prayer
Not tomy God—but her whose ear,In life,whi le all have spurn
’d beside,
Was never clos ’d in steeled pride.
Death had not so much chang’d that heart
Which once,in l iving loveliness,
Was wont to bear each sterner part
That waits us in life ’s wilderness
THE maurac ’s c o urE s srox. 4
But she will plead for one whose fate,
Denies that he himself should pray
She is not somuch chang’d of late
Her Spirit still survives her clay.
as a: are a is
She died forme,who lov ’d her best,Amid a world that woo’d and blest
She died forme—who cannot die
Immortal made,by agony
I lov ’d her best,though subj ect then
To an appallingmalady
And—though unlike to othermen,I won her angel sympathy
Her sympathyP— I won her soul !
’Twas bound tome by ev’ry tie,That links its parts unto a whole,
In bodv’s strange consistency.
Jlé 9! 5l6 9K
I lov ’d her best,who l ove her now,
Though cold in earth she sleeps below.
80 THE MANIAC ’S C ONFESSION.
In life,they fram’d a hideous tale,
Which,like to autumn’s withering gale
Nipp’d the fair blossoms of her spring:
They told her that Insani ty
Aroundmine ancestry did fling
The chain of its fatality
That dark,electric chain of wo,
Which wound around my cradled sleep,
Caus ing this blood ’s delirious flow,
The drops that sudden freeze—and creep
In du ll and heavymotion—round
The ruins of a blasted heart
And then—to sudden phrenzy wound,
A boiling ocean,reel,and start!
They told her—but ’twas treacheryThat I was wild at times—and so
They ’guil ’d her young simplicity,
In hope her love she would forego
But she was of unearthlymould,
THE MAN IAC ’S courE s sron.
More like the virgin race of old,
Than modern dames—wou ld gear and gold,Make lavish of the plighting hand
Regardles s of that golden band
Affecti on ’s wreath,of vernal hue,
Steep’d in the heart’s elysian dew
Without whose holy influence—lifeIs bu t a desert scene of strife
Ofwarring words and j arring fears,
That blot our latest scene with tears.
Imay not weep—and cannot pray,
For Heaven in wrath would turn away
But there is one will sue forme,
If vi rtue dwells with charity
I do not ask that thou shoul d’st kneel,
And supplicate for sinners’ weal
I only crave thee to forgive,
The deed by which I cease to live
For God—who frames in mysteryHad stampt we withfatali ty
82 THE MANIAC ’S conrEs srox .
And hurl ’d me ’neath this loathsome sun,
To act and suffer as I’ve done
But then this world,to which belong,
The treacheries that chafe to wrong,
This world,hath stungme deep and long
And will not pardon crimes that rose,
Frompressure of its keenest woes
Oh! G od l— if I dare name thy name!
In mercy deal with one,whose aim
In stain less youth had been to be,
Worthy of thine Eternity.
Thoumad ’st my soul,and thou can’st tell,
Why it was tempted to rebel
Th e world that frown’d uponmy l ife,Oh! thou who fram’
st it—kh ow’st its strife
Thou knowest it i s darkly prone,
To probe u s to the very bone ;
Its pastime—is calamity,Its meditation—treachery
That world—had work ’d uponmy blood,
THE MANIAC ’S C ONFESSION.
Till suffering becamemy food
The little that there was of good,
Itmurder’d in its very birth
And smil ’d upon my feelings dearth
Yes—F ather—thou,who didst knowme then,Didst knowme one—outcast ofmen
False prov’d my kindred—friends and all
I stood alone—alone I fall
One heart there was—but on ly one
That beat withmine in unison
But that is nothing—now I go,
Releas’d at last fromhuman wo
Nay—weep not—no—’tis now too late
Tears cannot stay the hand of fate
Once—ay on ce—my Vital s freezeThy hand—no more”—He is at ease
His Spirit hath for ever fled
And Osma sleeps on Lora’s bed .
TO LOUISA.
I.
0h! thou—whomnot the world beside,
With all its change of time and tide
Could change or turn fromme,Yes—thou art lovely—and I feel,
Albeit ’gainst life my breast I’ll steel
That I could bend to thee.
II.
For thou art al l unlike the crowd
Of womankind—the vain—the proud,Who flutter through life ’s fleeting
The cold—the sordid—and the du ll,
Though theymay sti ll be beautiful
Compose the circle of the gay.
88 TO LOUI SA.
III.
Oh! I have turn ’d fromthese—in loneAnd sorrowing thought—to think that none
Amid that frai l,and fevered scene,
Were creatures moulded to mymind
The fond—the faithful—and the kind
Are seldomfound in life I ween .
IV.
My soul became subdued to pain,I strove to s ooth the bursting vein
And banish human hope,Nor ever after tempt the draught,Whose venomI too soon had quaif’d
With passion who can cope?
V.
I feltmy heart was bu sy still,In framing schemes of good or il l
90 TO LOU I SA .
VIII.
And—thou art cold—Oh!World—l ween,Thy Scorpion sting is deep and keen
But,thou art nought tome
I—less than nought—to love of thine,My sou l must learn to bear—and not repine
Mu st smile at human treachery.
IX.
And I renounce thy sway,Oh!world!
Like Spirit fromanother hurl’d
Fromthy affection and contemptThou—who tome did ’st nothing bring,Save amost barren being’s sting
My aimshall be—to live exempt.
X .
Here then ‘
-oncemore—thou sleepless star,Thatmemory worships fromafar
TO LOU I SA.
Once more I turn to thee,For wert thou vanish’d frommy sight,What beamwould break my troubled night?
Oh! linger stil l with me .
XI.
And I wi ll love thy heavenly ray,
So fond—so pure—so stil l its sway
It is religion to adore,
Soft as yon beams that sweetly sleep,On trembling bosomof the deep
So soft—so sweet—thymoonlight power.
XII.
Thy plaintive eye—and dewy tress,
Tome—havemore than lovelinessDear emblems of thy sou l,
They do reflect that inward light,
That warms the heart—but shuns the
A ray of Himwho form’d the whole.
92 TO LOU ISA
XIII.
Ifthoughts could breathe—and words could burn,
Fromthese—thine eyemight happier turnFor oh!—they breathe and burn of thee,
And yet—thou art a thing so fair,As scarce to need my dubious prayer
An outcast of Eternity.
XIV.
But if indeed there be a pu rer clime,Where heartsmay rest,that knew no rest
That worldmay smile on me,My wanderings may be forgiven,
For surely I have worship’d Heaven
In lovingmy Louisa—thee.
XV.
And I will love through weal and wo,
Nor dread M isfortune’s sterner blow
AN ENIGMA.
WHAT field is that whose plain is ever green,
Exhibiting the bloomwhich still hath been
The same,though ages have their cloudy wings
Wav’d o’er its surface—where the mu sic rings
Whose sound hath been eternal as the spheres
Whose azure brow knows not the stamp of years,Which set their witheri ng seal on all beside
Which spurns dominion,and where human pride
Hath left no trace of its consuming wrath,Though it hath stalk ’d in blood o ’er every path
Of itsmost secret and illimitable range
Whosemotion,though unceasing,subj ect to no change
Which,though subservient toman ’s varying will,
Hath yet the power to overwhelmhimstill
9 6 AN ENIGMA.
And oft hath risen in its pride ofmight,
Quenching earth’s glories in a starless n ight
The only victor reckless of the strife,
Yet with dominion o’er creation ’
s life
The only tyrant not abu sing power
The on ly eye that wakes at every hour
Whose reign hath been coeval with old Time,Nor seeks extension,though through every clime
Its tributary vassals hold their sway
Now black as night,now sunny as the day
Though daily,hourly,traversed o’er bymen,Its secrets still lie hid frommortal ken
Its presence owns at on ce the Indian shore;
Thence sweeping,circles frozen Labrador
Its name familiar to the peasant’s tongue
Its glories too by bard and prophet sung,
And yet the secret of its birth unknown
Observ’d by all,yet understood by none
Though neighbouring nati ons circle it around,
It rears its head in solitude profound
THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER,
AT OLYMPIA .
BEHOLD the Dome,which Greece in happier hour,Proud of themagic of hermatchless skill,An e lf’ring worthy of the Thund ’rer’s might,Erected to her God—in that bl est day,
When Arts and Arms alike were in their prime,And Glory’s Sun unmenac ’d with eclipse
Fromenviou s shadows of a far- offworld
High in its fretted vault,supremely shone.
Ethereal Fane!—proud rival of the skies!Unequall
’d monument of human pow’r!
In sol itary grandeur,peering ’bove
The pigmy efforts of succeed ing time
Oh!who can dreamof thee—ofwhat then wert,
100 THE TEMPLE or J UPITER,
E’er time ’s dark wing had mantled on thy light
Nor worshipmem’ry ofthat god- like race,
WVhomdark- revolving ages,in their lapse,
Have swept to the abyss,but cannot shroud
Frommortal k en,the glories of thei r line.
The heritage offeeling,who can mar?
Deep in the vault,in imag’d confl ict,view
The human Centaur and fierce Lapith glare;
While Hercu lean labours frown full front.
The massy Portal gain ’d in softest gu ise,
See—cherub Peace her civic garlands weave,
To grace the brow of beau ty-breathing Art.
L0! in the centre of the Temple—l ook!Behold the God ofPhidias’mightymind!
Subl ime conception! on his vaulted throne
A bu rningmass ofbreathing harmony,That rears its starry summit into heav ’n
Rob’d in the terror of his awful state,
And cloth’d in thunder,Jove Olympian tow’rs
The God! the God!maj estic and alone,
1 02 THE TEM PLE or J UPITER,
The keen- ey’d coursers of the Elian plain,
In all the lusty vigour of the race
Speed in each nerve,and fire in every vein.
But who is He—with laurel -wreathed brow,All radient in youth,conspicuous there?
With eye of light,and check of roseate hue?
How firmhis step!and how with manly grace
He rears his marble front to heaven!—lovely
The pride with which,he spu rning vau lts fromearth,To tread th’ impalpable of his Spirit’s home!
Beneath that glorious form,who near the God
Had ta’en his seat,look down!—what fairy dream
Dawns to the eye—ofbridal fru it,by Loves
And Graces guarded!with their girdled zones
In all the pri de ofmaiden puri ty
VVi th tinsel - slipper’d feet,and braided hair?
They look l ike Heralds of Eternity
Pure as Hesperian odours that they breathe,And newly ’lighted fromElysian field s.
But Sorrow ’s soft,and melancholy tinge,
AT OLYMP IA.
Doth sweetly shadow o’er the l i nes of light,That blending,forman Iris of the cheek,
Where precious tears,like dew -drops of the rose,
Reflect the rich efl'
ulgence of its hu es
For full in view,the agony of nerves
And mightymuscles,wringing bloody sweat,Is seen sustaining,pillar’d on the base
Of Atlantean shoulders,starry worlds,
That to their centre reel . -How drop by drop
That tortur’d spirit faulters life away!
While Gods malignant triumph in his fate.
And there—Oh! s ight of painful loveliness!The fair-hair’d daughter of a wond ’rous race,
The bleeding Penthesilea reclines
Pillow’d in arms that s lew,but lov ’d her still;Illion
’s stern hero vanqui sh
’d,yields to gri ef,
Whose potent power,Gods themselves confess .
1 0
106 OB SERVATI ONS on
must be a period of infancy,youth,and full maturity.
In order thatman attain to that age,when he is saidto have reached his achme,it is necessary that he shouldhave passed through the several gradations of his physical being,that his mental and natural powers shoulds lowly,and With every possible advantage unfold themselves,to the attainment of a rational degree ofperfection. If he betray symptoms of precociou s development,the promises of a ful l and well preportioned growth,arenever so flattering,as when the process of formation hasbeen gradual—there is an affin ity more or less in allthis,to whatever is of regulated expansion,and this rea
soningmay be applied to Literature,which has been defined to be “ the voice of human intellect.” In order thatits organ s be true,clear and xwel l attuned,theymu st beallowed to exercise themselves cautiously and delicately at first,and not strained beyond their natu ral pitch,with the wish of having themyield a full and settledtone,when their notes shou ld betray the trembling vibration of a lisp. Thus then Literature cannot be ex
pected to spring fully formed and perfect into life,like
Pal las fromthe brain of Jove. Itmu st first bud,then
blossom,and then bear. This period of its budding isthe very point of time to which it is enabled to look backin its autumn,as man,when his days have fallen into
‘
AMERI CAN LITERATURE . 107
the “yellow leaf,” stands in relation to the time of hisyouth.
Thi s period of literature is the precise one of fabu
lous existence; as the scenes and occurrences of our in
fancy pass in the mid day or declin e of life,like shadows to themind,in the act of remini scence,so,the firstdawn of Literature i s allmist and twi light,when recalled through the full blaze of ameridian effulgence . Ageshad passed away before Greece or Europe found themselves placed in that relation Of distance,fromone pe
riod to another,which affords suffi cient materials and
scope to the imagination; and it is in the works of fancyalone,that we find that tone of nature pervading which
identifies a literature,with the individual nation amongwhomit is found to flourish. Science is too abstract inits principles to become indigenous to any soil; it i s anuniversal exotic . Newton belongs to the world at large,while Shak sPeare,perhaps,is claimed by England alone;that is,he i s stil l E nglish,although the subj ects of his
muse be as unconfined by time or place as those of thephilosopher.
It is to be regretted that America,shou ld stand almost in the same literary point of view with regard toEurope,that Rome did to Greece,and Europe to bothGreece and Rome. We have been gathering up the
gleanings of the fuller harvest of European science and
108 OB SERVATIONS ON
literature,as the Greeks in borrowing the letters,imported the learning of Phenician and Egyptian nations;but notwithstanding Greece may have borrowed mu ch ofher science and literary wealth,fromnations Older andricher than herself,she was yet exclusively indebted toher own resources,for every thing that she possessed,and displayed in the field of imagination .
“That state
in which human nature shoots wild and free,although
unfit for other improvements,certainly encourages thehighest exertion of fancy and of passion.
” Upon ju stsuch a condition of life did Homer cast his retrospectiveglance,rich in all the materials most fitted for the EpicMu se. Indeed,su ch i s the state in which the flowers of
the imagination bloomwithmost luxuriance,and in whichits golden fru itage is gathered . Itmust have an Hesperiangarden,though itmay d ispense with its Dragons. Criticsusually bruise the apples and mar the fo liage where theytouch themat all . America,we repeat,stands almostin the same relation to Europe that Rome did to Greece,which is unfortunate. We borrow fromour transatlantic brethren much in the same way,and almost to thesame amount with the Romans in their intercourse withGreece; the c onsequence to Rome was,that the bestwriters of fiction only transcribed from the pages Of
tho se who had preceded them. Criticismtoo came inat a time when she should not have been received,and
1 10 OB SERVATIONS ON
critics numerous,the powers of composition have in al l
ages and countries gradually declined”—This is true,and we have to lament that such i s the state Of thingsamong us . The great men of the sixteenth century,wou ld never have been what they were,had they stoodin fear of any tribunal ofCritics . However,as it is,if
these writers would only become coadjutors in the cau seof literature and science,with those who supply orig i nal
matter,we might yet promise ourselves a rich harvest
Of l iterary glory; bu t the great misfortune is,that thecritics are usual ly writers for ejfect,and rather than not
d isplay their own wi t and acquirements,they do it atthe expense Of those whomthey Should upho ld ; they
are moreover qu ite too full Of false rul e and system,andit i s in allu sion to this vile propens ity ofdulln ess,to
tramel the efforts of genius,with its own leaden impos itions,that the guardians of the literary wheel,are forevermore deprecating their functions . Fool s shou ld bepul led fromWisdom’
s seat,who watch alone to cuffdown
new fledged merits,that wou ld rise to nobler heights,making the grove harmon iou s.”
We must necessarily,howeve r,look abroad—intothe cherished records of ages,that have rolled,not
over the desert of the new,but the pliant so il,and varie
gated landscapes of the o ld world—where the footsteps
Ofman,have been traced fromthe first rude impressions
AMERI CAN LITERATURE. 1 1 1
ofhis great Progen itor,through the successive stages of
every humanising art,every science that enlightens,and
every moral that adorns—down to the present distantperiod,fromthe first commencement of the march of
Time—when the Sun ofintellectual illumination,postingto the meridian of its career,is hailed in gratu lation by
the sage,and worshipped by the savage—it is to the gar
dens Of science and of art,if we would gather goldenfruitage,and not to the unpruned wi lderness,that the
mind must direct its vision—the poetmay indeed,findhis cradled slumbers in the forest,but hismanhoodmustcommune w ith me n,for human character and passion
formhis theme,and although,as before remarked,someOf the greatest poets have appeared,at the most unenl ightened periods Of their several ages,others again,ofequal merit,have flourished in times,when l earningmay be said to have become gigantic in her dimen sions ;M ilton was the greatest polemic of his day,beforewhomSalmatius,one of the most learned men Franceever has produ ced,retired in s ilent submission ; and
Shakspeare’s mind,was necessarily benefitted by the
wisdomintroduced,by the great Fathers of the Refor
mation . Somemodern Theorists maintain,however,thatthe general diffusion of literature,tends to weaken,or
at least to repress—the original powers of the poet’smind—this effect however,we canno t but think,is p roduced
1 12 OB SERVATIONS ON
only upon minds not Of the first order—Homer wouldmost inevitably have been the same great poet,had heflourished at the most en lightened period of the age ofAugustu s or of Pericles; and as to the vain assumpti on,that the finestmaterials of the poetical systemhave beenexpended—and that,according to Dr. Young,the mostoriginal images have already been employed,by thosewho first explored the great field of n ature—it may beObserved,that geniu s is necessarily original,and it would
be as absurd to suppose,that becau se in the pages of
Homer,Milton,and Shak speare,we find collected allthe embellishments of which their poetry was suscepti
ble,that nature has been thereby rendered threadbare
and unprofitable,as tomaintain,that the Helen OfZeux
i s,monopolises all the beauty of the female world. Withregard to our Columbian Parnassu s,we have not as yetmany gems and flowers to boast of,it stands cold and
uncul tiv ated in the bosomof the wilderness; Solitudeand Silence are the guardian spirits of its sylvan home ;the gen ii of the Cataract,and Prairie,repose their starry
l imbs upon its summit,worshipping the wonders of theirunbounded reign; that it is vast in its resources,and
fertil e in its d epths,we cannot but indu lge in the proud
belief,its golden treasures are unexplored however,but
that they will one day be brought to light,is the pros
pect flatteringly held forth,by the language of a few.
1 14 OB SERVATIONS ON
Satire,evinces a felicitous vein of satirical humour,thatwou ld have graced the caustic pages ofPope or Gifford
it presents also in one passage an ingenious parody upon
Parnel ’s beautiful tale of the Hermit—indeed the l ittle volume comprising his Poems,that we have in ourpos session,bears ample testimony to the high poeticaltemperament of its author. England wou ld have de
lighted in a Mu se,that found in America,nothing but“ ashes and a tomb”—for,although the Phoen ix of themind,will ever spring triumphant fromthe ashes of thebody,yet,unless wooed to the bowers of l iterature and
of song,it will become an unknown and solitary bird—ithas been unfortunately thu s with C lifton—political
troubles,and the viru lence of party rage,engro ssed the
attention Of the times,and it was only perhaps in theoccasional pauses of the storm,that the listening earcaught the vibrations of his Lyre—doomed to neglect,and the obscu rity that attends i t—his labours,whileliving,were unrequ ited,and his name—when deadconsigned to forgetfulness—wellmay his Spirit be heardto declare of Fame,what Shak speare says of Honour,
themore word ’s a slave
Debauch’d on ev ’ry s tone—ou ev’ry grave,
A lying trophy—and as oft is dumb,Where dust and dama ’
d Obl ivion are the tombOf famed” bone s inde ed .
AMERI CAN LITERATURE.
So little is the society of theMuses court ed in our
country,thatmany a page familiar to,and cherished by,the taste of Transatlantic readers,is appropriated in the
soil where first it expanded,to the v ilest u ses of the
vilest hands—The Romances of Brown,are as littleknown among as—as though they had been never writ
ten,or read as the productions of a foreign author—whilethe ponderou s epics of Barlow,and Trumbull,obtrudingthemselves into notice,merely fromthe novelty of theirhuge proportions,are vaunted forth as specimens ofclassical immortality—and glimmered through by idiots,who mistake the light of the type,for the illumination sof genius ; not but that there are in the Columbiad,manysmooth,and even beautifu l verses,bu t taken as a whole,it i s the most grotesqu e performance,with the exception ofone or two modern specimens Ofthe epic stylethat ever emanated in a serious shape fromthe pen . It
is humbling to see,how a writer,once possessed of that“ damn ing fame that Dunciads give” —without at thesame time being altogether blotted fromthe chroniclesof authorship—flaunting in gaudy,bu t fl imsy,and tattered vestments,will attract a host of buzzing insects,that dwell around him,merely because,fromthe imp osthumati on Of the materials of which he is composed,they are enabled to gorge his congen ial putrefaction
while the firm transparency of geniu s they avoid,or
1 1 6 OB SERVATIONS ON
light only on the surface,to so il its beauty—murmuri ngat the impenetrability,that defies the mining tendencyof their efforts.
We are lamentably deficient in this country,in thecultivation of a poetical taste,and our worthy Criti cs,so
far fromexerting the powers that usually seemimpliedin the offi ce of literary censors,in forming,and cherishingone
—forreasons best known among themselves—evidently concur,with mOst laudable unanimity,either incondemning,for what they sagely conceive to be theirheresies Of thought,and style,the few,who may occasionally prese nt themselves as candidates for the honours of the Parnassian Laurel, bidding them go
hence and be no more seen”—or else,where perhaps
they accidentally stumble upon some little indication of
poetical phrenzy,preserve a religious silence,not cor
responding indeed in time,with that which was knownin heaven,for the space Of two mi nutes—but,placingtheir hands upon their hearts,their lips become sealed,as by the influence of a Spell,of no les s potency than
that,which is represented in the Eastern Tale,as closing
upon the powers of the vi ctims of Eblis—n now really,if
we may presume to point out,what we humbly conceiveto be the Obligation s,necessarily imposed,by the station,which the se
x
sublime Worthies maintain,in our little re
publi c of letters,we wou ld in the first place,remark,
1 1 8 OB SERVATIONS ON
should aim at achieving—and either render the moreworthy candidates for the distinction Of their favours,callou s to the influence of those powers,that are abused
by themost wanton application,orelse,repress tho se energies,that disdain the fostering hand,which has beenrendered contemptible,in having been so Often employed in the infant task,of “ breaking butterflies upon the
wheel” —it has been truly said,that “ the knowledge of
our d i sease,i s half the cu re,” and if these literary Hydras—not such in point of power,but Of hideousness,and the inveteracy of their existence,which nothing less
than the cau terising brand Of a Hercu les can d estroy
like wise physician s,wou ld on ly report to the patient .
the nature ofhis complaint,withou t proceeding at once,to themost violent u se,of themost v iolent applicantshOWmany a frame of beautifu l proportions,might beshielded from the mining ravages of a secret power,whose progress might be arrested,simply by the “ paft ient ’s admin istering to himself;” instead Of this,however,these deformed monsters Of the Hesperian gard en,their gorgonean appetites not gorged,by the daily carca
ses of the dull they devou r,are for evermore snarlingat those,who are alike proof against their terrors,and
their charms,the latter,ever being held forth in cases,where they dread the lash,and are compelled to fawnth e fact is however,literary Orthodoxymay thunder its
AMERI CAN LITERATURE. 1 1 9
anathemas till dooms- day,against the fanatic intolerance,of this self- constituted tribunal of Inquisitorial
Critici sm,the mania is not endemial to any soil,and i stherefore hopeles s and withou t cure—for these writers,are legitimate disciples,Of the Warburtonian school of
human philosophy,having clearly inherited,and strong
ly imbibed,the notions of their great master,as to thes ources ofmoral obligation; and it wou ld be altogether
v ain,for auv one to attempt to preach t hem,into a re
nunciation,of the narrow and selfish system of theircreed : we may tell them,that the most enlightened,andindeed the only true idea of this feeling of Obligation,rests upon a perception ofutility,at least,if no t upon a
moral sense,triumphantly they reply,that their conduct,can alone be swayed,by influence Of some pre s iding superi o r wil l to their own,which not existing,they
have no dispos ition to have their moral,which involvestheir free agency,destroyed,or at least shackled,by interpos ition of any o thermotives to action,than such asare self suggested ; the canon s al so,of their critical dis
cipline,subj ect to the imperfection that attaches itself,in a greater or
'
le sser degree,to all human laws and institutions,as the wisdomof legislators may abound,orbe deficient—are found to deal alon e,in the infliction of
puni shments,and never in the distribution of rewards,consequently,the Poets,when they indulge in visions of
OB SERVATI ONS ON
heaven,are not the idle dreamers,they have been generally esteemed to be—for,these legislative critics themselves,fromthe sage conv ict ion,that theremu st necesarily exi st some state of reward,for the virtues of thegood,and themerits Ofthe wi se—and this state,not be
ing found upon earth,are led of course,to point out anhereafter,where the d iscon solate Bard,maymeet withthat atonement for his wrongs,and sufferings,whichwas den ied him,in thi s vale of tears ; but a very natural
and momentous question,here presents itself—how willthings go wi th the cri ti cs—what wi ll be their fate,whohave been the framers of those laws,that are des igned toapply alone to Offences—c learly,the reverse of that of
the poets,for having rewarded themselves here,for thearduous duties of their station,in puni sh ing the latter,their day and place of account i s of cou rse to come,notbeing supposed,to be altogether free fromcrime themselves,though profe ssed ly i ts punishers—alas—what aprospect!the Po ets surely,upon reflecti on have,no rea
son to complain,and it i s seriou sly to be hoped,inju sti ce,that they will n ever henceforth be heard,to murmur against the critics . We had occasion to remark,a few leaves back,that the demandsmade,by the tasteof the reading commun ity of our country,for the pagesof the Poet,were bu t few,and far between;” the dis
advantages,consequent upon this almost total and ge
1 22 OBSERVATI ONS ON
ness bright;” indeed it i s humbling to Observe the al w
most daily instances that present themselves of the tow.tal absence in the people of America,of that noblest
perhaps of all feelings,the pride that arises fromtheconsciou sness of intellectua l superiority; politically as a
nation,we are naturally j ealous of our civil rights—bu tthis is a principle inherent in the nature of the veri es t
losel of creation—nay,it betrays itself as conspicuou sly
in the elements of brute matter,as in the bosomof the
sage ; the feeling of personal liberty is not confined to
man alone,it extends and illu strates its influence throughevery grade of an imated being—the Ind ian or the Afri
can,whose ideas do not extend beyond the rivers and
mountains of his home,yet exults in the buoyancy of unshackled freedom—lul led to his slumbers by the breezesof the forest,he blesses the stars that light himto repose,and hail s the sun that dawns upon his l ife,as de
s igned alone to warm,invigorate,and cherish him; theempire ofLiterature,i s l ike the empire of Woman,oneof softnes s and of sorcery; but in America,the cold ah
stract ions of the statesman,and the mercenary speculations of the artizan,embrace the extension of ourmen-w
tal vision,and bind the horizon of its aspirations . It is
fo l ly to preach about national infancy— the world itself
was in its infancy,in one sense—when the star of Poesy,
encircling the morning freshness of the brow of Chau
t
oAMERI CAN LITE RATURE . 1
S er,led himforth in the blushes of a young Aurora,to
shed his day upon the slumbering energies of creation,s teeped in the oblivious night of ages .
But as a p eople,we are not,and never were,in a
state of infancy—our birth has been coeva!,and our na
tional progress thee same,with that Of the governmentsof the old world,fromwhich we d iffer,only i n the newness and freedomof our political constitution—in every
other re spect,we are almost one and the same peopleand the pre sent d earth of literary talent,which per
vades our country,and for which at least we are con
Spicuous—is altogether the consequence of ourmercan
ti le and agri cu ltu ra l pursu its,at least of the abso rbi ngdevoti on with which these are fo llowed and encourag
ed; it has been said,that where the nat i onal spiri t tends
to the advancement of any one particular art,a Spring
and impetus is thereby given to every other—bu t thepresent state ofAmerica,wou ld seemto deny the truth
of this assertion; if indeed,it be not considered as a s in
gular exception to a general rule—and in fact,it baflles
all theory and contradicts all experience - for while the
mercantil e and agricu l tual arts,and even the more vicion s refinements of polished life,are encouraged and
carried to their topmost height—the interests of Literature are allowed to languish and decline . Poetry and
Painting are almost entirely neglected. Utility is no
124 OBSERVATI ONS ON
longer the hand-maid to genius—and we may prose toal l eternity about our national infancy,as the cause of
our literary deficiency,no such cause exists; but the fact
is,as long as the lands of the agricu l tu rist continue to
be the only so il cu ltivated,and the Speculations of the
merchant,the on ly efforts of mind deemed worthy of
attention,so long must we remain in our present state
of literary nonage . We do not pretend to say,that commerce and agriculture shou ld be neglected,or unde
serving of strong national support,and that the fine
arts should be alone attended to—but there i s such athing as carryingthe se former pursuits toofar—amongtheancients the least commerci al,were themost en l ightened nations . Rome had no commerce,but she extendedher arts and arms,to almost every corner of the world .Carthage had but l ittle,if any,Literature,but her commercial strides were colo ssian,and she perished of herown enormou s weight. She neglected the cu ltivation of
l etters,and devoted herself exclusively to traffic; andtraflic destroyed her. In America,there exist no properstimu li to literary exertion—indeed,under what stri ctly republican formof government has Literature everflourished? or rather,have not her interests been u sually better understood,and more attenti vely regarded byan enlightened Aristocracy—tempered even by a moderate spirit of liberty and j ustice—than by any other
12s O BSERVATI ONS O N
d ifl'
erent periods—it was not necessary to their country’s welfare,that they shou ld have been coadjutors
in her cau se—the former rose against the very powerthat fostered the latter; which wou ld seemto demonstrate
”
that themind of the one,declined beneath the influence of that atmosphere—which proved favourable tothe growth and expansion of that of the other; that Li
terature may exist where Liberty does not,andi
fvi ca
versa—the clamours made by the people of Rome,duringher consu lar or governmen t,su cceeded in introducinga spirit of greater Liberty—if indeed,the privilege of
the mass to do as they please,and to confound freedomwith faction,intrigue,and violence—be made to constitute the bles sing of enl ightened Liberty—but with thisequalization ofrights among the Patrician and Plebeian
ranks,during the democratic administration at Rome;was brought about a more vigorous organization of themi li tary system—and of that alone,Li terature was far
fromderiving any benefit fromthe change : as a proof ofthis,when,after the conquest of Syracuse,Marcellus
attempted to introduce the Fine Arts into Italy—he wasviolently Opposed by Cato the C ensor,the stanch ad
vocate of liberty and republican ism—this inexorabledemocrat,whomVirgil very properly makes one of the
judges of Hell—was very apprehens ive that Grecian Li
terature would destroy Roman Liberty!—It wou ld seem
AMERI CAN LITERATURE. 1 27
then that the interes ts of the two causes are not exact
ly of an identity,which i s to be lamented; but such arethe conditions of life,our bless ings are but “ few,and
far between .
” Man is seldomallowed to enj oymuchhappiness unmixed with pain ; a good effect not unfrequently proceeds froma bad cause,and the contrary isas often the case—vi ce has some attractive graces,asvirtue is sometimes cold and repulsive. The flowers of
Literature frequently“bloomwi th most luxuriance be
neath the foot of the tyrant,because the soil upon which
he treads,destined to give birth to other,and more vi
gorous vegetation,is necessarilyferti le; and the lordlyoak is proud of the flattery of the rose and the vine—heshelters them,not exactly for themselves perhaps,butbecause they tend to grace and beautify his reign : the effect,however,is the same,whatever be the designand thu s it i s,that the interests of Literature are gene
rally better attended to,under an aristocratical or 111 0
narchical formof government,than under any other
there is a brilliancy and summer glow infu sed in the atmosPhere that surrounds a court,which warms and inv igorates every thing within its influence; and as in the
naturalworld,the same sun,that elicits the growth of
themost noxiou s,give s life and luxuriance to the mostwholesome plants,so,the lustre that encircles a diadem,while it seduces himwho wears it,fromwarming and
128 OB SERVATIONS ON
dazzl ing h1 s brain,to trample frequently upon the p ersonal,yet leads himat the same time,to foster and protect,the intellectual rights of man . Science and the
Sword,go hand in hand beforehim,and unite in completingand perfecting his achievements; his obj ect being,strictly speaking,to triumph,and mere brute vio len ce cann ever signalise,but rather tends to cast a shade upon
his efl'
orts—what a contrast of character,between a
Caesar,a Frederick,and a Napoleon,and a Nero,a
C laudiu s,and a Caligula,or anAlaric. It is a saying of P0
l itical scien ce,that the bare “ trappings of amonarchy,”
would be sufficient,thoroughly to adorn and equ ip a
republic—that the ofl'
als of the one,wou ld be adequate
to the entire support of the other; and this is true,and
it i s for this reason,that Science and the Arts,are
prone to take shelter beneath the patronage of the great.
M enmu st be rewarded for the trouble of exertion,andalthough the breath ofFame sustains theirmemory afterd eath,they cannot live upon it,like Gossamers,duringlife. Locke has truly said,that “
no one ever found
mines of gold and silver in Parnassus; it is a pleasant
air,bu t a barren soil .” Certain forms of government,are not less d istingu ished by their spiri t of substantial
patronage,than by their ceremonial institutions,andpractices that tend to stimu late ambition,and exciteemulation—a purely republican government,fromthe
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s ires and transmit to their offspring the inspirations ofthe Lyre; the Tree ofknowledge in our country,has arri ved at that lamentablematurity that abounds in leaves,bu t i s barren offru itage,because the so il in which it has
taken root,has been neglected and exposed to the
s torms of popular commotion,which however,they maypassharml e ss over the obscurity of theOsier,never fail torive the giant branches of the Oak. There is at the sametime,a littleness and frivo lity d isgustingly apparent
in the dispositions of the few,who afi’
e ct to admire,andcultivate a tas te for the production s of art,which fromhabitual indulgen ce,has become fatally confirmed—thefemale part of our commun ity,who n ever fail to makethe greatest po ssible display in words of their acqu ire
ments,whatever the y may be,or,however unimportant,in cases where the slightest pretens ion to mind and
taste,may be with some appearance of con sistencymaintained,and who,among their othermanifold affe ctat ion s,invariably profess to admire most what theyleast understand,are so devoted tomodern Novel - reading,indiscriminately gorging all the trash that dailyemenates from the labouring pres s,in the seductiveshape of a Love tale,or some other formequally s ickening and grotesque,that it i s altogether lIOpele ss to ex
pect fromthem any rational agency in the cause of
good learning,or any advancement given to the arts
froma steady patronage of its more serious and enlight
AMERIOAN LITERATURE. 1 3 1
erred departments : we have been led to notice this classof readers,because in the literary societies of the old
countries,they are allowed to possess a degree of influence ; which,when properly exercised,tends perhaps to
the happiest results—bu t rather than that these deli cateSentimentalists,should employ their leisure hours inunbracing the sinewy vigour of man ly Literature,byunremitting dalliance with the antic Dwarfs and littlearch Adonises of “
the primrose path” of intellect,we
really wou ld be disposed to witness the introduction of
even more than the eastern economy of domestic lifeamong our fair countrywomen,dooming them to the
dreariness of l iterary celibacy; or seriously advise themresolutely to resume,and patiently to endure the sylvanoccupation s of their great progenitress—not exactly to
become “ hewers of wood,” but certainly “ drawers Of
water,and tenders of the rose .” That we possess even
at the present period of our history,sources within our
selves,which are capable of supplying his materials tothe poet,no one perhaps will deny who looks back tothe Indian Antiqu ities ofour country; lords of a bound
less empire,they have flourished for ages in the free
domof the desert—their origin as unknown and mysterions as the awful rites of their religion—standing uponthe first invasion of the white man,like guardian geniiof the new world,as wild and maj esti c as the moun
1 3 2 OB SERVATIONS ON
tains of their domain: the vi sions of the Utopian never
disclosed realms ofmore blissful cre ation,the barrier ofa mighty and trackless ocean,rearing its billowy frontbetween the gorgeous pillar of the Eas t,and the ivied
column of the West,towered like a Spiri t that preserve dtwo starry worlds asunder; theirmountains,rivers,andlakes,corresponding in sublimity to the vastnes s ofthe scene; the wild man of Ameri ca,wandered like theJudean of the wilderness,and wondered at his being:
and then,as if taught by the wisdomand the meeknessofHim,with whom in the sol itude of n ature he musthave held communion,upon the first advanc es of his
foe,retired within the grandeur of hi s sou l,and dis
dained to Oppose the littleness ofman ; like him,he hashad his garments rent,hi s Spi ri t scoffed at,and his frametorn upon the rack of hostile inhumanity—he offeredthem a covenant of peace,and they rej ected it withs corn; he asked for drink and they gave himwormwood;l ike him he l ives a sol itary man,Spurned at in life,unhonou red in his fall,and forgotten in his grave—butwhile we admire the pictu resque life and hero ic character of the Indian,whil e we glow with enthu siasmat theun equalled display of the many noble qualities,that
mark and dignify his nature ; the unshrinking fortitude,the generous magnanimity,and the steady fidelity of
his feelings,we cannot but regard these Splendid quali
O B SE R VATI ONS ON
gether equivocal—the vision closes in instant darkness,and we become sensible of having gathered nothing butthe shadows of twilight; it i s this impenetrable veil ofmystery,mantl ing the temple of an Indian mind,whichdenie s all access to the inner apartments of the fabric,where his awful Spiri t brooding its dark vigils,sits
throned in its world of clouds,and wrapt in the solitude
of its dreary desolation—we admire the bold and strik
ing outlines of the bu ilding,bu t know nothing of its in
tern al constru ction—all avenu es to access are barredagainst us,a voice tells us to behold,” but no seal nu
closes,and we are not bid to come and see.” Theclassical proportions of the Indian frame,the picturesque beauties of hi s sy lvan l ife,and many of the features even of his eventful history— however tinged by
the purple hue of savage fero city and crime,may bed isplayed no doubt with strik ing effect upon the canvass
of the artist,in all the magi c of his colourin g s,but cannot charm or interest,however encircled by the glow
ing inspiration of the Poets page; that is,if as we humbly conceive,the l egitimate obj ect of al l genuine poetry,be to rou se and convul se into an in ten se existence,the slumbering elements and dormant sympathies Of thesoul ; and this effect can on ly be produced by subj ecting
us to the influence of powers,that we acknowledge as
centred in beings constituted l ike ourselves,impelled to
Ci)UsAMERI CAN LITERATURE. 1
action by the same feel ings and motives,that lead allmen alike to infamy or renown,as theymay be greatlyor ignobly tempered . The character of the Indian,is
so completely the result of the peculiar habits of his life,that we really cannot attribute to himany superior de
gree of original excellen ce; his insensibil ity to pain,i s
the consequen ce of a great compactness of physical or
ganization,and the solemnity and even melancholy ofhis dispos ition,the effect of his wild and desolate existence; necessity is the parent of all his virtues and e u
ergies of character; bravery and a love of distinction,i s
not with himso much a sentiment,as a wild ambitionof superior savage ferocity. Property among them,confers no distinction,and the onlymeans by which theIndian can arrive at this—as there is an inherent pro
pensity in mostmen to rule—i s by displaying higher elements of fiercene ss and
,inhuman ity ; when we see
greatness of soul,exhibiting itself under temptation s toselfish aggrandizement,and surrounded by all the littlev ices and miserable corruptions of Society,we naturallysuppo se a superior degree of mental elevation ; bu twhen the display of those qualities necessary to an important tru st—is made the condi ti on upon which i t i s
to be conferred,we cannot wonder in such a case,atthei r exhibition—true it is,as we have had occas ionto remark,that wemust admire those energie s of pow~
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er,that are usually implied in the aspiration s of a gi
gantic ambition,or any other sentiment of the sou l,that i s represented as boundless in its conceptions; but
unless the subj ect over whomthis resistles s agency besupposed to preside,be portrayed as made up of the
same elements,influenced by the same contingen cies,and affected by the same vicissitudes of time that actupon ourselves,we may indeed admit the cold emotionsofwonder and astonishment,but can never be meltedand subdued by those warmgushes of sympathetic feeling,that are elicited by the successes or the reverses of
beings,in whose fortunes we become identified,fromhaving been made to feel,value,and understand the
qualities thatmark and electrify their natures : our fears,wishes,and expectations,become necessarily roused
and enl isted in behalf of the destinies of Achille s or
Macbeth,while we Shudder at the preternatural terrors
of M ilton’s hero; for although the progress of the three
be marked by the blood and sufferings of our fellowcreatures,ye t the consciousness of our own liability tothe frailties and misfortunes of the two former,irresistably compels us to that commun ionwith their Spirits,whichinfallibly leads u s to take some interest in their live sand fortun es,and to become in some degree affected bythe events that assail them; while in consequence of theimmense distance that is placed between us and the lat
ter constitute the proudest and the noblest theme of thePoet ’s inspiration; but our Indian history,presents noexamples of this nature,at least not upon that broadand dignified scale which would challenge the powers
of the pen—and while theirmilitary life,to which alonewe look for actions worthy of commemoration,and subjects su ited to the dign ity and high vocation of the Muse,i s thu s confessedly barren of events of any magnitude,their civil exi stence we wou l d naturally suppose,alto !
gether unworthy Of the serious attention of the Poet
a state of peace i s one at best,of quiet inaction,pre
sentingno obj ects ofinterest to anymind,but that ofthehistorian or the philosopher; the civil concerns of any pow
er in the management Of its internal organization and
1mprovement,offer but little variety ofmatter,and thatadapted to the speculations only of the legislator—theflowers of poesy,are never found to bloombeside the pathoftheMagistrate ortheMerchant,and droopand wither inthe pe s til ential atmosphere,and hot -hou ses of city stagnation; the geniu s OfCommerce is too rugged in his as
pect to attract the smile s,or elicit the favours of theMuse; but if the domestic occupations even of a civilized power,he found deficient in that dign ity and inter
est requ ired of the poetical Theme,how plainly impossible wou ld it be,to work upon the same material sdrawn fromthe internal sources of a race of barbarous
AMER I CAN LITERATURE. 1 89
Indians? We feel for the unhappy African,when torn
fromhis companion s and native soil—but who would
think of converting his sad fortunes,his captivity and af
ter bondage,under the iron scourge of his Oppressors
into the formof a poetical Tale? In attempting an Indian subj ect,the writer is necessarily subj ected to dis
advantages pecu l iar to his theme; he finds himself com
pelled fromthe obscurity and oblivion,under which thatnation lie buried fromthe attention of the world—and
even fromthe knowledge of the greater part of peopleofour own country—in order to elucidate his narrative,and to preserve that appearance ofkeeping,as ’tis termed,which is essentially requisite in all delineations of
character,he is obliged we say in con sequence of this,to enter into those minute details ofdomestic and individual l ife,which are tediou s at best,but absolutely
necessary,where the main action is not such as to imply,or sufli ciently hint at,the nature of those constituent
ingredients that form a perfect whole; this species offormal episode,is at all time s and in all poetry ratherd ry and un interesting,it produces the same unfortunateeffect,with those laboured elu cidations of the text ofan
author—not generally read or und erstood—which d irectthe reader where to smile at a witticism,or enter intothe scope and spiri t of a sarcasm; the effect whichmightotherwise have been produced,is thus destroyed; but in
no case,are these passages explanatory of pecu liar habits and ideas,more unprofitably waded through,thanwhere they refer to themanners and civil employmentsOf a nation OfSavages . In books of Travels,wemay read
these accounts with some degree of interes t,as furni shingourminds with the personal history ofa port ion ofourrace;but really to encircle the rude brow of a swarthy Indi
an,with a garland fromParnassu s,is indeed like casting pearl to swine. Upon the whole therefore,we can
not but believe,that although the maj esty ofMan,reigning in the nakedness of the desert,be a striking emblemof the grandeur of Un iversal Nature,although the primitive simplicity,and open ingenuousness of the IndianAborigines of Ameri ca,afford flatteririg evidences of theoriginal pu rity of our present corrupted nature,and so
far at least,merit the grateful meditations of the wiseand good—although the melancholy remnant of theironce unspotted race,even at this distant period fromthe happy days of their fathers,stil l preserve some of
themany noble traits,that stamped and individualized
themas a people—although the realms over which,likeSpirits they preside,be the grandest that ever w itnessed
the presence,or e choed to the voice of man—yet evenal l these dazzl ing assemblages of natural and moralbeauty and sublimity,are not alone,nor sufficiently
adapted to the construction of any bold and l asting edi
tion of such a Literature,we mu st turn our attention tothose resources,thatmay be afforded by our histo ry andinstitutions ; bu t these do ndt as yet present u s withmaterials adapted to the purposes of poetry; because the
events connected with the former,are of so recent adate,as to rej ect the embel l ishments of fancy—and the
latter are unassociated with any of the peculiarit ies and
remembrances of a past period,marked by striking or
important featu res; in the morning light of our presen texisten ce,there are no fables which the invention of the
Poetmight supply,that would be recogn ized as everhaving arisen among us —given birth to in the popularsystemOf ourmoral or political C reed ; there is no mystic curtain between the twilight visions of a past age,and the dawn of the present,which the Poetmay drawaside,to commune with the spirits of another,and a bygone world ; and it is evident,that only in the fables and
popular superstitions of a people,can we trace any of
the peculiarities of the nationalmind,tinged by the distinguishing colours of practices and events,that relate
and belong exclu sively to itself; and it is only where the
imaginative works of a nation,are nrade to bear the
stamp Of those characterising lineaments,which enableu s to recognize the original fromwhich they have beencopied,that it comes gradually into the posse s sion of a
national Literature; where there h as not been a sufli
AMERICAN LITERATURE. 1 4 3
cient space elapsing between the period of a people ’s
birth,and any Specified point of time succeeding,whichmay have afforded roomandmaterials,for the expansionof some systemof beliefs and practices,to which thePoetmay be allowed to refer,and to which hemaymakewhat additions he pleases,no nation can expect to accu
mulate any large and important body ofLiterature; theonly method of supplying this present want,we hadbeen inclin ed to think—which is mere ly that natural deficiency in you th,Of the wisdomand experience of age,inciden t to the moral world—would be to introduceinto works of foreign fiction,those images and illu strations,that might be gathered from the natural re
sources of the Poet’s country; bu t it i s evident,that as
there are certain traits in the national character of somecountries,more bold,striking,and poetical than those ofothers—and as the Poet is not at liberty,to transfer these
froma people to whomthey apply,to any other—ih or
der to preserve a con sisten cy and keeping in his general
d es Ign,there mu st be a correspondence of parts to thewhole,and the ornamentsmu st be su ch as natu rally growout of the subj ect; which wou ld not be the case were he
to mingle contrarieties; and to represent the Arab reposing on aMountain,or an inhabitant ofthe Alps in an In
dian Cabin of North America,would be to contradictexperience,and to violate the laws of all poetical li
O BSERVATIONS ON
cence; thus then,although the American Bard,is at liberty to retrace the gradual progress OfTime,and whilehe may al low his reflection to examine thosematerialsand images of things and events,which hismemorymayhave treasured up and preserved,from the generalwreck ofhours,and his fancy either to
'
revive and fefreshen the colourings,which in their birth theymayhave exhibited,or to mou ld themto its pu rposes,andadorn themwith new beauties of its own—he i s not yet
authorized to fable wonders of the new,or grace records
of the Old world,except they be exhibited in a corres
ponding foreign drapery; hemay not create a heaven of
Houri e s tripping over the green velvet sward,or beckon
ing fromthe luxuriant bowers ofaWestern Prairie. The
wonders of South America,we think present a moredazzling and encouraging prospect to the eye of the
American Poet,than any thing to be gathered fromthepast or present history of his own hemisphere; its natural and civil resources both abound in go lden treasure,in which he may find his account to lie; the con
quests ofCortes and Pizarro,and the wars ofMontezu
ma are no less fertile in the material s,than the valliesand cataracts of the Cordileras are found,studded with
the embellishments ofPoetry; the Indian Antiqu ities ofthe South,too,are of amore gorgeou s and fascinating
colouring,than those of their brethren of the North —for
frenzy of a distempered mind—consigned to the solidtude of hermournful retrospections,she is cast forth towander in the wilderness,like some pernicious spiritwith whomman fears to hold communion - in her own
regions of primeval wildness and luxuriance,she drankof the fountain of Divine L0ve~ - and all was moonsorcery and beau ty—but immerced in the bitter watersof thes e evi l times—her affections have become changedand almost cal lous to the suggestions of her heavenlynature—the only remaining traces of her once peerlessform,survive in the cherishing ardour and devotion of aByron— the dark but glorious inspirations of his soul,seemto rouse and reanimate her being; and as Liberty
and Literature,wept over the ashes of Brutus and
Qu intilian,and perished in their fates—the solitary G en iu s of song,will weave her last garland upon themonument of Byron .
After all however,that we have been saying upon
the subj ect of American C ritici sm,it is not perhaps sodiffi cu lt to account for its silence, in regard to our
Literature generally—more particu larly,productionseminating fromthe South : there is unfortunately a civil and literary line of demarkation,not less conspi
cuous and established than the natural one,existing be
tween North and South; our New England Brethren,stand particu larly Opposed to ourselves in almost everycircumstance naturally calculated to create a division
AMERI CAN LITERATURE . 1 47
ofintere sts,betwe en any two people; their Institutions
their habits of feeling and reflect ion,in some degree theresu l t of the former,and their political interests andsentiments,all tend to give a bias to the ir l ive s and characte rs,alike unfavourable to our existence,national as
well as l iterary; and this feeling of j ealous indiv iduali
ty is not confined to a few,but pervades all classes
al ike. Their representatives in ourNational Assembly,are no t content with simply pursuing the interests oftheir Constituents,but evidently exert themselves ins trong Opposition to our own : what their obj ect can be,we confess ourselves somewhat at a loss to imagine,asthey cannot be blind to the truth,that their interests are
identified with our own as a nation,and that the exist
ence of each state,is synonimous with that of the Union .
The Republic of Letters,seems no t less divided betweencontending interests : rather than aid and encourage the
development of American talent,it is d isgusting to perce iv e the systemadhered to by ournorthern l iterati ; s i lencein regard to our Literature g enerally,that of the South
particu larly,and loud and obstrusive clamours abou tEnglish gen ius : and what makes thi s literary Spirit ofAnti -Americanism still more contemptible,is,that itexerts itself not in any orig inal specu lati ons,upon the
subject of European productions,bu t i s satisfied with
the miserable task of retailing second -hand C riticism“
there is one little gaudy production,which devotes its
pages with most laudable enthu siasmand inveteracy
exclusively to the service of British Literature : the Sp i
ri t ofE ng li sh Magaz ines,Openly declares its purportin its very title page : all the trash which laborious du ll
ness is capable of col lecting out of every Quarterly and
Monthly Journal,infesting severally the different parts
of England,is periodically thrust into thi s little gaudy
volume,whose surface i s as conspicuous for its tinselglitter,as its substance,if substance it has any,is worth
les s fromits imposthumation,and treacherous fromthechaotic arrangement of itsmaterials : this mani a tastefor Foreign Literature,is so prevalent throughout our
northern Atlantic cities,that like other deadly diseases it
has last become contagious—and the effects of its influ
ence—extended even to ourWestern woods,have becomeapparent i n a j ournal l ately proj ected in that quarter of
our country. The Western Review,upon its very first ap
pearance,clearly indicated symptoms ofthe same infection-we natural ly look ed into this work,for some accoun t ofthe state of Literature in the West,but instead of anysuch intelligence,we were sickened with the samemiserable echo,which had first resounded in the North
caught fromEuropean Critics,and fai thfully transmitted to every part of America,where sufficient holl owness was found to reverb its answerings . The Port Fo~
OBSERVATIONS ON
with in the United States : the North American Rev iewitself,one of the most able works of its kind,i s neverthele ss extremely partial in its views of the literary
canno t but th ink deserving of the high es timation of every flmerican at
least—name ly,the Poesy of our country—when Mr. Walsh aflirms,inopini onwe believewi th certain other literary worthies of the North,thatAmericahas not ye t produced one Poe t worthy ofno te,and indeed that allAmerican Poetry,was but a col lection of barrenness and trash—had theseenl ightened gentry forgo tten,or were they ignorant Of,the performancesofC lifton,P ierpoint,and Trumbul l ? but even admi tt ing for amomentthe truth ofMr. Walsh’s assertion,was i t wel l fromthe lips ofan Jimerican” one wou l d have supposed that he wou l d have been the last to
accuse h i s country of l i terary deficiency,at leas t to have done so in a
tone ofcontemp t—and when some th ing had been ach ieved in the field ofimagination,and promises of be t ter success he l d forth,so far fromun
dervaluing past,and d iscouraging present exertion—an American,wemus t th ink,woul d have been prou d of fos tering the infant energies ofnative mind . It evinced no l i t tle presumption in the learned Edi tor,togive publici ty to an Op inion,which,we take upon us to assert,runscounter to the fee l ings and the sent iments,of the greater portion of the
peop le ofAmerica ; ifhi s persuasion be really what he declares i t to be,he sure lywould be tter have remained si lentupon the subject ; but ifon theo ther hand,h is object was to avo i d the trouble hemight have b een subjected to,in the frequency ofcommunicat ions under the poetical head
noth ing coul d have beenmore unworthy ofamind as enl igh tened as hisown,than such amiserab le subterfuge ; but real ly after refusing to pub.
l ish flzzi erican Poe try,because there was none that merited publ ication,the Ed i tor should at l eas t have given us be tter fore ign selections,than those which he no doub t imagine s,grace his pages—we do nothesi tate to declare,though we have not been very constant readers of
AMER ICAN LITERATURE. 1 5 1
state,and progress of our country; under the superin
tendence however,of its present Conductor,we may
his paper,that wi th one or two excep tions,they are evenworse than anything of the kind,that has ever been given birth to on th is s i de of the
Atlant ic,we all our Bealiah drizliness of brain—and bear but feebletes timony to the l i terary taste of the Edi tor,not more credi table to hisjudgment,than the p iece of Quaker Poe try,wh ich he was pleased inthe fulness ofhi s wisdomand condescension,to d is tinguish by giving i ta place in his Gaze tte— th is was flmerican Poetry
—but as i tmos t trulymerited the severi ty of the decisi on passed American Poe try general ly,ofcourse,the Edi tor publ ished i t ; i t real ly was “ trash,” and thereforeanswered his purpose—eu impudent Parody upon the style ofone of thegreate s t Poe ts of the age . Wordsworthmay we l l be heard to repeat theob servation ofFox,who upon be ing questioned by some flippant American,re lative to themeri ts ofhis ce lebrated Bi l l for the regulation of
the East Indian affairs,remarked,that he hadmet often wi th Engl ishimpudence,and Sco tish impudence,but thatAmerican impudence stoodon the head ofall impudence . Parody is the mode usual ly adop ted bydul lness,to revenge i tselfupon genius- it i s indeed me lancholy to seehow the subl imes t mysteries of the medi tative sou l,lie at themercy ofsurface-skimming ridicu le and of se lf- rejoicing ignorance .
” In avowinghis sent iments re lat ive fo the uti l i ty ofCri ticism,and the conductadopt.ed by ourAmerican Journal ists,i t has been suggested to the author,that he has beenmost unfortunate in the se lection ofhis time and place,what he thinks however,he wi l l stern ly say—unmoved by censure,andalmos t indifferent to applause,he has but l i ttle to fear—he knows theworl d toowe l l e i ther to court i ts smi le,or tremble at i ts frown—and he
is prepared to lay but l i t tle stress upon the good or bad opinion,i tmayd isposed to entertain ofhim.
OBSERVATIONS ON
perhaps look for better things—a scholar himself,heshould know howto value the interests of Literature : and if
he be a genu ine American,his mind must be free fromthose party prejudices and sectional distinctions,that
have disgraced the talents with which they have been at
tended,and over which they were allowed to preside,on
the part of those who have preceded himin his presentoffice.
In South Carol ina,a stil l more lamentabl e state ofthings has been brought about,by the same spirit forforeign works of genius and criticism,that rages at thenorth ; for united to this Spirit,on the part of the few
who maintain any pretensions to superior qual ifications
ofmind,there is,at the same time,a general disrelishfor all serious l iterary pursu it,a languor and passive
n ess evinced upon al l subj ects connected with mind,the resu lt in part of ignorance,and ofmonopolising andabsorbing commercial and agricultural engagementsthat set al l attempts at etherealising them into a moreintelle ctual existence,at defiance . It is amodern Beo tiaseemingly,under the curse of M inerva; the Aristocracyof the state,comprisingmu ch talent,are either too sublime to exert it at al l,or else,no t being allowed to givefree vent to their passion for Great Bri tai n and her li te
rary men,resolutely Observe a contemptuous silence;not at liberty fully to indulge in raptures about every
dulness,after floundering through the dust and cobwebs
of antiquated fol ios and quartos,for the last half cen
tury,comes forth at last in “mountain labour,” and i s de
l ivered of a mou se :” al l that this “ learned Theban”
has to advance upon the all - important subj ect of classicaleducation,is unfortunately borrowed fromthe pages ofthose great worthies who have preceded himin the task,in which he fancies himself to have been employed in ori
g inal speculations; the merest echo of the theories ofothers; plainly imagin ing himself the only scholar inAmeri ca; for he certainly would not have been at the
trouble,though no doubt “ the pleasure he delights in phy
sics pain,” of collecting so many authorities to bear himout,in the little he has himself to say,had he suppo sedothers to have been familiar with the same. Not contenthowever,with simply giving what he i s pleased to callh is Thoughts,
” to the public,in a general way,in the ful
ness of his wisdomand his vanity—Solomon himself wasvain—he sits down and indites amost thundering epis t leto the Trustees of the South Carolina College,bidding
themin the very commencement,after nicely specifyingwhat he conceived to be the bare and l iteral duties of
their station—to go hence,and be nomore seen;” talksrapturously of the learned instructions given by Thu
cyd ides to his countrymen who wou ld have thought
the oldman had so much blood in himP” —of the terrible
AMERI CAN LITERATURE . f)
vollies that issued fromthe tongue of Demosthenes—and
of the go lden numbers that swel led fromHomer’s harpraves abou t these as the unrivalled attractions of theclassic page ; as i nducements that should lead us to thestudy of the Greek,firmly persuaded,no doubt,that hewas in the very dep th of argument,now,really,if he
designed to instruct American ignorance in themethodof acquiring a knowledge of the classics,it was surely
a cu rious mode of going to work,to tell themthat theseauthors were charming and all that—amere begging ofthe question ; the u ti li ty,and not the beauty of the
Greek and Latin,is the point that has been variously
discussed,fromthe days of Locke to those of the Profe ssor himself. No one doubts that Homer was a greatPoet,Tacitus a brilliant Historian,and Demosthenes aneloquent orator ; bu t it i s doubted,nay deni ed,that
twenty years of every man’s life should be devoted to
the worship of those sages . - The chief argument in favour of the cu ltivation of classical literature is,that an
acquaintance with the best models in every species ofcomposition,tends to the acqu isition of a just l iterarytaste; and su chmodels are to be found,it has been maintained,only among the an cients: another reason,it issaid,why the classics should be attentively studied,and
well understood,is derived fromthe circumstance of aportion of our religion being handed down to us in the
Greek ; this latter argumentmust necessarily losemuchof its force as time progresses,and does not exist withthe same weight at present,that it did some centuriesago,fromobviou s causes : it i s contended also,that asall modern languages are but dialects of the Greek andLatin,these l atter mu st of course be studied by everypeople that wou ld understand the constru ction of its own
pecu liar speech : the last argument involves the first,asa n ice an d discriminating taste can be acqu ired only byhimwho understands the pecu liarities of idiomand ge
n iu s,of the language in which he writes. In regard to
these languages,considered in themselves,asmere mechanical inventions,however harmonious and beautifultheymay be—melody of sound,and even those vivid conceptions suggested by the pecu liar genius of a language,can never be considered as forming arguments for itsbeing studied. Thu s then,notwithstanding much stresscontinu es to be placed upon the euphony of the Greek
and Latin languages,the on ly plau sible pretext for the
study of themis,that an ,acquaintance with them,as thefoundations of modern speech,is requ isite in some degree to everyman,in order that he may understand thelanguage hemakes use of. But may we not ask upon
this ground,why the Anglo -Norman and Saxon tongues
are notmade a part of modern edu cation? The elementsof every langu age in Europe,at least of those that are
1 5 8 O B SERVATIONS o n
we daily deprived,by the preposterous error ofmistakinga knowledge ofProsody for usefu l learning!” So buried
in the du st and rubbish of the mu sty tomes of old libraries,was this accomplished Grecian when we had thefelicity of breathing the same atmosphere with himself,that we really would not havemarvelled at anymomentto have heard himframe a question of similar sagacitywith . the one put by a French Antiquary,at Rome,to anAmerican traveller,whether Quebec was no t the capitalof the United or when the world was filled
with amazement at the unrivalled achievements of Na
poleon,to have heard this sublime Prosodist doubt whether he cou ld c onjugate a Greek verb . We had beengratified to learn that the Professor’s letter had been un
attended to by the Trustees of the South Carolina col
lege,to whomit was addressed ; but our dismay can bebetter imagined than described,when on turning over
the papers of the day,we stumbled upon the followingReply,” fromthat august body to the noble Greciandisguising asmu ch of its gross flattery as possible,wegive it in substance as follows : Most Learned Sir,as
it is probable that you may soon go hence and be nomore seen,’ we gladly avai l ourselves of the earl iest opportuni ty of acknowledging
‘ the pure earthly pleasure
that we have extracted fromthe peru sal of thine immartal work;’ Sir,what though Thucydides hath instructed,
AMER ICAN LITERATURE. 1 59
Demosthenes thundered,and Homer charmed .” the great
est was beh ind—it has been reserved for thee,to instruct,to thunder,and to charm,as none have heretofore instructed,thundered,or charmed; true,most illu striousHeathen,that Busby* deigned not to dofl
'
his beaver to
his ImperialMaj esty,Charles the second,bu twe sir,evenat this distance,are bending in all due reverence to the
great supremacy of thy geniu s . Sir,though the word oflife,’ itself,be not exactly in thy page,yet is ‘ the wisdomthat instructeth’ there . We alas,would have discovered,when too late perhaps,that we had ‘ hewn out unto our
selves systems,broken systems that could hold no truth,’
we have indeed been seeing through a glass darkly,’ and
in the valley and shadow of ignoran ce have we groped,even like the wanderer fromreligion ’s light,’ but praised be the Lord,the sun of Scien ce hath at last shed
abroad its influence upon us,even as the sun of righte
ousness descended upon him. The many luminou s ideasSi r,that adorn thy pages,wou ld have been eagerly caught
at,and acknowledged by u s,had we known themto haveemanated fromthemind of the most obscure individual,in the most obscure corner,of our obscu re country; butSir,when ‘ in fear and trembling,’ it was revealed to u swho thou wast—when Sir,with looks amazed and eyes
See the Professor’s Le tter.
O B SERVATIONS ON
aghast,’ we had the ‘ horrid j oy’ of learning that thou
d idst once officiate at the head of those ‘ illustrious oh
s cures,’ who formerly directed the government of thatmost august seminary of learning,the Charleston Un ivers i ty
—O! Sir,no tongue can tell,the hideou s rapturesthat inflamed our breast; Warburton crushed Boling
broke ’ Sir,and ‘ Porson overwhelmed Travis’ Sir,butSir,those were the effects of p igmi es—and man in fight
Opposed toman,the victory was nameless—nameless Sir,when compared with that which thou hast achieved overu s ; there Sir,onemind but yielded to the superior powers of another,but here S ir,a whole Insti tut ion lie s pros
trate in confu sion,crushed and overwhelmed by the tremendons efforts of thy Titan intellects; the stupendousenergies of thymind Sir,have shaken to its centre theintellectual foundation whereupon we stood. With such
lights to guide u s Sir,be assured we will no longer fol
low the feeble glimmerings of our own benighted brains;conscious now Sir,that ‘ the blind ’ no longer ‘ lead theblind,’ we stand not in fear of falling into the ditch of
error.’ Sir,we have nightly slept with thy page beneath
our pillow—worthy is it indeed of some Persian casket .
Thy work immortal,is our ch ief delight,All daywe read it—dreamof i t all night.”
1 62 OBSERVATIONS on
nius—which,we are in ecstasy to learn,he is daily employed in industriously constructing upon the p ages ofo thers enl ightening what in themis dark,and purifying what is impure.
” Butmost sagacious Sir,as everyv irtue hath its foil,and every great man his enemy,sotoo,art thou surrounded by those who would blast the
laurel s of thy well earned glory,and lessen the Splen
dour of thy resplendant fame; but S ir,ought not we,toregard the reports that have reached us,as slanders of
the satiri cal rogue?” we,who groan under a debt of oh
ligation,which we grieve to think,can never be repay
cd by any services on our part,worthy of thee; it hath
been represented to u s Sir,that thou art in the dai ly
practice of certain li ttlenesses,retailing scandal,as it is
said,thou retaileth wi t and learning—that to make
some quantity of barren spectators laugh ;” thou dostbut too often outrage decency inmost obscen e gabbeling;that thou enjoyest a peculiar fel icity in heralding d i sastrous tidings; it hath been said moreover,that thou artwoful ly bilious and splenetic—that thou art full to
overflowing,” of petty j ealousies and most spleneticSpites—that thou canst smile and smile,and be a vil
lain ;” notwithstanding,that in manners,thou art at onemoment,as “ rugged as a Russian bear”—and at ano
ther,as soothing and complacent as “ the sweet Southbreathing o’er a bank of violets;
” that where thou im
AmERI cAN LITERATURE. 1 68
bibest a prejudice—and thy nature,it is said,i s ful l
fraught with prejudices,literary,national,and personalthou leav est no stone unturned,” in order,to “mameand cripple,” su ch luckless Wight,as the fatesmay haveordained to become obnoxiou s to thymost destructivebile; that thou artmoreover,as voraci ous as a canabal,being never unmindfu l of the b—ly,which it 1 8 said,hath at last become an enormous tomb of “ fish,flesh
and fowl .” Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”
be thou a Spirit of health,or goblin damned? be thy int ents wicked or charitable? Let u s not burst in ignoran ce; but say,why thy benighted intellects hearsed inoblivion,have burst their cloudy curtains; why the home,in which we knew thee qu ietly immured,hath openedits du sty j aws to cast thy foul works up; say,why isthis,that thou,dread Sir,armed in complete vellum,approachest thu s the shadows of our Seminary,makingit hideou s,and we,fools of learning—so terribly to shakeour purposes,with thoughts beyond the reach
‘
of oursou ls? what should this mean?” with this quotationthat seemed to burst fromthe Tru stees,rung by theenthusi asmof their feelings—closed their reply to theProfessor; it i s evident fromthe language of the Reply,that i ts Author’s when writing it,mu st have labouredunder a high degree of excitement—cau sed,no doubt,bythe wonder and admirati on with which they were filled,
1 64 OB SERVATI ONS,850.
at the unex'amp led display of learning and ingenuity
contained in the Professor’s Epistle—he should feel alittle anxious,however,if he be a good man,and not
such as he was represented to the Tru stees—for if hislittle ten -
paged Pamph let,cou ld excite such afever ofadmiration,what will be the effects of his “ larger vo
lume!” the subj ectmeritsmuch reflection.
1 66 OBSERVATIONS
clearly entitles it to one of the loftiest grades in the scal e
of intellectual supremacy. Of an art thus highly estimated,and universally recogni sed,in all its abstract claims to encouragement and distinction,it may seemparadoxical tosay,that its principles are yet but little understood . We
believe that upon this subj ect,the ideas ofmankind are asmuch at variance as upon the Scripture doctrine of aTrinity in Un ity. It has been to no purpose that the
ingenious have laboured to illustrate the latter by images drawn fromthe natural world ; bu t then the terms ofthis proposition not being clearly understood,it is not
surprising perhaps,that the understanding should be
cau tiou s,and hes itate as to their real import; but Poetryadmits of no such abstract speculation s,as have beenemployed upon that doctrine . Men judge of it accord
ing to the impression which itmakes upon the imagination or the heart; bu t thi s very circumstance again i sperhaps productive of l ittle advantage,to the interests
of the Mu ses; for it has been well Observed,that of all
those component parts thatmake up the excel lence of aPoet,a few only are subj ect to general rules,while far
more is left to be approved or disapproved of,accordingas itmay happen to suit the fancy or the feelings of theindividual .”
Thi s being the case,the productions of the Muse,whatevermay be their intrinsic merit,are subjected to
UPON POETRY. 167
the variations,the peculiarities,and the capriciousness
of such a diversity of tastes,that the Poet often finds
himself vaciliating,like our Language,b etween two extremes or opposing systems; the more he approache s tothe one extreme,the greater the praise bestowed—whileaccording to his departure fromthe other,is proportionedthe blame which he receives. True it is,that this processis sometimes reversed,in the case of those,who possessing no natural taste or relish for Poetry,affect to judge
it,agreeably to certain rules and principles in composition,that no one ever heard of but themselves. Who
ever i s acquainted with the mode of proceeding of realgen iu s,will be extremely su spiciou s of all activity inart,which originates in abstract theory.
” Thu s,then,is
Poetry j udged of in the main,according to the powerwhich itmay possess of affecting the imagination or theheart,those two master chords of the human frame,which,if they be skilful ly touched by the inspiration of
the Poet,never fail of responding in every bosom,notdead to the impu lses of our nature,the subdu ingmelodyof the soul that wakes their energies : bu t themisfortune,as above remarked,of Poetry ever making its appeals tothese two sources of emotion,i s,their liability to pervertion,either froma naturally bad taste in al l that depends for its success,upon a n ice perception ofbeauty,or else from peculiar and long established habits of
1 68 OBSERVATIONS
mind. It is not in Poetry as in Painting,where the
great excellen ce is found to consist in an Observan ce of
certain ru les. Sir Jo shua Reynolds himself has remarked,that a taste for the beauties of the latter,i s altogeth
er acquired,which implies that before we can be qualifl ed to judge of its merits,wemust be first acquainted
with those laws in conformity to which,the Painter isknowh to found his claims to our admiration.
-Painting
moreover,is purely an imitative art,employed in exhi
bitin‘
g exterior and visible forms,while Poetry,frombeing altogether intellectual,is freed fromany depen
dance upon external appearances,making its appeal rather to the mind than to the senses. It has been said,indeed,that even in Poetry—the assertion has not been
qualified as applying to certain compositions,a perception of whose merit must Often depend,upon an ac
quaintance with those ru les of art,that d irect how to
avoid error,rather than to supply original matter—for. it
is in these departments of literary exertion,where perfe ction is found to consist,as Madame De Stael remarks,rather in “ the absen ce of defects,than in the existence
of great beauties”—it has been said that a relish and ataste,for the.n icer and minuter excell ences,even Ofpoe
try,is the resu lt of a long experience,and the fruit of study
and observation—butwe cannot think this altogether cor
1 70 OB SERVATIONS
hear no other than the stormymusic” of the drum—isstrong testimony in favour of the position that Poetryspeaks an universal language—alike intelligent to theCourtier and the Peasant; though perhaps this universa
l ity of feeling and design,is found to diffuse itselfmorein the Drama,than any o ther species of writing—yet itever attends all the truer and more permanent production s of the Muse—for this reason it is,that the impressions made by Tragedy are of a more general and lasting influence,than those excited by the efforts of the
Comic Muse.Variou s defin itions as to the nature of those sever
al productions,to which we afli x the term poetry,have
The defini tion ofPoe try contained in the text,coincides we think
exactl y wi th the one given by Lord Bacon— that “ i t i s an accommodat ion of the shows of things to the desires of the mind ;” al luding s trict lyand exclusive ly tofiction ; but Mr. Campbe l l in his late Lectures uponPoe try,th inks proper to extend the above defini tion,as applying to all
Poe try—asserting that fiction,in one accep tation,is by no means necossary to Poe try—name ly,when understood to mean a fe igning of
events and characters ;” now to our humble apprehens ion there can beno othermeaning at tached to the term,and if there be no o ther,thenMr. Campbe l l ’s opinion i s al toge ther at variance wi th that of Lord Bacon.According to the latter,fict ion is Poe try—merefancifu l associati ons,says Mr. Campbe l l,do not const i tute fiction,and these alone be ingfound to exis t in the works al luded to in the text,of course they arenot fict ions,consequently not Poems,and this is all we contend for: we
UPON POETRY. 1 71
been given by different theorists upon the subj ect; the
truest perhaps i s that which declares it to be the lan
guage of the passions”—this we think no one will dis
certainly admi t that fanciful associat ions do not alone consti tute Poe try,but at the same t ime there are few ficti ons ifany,in which these are notto be found . Mr. Campbe l l th inks that Lord Bacon’
s defini tion,as applying alone to imaginary his tory,too l imi ted and inde terminate,andmentions the Ode,which Lord Bacon excludes,as properly comingwi th in the scope of the defini t ion ; but Sappho’s Love Ode,wh ich Mr.
Campbe l l says,gives you the reali ties of nature ;” and ye t aecommodales the shows of things to the de s ires of the mind,” i s s ti l l in somemeasure of imaginary beauty—heightened to that degree wh ich is con
sistent wi th probabi li ty,and such is the beauty of all fiction—so thatLord Bacon is correct,at least in app lying his defini tion to imaginaryh istory or fiction,under which head the Ode,certainly the higher Ode,i s we th ink included ; thus then we are of opinion,that the beauties ofpassion and imaginat ion,he i ghtened to that degree which is cons istentwi th probabi l i ty,shou ld properly be cons idered as const i tut ing Poe try inthe strictest sense of the term—and beaut ies so heigh tened,amount to adegree officli on,but fiction l imi ted by probabi l i ty ; but i tmay be askedhas probabi l i ty beenmade the standard of invent ion in the Orlando orthe Tempes t? to thi s we answer,that themindmakes al lowance for thepecu liar agency employed in those Poems,and this al lowance once
made,there is a cons istency of keeping throughout,that carries wi th i ta sufficient air ofprobabi l i tymingl ing Wi th the fiction. When Lord Bacon says,that Poe try i s ficti on,he only says in other words that ficti onpresents to themind all those assemblages ofimages,and those de l igh tful associat ions that consti tute the very essence ofPoe try : these heightened at the same time,and the fee l ings they give rise to,sustained wi th
OB SERVATIONS:
pute,when it is cons idered,how many opposite Speciesofwritings,have been classed under this head ; whereinfor the most part,the imagination alone has been employed—that is,where fanciful images by way of illustration,have been introdu ced. The Telemachu s ofFenelon,the Roman ce of Cervantes and others,are usually termed Poems . The Sermons of Taylor,are said tobe replete with fine poetical imagery,the Writings ofAddison,also are highly imaginative—and themetaphys icians of the Elizabethan age,are said to have lookedupon man and nature,not merely through the Spe cta
cles ofbooks” - but with the frenzy of a Poet’s eye .”
It has been said indeed,that every man of fine gen ius,naturallymore or l es s a Poet,in as mu ch as he is imbued with a' feeling for the sublime and beautiful; but
this i s surely a very false doctrine—to attach the nameofPoet to every writer of great powers,would be gro ssly tomisapply the term; no author of antiqu ity,and certainly none among the moderns,ever po s sessed a niceror a deeper sense of the beauties of Nature and ofArt,as evinced in his writings,than Longinu s; his Critique
acorresponding digni ty and elevation by the passion of the Poe t,and i tis in consequence of the absence of th is fire and cont inued e levation,in the works al luded to in the text,that they are denied any claims topoetical insp iration—after al l perhaps,Poetry is a mystery—likeReligion,rather to befelt than reasoned upon.
1 74 OB SERVATI ONS
l atter at i ts ebb,presents you with images of greatnessunrival led—notwithstanding which,Longinus was no
Poet. It lé has been s aid,that the delight which Poetry
bestows,partakes strongly of pain,and that the compositions which attract us the most powerfully,are those
A few days previous to these Observations being put to press,theAu thor,anxious to l earn what a wri ter of such meri ted celebri ty hadto say upon th is subject— turned to Mr. Campbel l ’s first Lecture uponPoe try,repub l ished in the L i terary G aze tte ; and was not a l i t tled i sappo inted to find him,instead of offering some theory of his own
contenting himse lfwi th bare lymentioning the s trange posi tion,whichhas been maintained by some wri ters upon i ts debateable ground,butwh ich has been so comp le te ly overthrown by K nigh t in his Essays uponTaste—name l y,that an ex treme degree of privation const i tuted a sourceof sub l imi ty : in answer to the ques tion,how i s i t that themind derivesp leasure frompainful representat ions,i t has been said that there is aport ion of subl ime fee l ing connected wi th high exci tement—no doubt,but sure ly not wi th every species and degree of emotion,because wereth is the case,fear and jealousy,th irst and hunger,wou l d each becomea source of sub l imi ty ; but noman about to be precip i tated froma pre
cipice,tortured upon the rack of horrib le susp i cion,or peri sh ing offamine,was ever conscious ofsublime emo tion. Wi thout be ing bl inded bypart ial i ty for se lf,we cannot but think therefore,that the explanation of
th ismoral phenomenon contained in the text,the most consonant to reason and experience, Mr. Campbe l l was not acquainted however,as hete l l s us h imse lf,wi th K nigh t ’s Essays when wri ting his Lecture ; and ashe appears to admire the Essayis t,he wi l l no doubt bring himse lf toagree wi th himupon th is pomt. However i tmay savour ofpresumption,the Au thormust confess,that he fe l t a strong disposi tion to examine one
U PON‘
POETRY.
which produce in us,most of the effects ofactual sufferingand wretchedness;” thismay sound somewhat paradoxical,but has been thus accounted for: the gratification which
or two o ther ofMr. Campbe l l ’s arguments,which appeared to himveryi nconclusive and indeed almos t incorrect . Schlege l ’s specious doctrinefor instance,that in the l i terary as the natural worl d,there is a pe
riod of bloomandmaturi ty,afterwh ich fol lows decay—has been takenup by Mr. Campbe l l : bemere ly echoes the op inion,however,wi thout attempting i ts support by any reasoning ofhis own— there i s a remarkableincident in the h istory ofSpanish Poe try,of i ts sudden rise fromalmos tunexamp led corrupti on,to the utmos t perfection—occasioned by the exertions of a single genius,Cal deron,who found i t in that state of ex
treme care lessness and vi tiation,into which i t had been p lunged by thefalse taste ofhis predecessorLope de Vega: this fac t woul d serve to cor
rect the theories,upon which the doctrine of a regu lar progress and decl ine in art is supported . The que st ion,also,whe ther in the advancement of the humanmind frombarbari smto refinement,Poe try be not
found to consti tute an intermed iate s tage,is real ly examined by Mr.Campbe l l,wi th a seriousness which wou ld seemto imply,that the ohjce t of the Poe t was the same wi th that of the Phi losopher—name ly,human improvement,and this alone ; that whi le the latter i s busy intracmg thefact ofthe
'
abberrations of the fixed stars,the formershouldemploy h is pen in describ ing to us the ir exact aspect,were i t possib le toascertai n it— that phi losophy has some l i t t le influence upon Poe try,i t istrue,but i t can no more destroy or even weaken i ts powers,than thoseofthe mind i tse lf; when i t overthrows the latter,the former wi l l nodoubt fal l wi th i t,but not ti ll then—upon the who le,the second part ofMr. Campbe l l ’s Lecture is charac terised ratherby fe l i ci ty ofdiction,ofwh ich he certainly is amaster,than by newness or depth of thought.
176 OBSERVATIONS
we derive fromrepresentations of life and character,as surrounded by circumstances,and assailed by eventsthe most afflicting,results not from any sense of plea
sure which we experience fromsu ch representations inthemselves,but i s accounted for in the circumstan ce ofthose representations,awakening feelings and reflec
tions more powerful and overwhelming,than any other
that can poss ibly affect u s : the stronger the impressionmade,the more permanent it becomes—and it has beentru ly said,that there is always a call for such appeals
to our sympathies : it is these chiefly that su stain existence,and render us sensibl y alive to it—there is a na
tural propensity in our natures,to awaken and indu lge
in strong sensation; there is perhaps an appetite for ia
ten se feeling,more gen eral than persons are willing toallow; i f we except cases where the heart has become“ brazed , by cu stom,” there is a feeling of false shame,whichmany labour under when they have found themselves weeping without any apparent cause; their tears
they terma weakness,and end perhaps in vaunting their
inaccessibility to any softer visitings of nature; while
unmeaningmirth,which i s often bu t another name forinsensibility,becomes the pres iding geniu s of their lives;bu t the wise,it has been said,have a far d eeper sense,and so near grows life to death,” they know and feel
ful l wel l thatman has greater reason for his tears than
we derive fromrepresentations of life and character,as surrounded by circumstances,and assailed by eventsthe most afll icting,resu lts not from any sense of plea
sure which we experience fromsuch representations inthemselves,but i s accounted for in the circumstan ce ofthose representations,awakening feelings and reflec
tions more powerful and overwhelming,than any other
that can possibly affect u s : the stronger the impressionmade,the more permanent it becomes—and it has beentru ly said,that there is always a call for such appeals
to our sympathies : it is these chiefly that sustain exi stence,and render us sen s ibl yr alive to it—there is a na
tural propensity in our natures,to awaken and indulge
in strong sen sation ; there is perhaps an appetite for i h
tense feeling,more gen eral than persons are willing toallow; if we except cases where the heart has becomebrazed , by custom,” there is a feeling of false shame,which many labour under when they have found themselves weeping without any apparent cause; their tears
they terma weakness,and end perhaps in vaunting their
inaccess ibility to any softer visitings of nature; while
unmeaningmirth,which i s often but another name forinsensibility,becomes the presiding geniu s of their lives;bu t the wise,it has been said,have a far deeper sense,and so near grows life to death,! they know and feel
full wel l thatman has greater reason for his tears than
UPON POETRY. 77
his smiles . But putting aside these general reflections,it will be found,upon analyzing the sources of all emotion,that there is a character in suffering,if we may beallowed the expression,which absorbs themental energies , to an intens ity that rewards itself; that is,in
such representations of suffering,as while they do not
Oppress u s with a deadening reality,afford a wholesomeand a soothing melancho ly exercise to the powers ofourmoral being all suffermg doth destroy,or is destroyed,even by the sufl
'
erer;” downright agony like
darkness,is negative; there is nothing sufficiently defi
nite in it,to afford the mind that repo se which carrieswith it a temporary calm; while those exhibitions and
the sensation s arising fromthem,of pain,that are tempered by certain allevi ating circumstances,are highlyfavou rable to that noblemoral enthu siasm,which marksand elevates our being; they resemble that dubiou s twilight,which is one of the most powerfu l sources of thesublime ; who that ever studied the two faces in that div in e p ro du ction of Romney,representing Shakspearenursed by Tragedy and Comedy,b u t h as felt and ownedthe depth and fu llness,the truth and energy of exp ression portrayed in the countenance of the Tragi c Muse,which told that her d evotions were not of this world,and that her aspiration were fixed upon the immens ityand sublimity of Heaven? Poetry then i s made up of
upon the subj ect of Poetry,and implies a doubt of thecorrectness of the position,that the works which delight
us the most,are the fu ll est ofpainfu l representations,itwill not be going altogether ou t of our way,perhaps,to
examine . Shall we never have done with begging the
question again st enj oyment,and denying or doubting
the possibility of the only end of virtu e itself,with a
dreary wi lfu lness that prevents our obtain ing it?” This
is asked,in al l the self- complacen cy and inveterate spirit,ofan exclusive systemofmorals and ofmind . The
systems of the few,are ever selfish and confined . Tho se
ideas alone attain to an un iversal assent,which are
founded upon the broad and immutable bas is of a genu
ine and en lightened philosophy; and upon a clear and
deep insight into the elementary principles of our na
ture
.The Moralist should Specu late upon human cha
racter as the Poet describes it,in the abstract; that is,removed and freed in somemeasure,fromthose vi l e and
artificial forms,and those restrictive maxims of numan
policy,which tend to force upon man an appearance of
character,as shallow and sophistical as themselves;
and which un ited to the moulding events of time,thr
ow a shade upon the virtu es,and a damp upon the
sympathies of the noblest n ature,imbu ing the heart
with bitter waters,and imparting to the mind a Spirit of
cheerles s prospective,by which perhaps,it is lead to
make a somewhat false estimate of life .
OBSERVATIONS
no dream.
” Yet Mr.Hunt seems to think,that one of thestrongest arguments in support ofhi s doctrine,that eve
ryman might be happy who set about being so,i s de
rived from the circumstance,that they who appear tobe otherwise,never fail to assert that there i s no such
thing as pleasure to be found,and are miserable,notonly in consequence of believing that misery was destined for them,bu t because they wilfully persist in theconclu sion of there being no happiness upon earth . Now
few things can bemore lamentable than arg uments likethese,ormore clearly evince that where it wishes to e s
tabl ish a favourite doctrine,or Oppose one i t does no tlike,the mind scruples not to employ reasonings,atwhich,if the result of ignoran ce,idiocy itself would
blu sh : and if of deliberat e purpose,we shudder to dis
cover in the very preachers aboutmorals and good order,neithermorality nor common ju stice .When the great Father of ancient philosophy de
clared,!we cannot agree with those who imagi ne,thathemeant by this confession,to throw an air of ridicu le
upon the vain specu lation s of the Sophists,but rather
that his real obj ect was to convey amoral lesson,in re
minding u s of the short - sightedness and imperfectionof all human knowledge,)when Socrates av ered,that allwe know is,that nothing can be known,he did not design
thereby to say,that because we do not know every th ing,
U PON POETpY. 1 83
we know nothing; his words were intend ed merely asa comment,upon the fleeting instabil ity of all subluna
ry things,and the finite powers of the human intellect.As well then might M r. Hunt carp at this doctrine,and
say that Socrates’ philosophy was of a billious and mor
bid n ature,as pronounce those blasphemers ofnature’sgoodness,” who,when they mean to express the mixedcharacter of human enj oyment,aris ing fromthe feeling,that the ways of G od are
”not always
“ ju stified toman,” allow themselves,perhaps,too great a latitude ofsweeping expres sion,and tell you that there is l ittle,if
any thing,worth living for; their blasphemy” amountsto this . All our knowledge,” says Stillingflee t,the
learned au thor of the Origi nes Sacrae, consists merely in the gathering up of some scattered fragment s,ofwhat was once an entire fabri c;” well,the Poet upon
the subj ect of human happiness,says no more than this,that all our enjoyment in this probationary state,consists in the melancholy task of gathering together,andcherishing as well as we can,these scattered and almostwithered blo ssoms of hope and promise,whose germshad on ce a deep and ample flourish,before sin had ent ered the garden . Thu s according to Mr. Hunt’s notions,these two great men,both conspicuou s for their
piety,were likewise“ involuntary blasphemers of na
ture’s goodness.” But again,themind when under the
1 84 OBSERVATIONS
influence of any strong emotion,very naturally expres
ses itself in language corresponding to its feelings; thus
when Hamlet declares the world to be “ an unweededgarden,that grows to seed,” his passion is evidently
roused to the last degree ; and he gives vent to it very
naturally in such a reflection; notwithstanding which,all that h e means to say is,that the world is generallydepraved. Thus we think Mr. Hunt’s arguments fallto the ground through their own weakness. He is per
haps a verymoralman,like many others of his profess ion,and thereforemay not like su ch bitter overflowingsof the Spirit; he shou ld remember,however,that verygood men will sometimes swear. The fact i s,Mr. Hunt’s
notions as to the nature and the end ofPoetry,are ofa
piece with those he has already broached upon the sub
jcet of versification,equally false and puerile; unfitted
for any lofty flights in the former,he strenuously re c
commends mere simplicity and familiarity in its creat ions; equally incapable of imparting the leas t strengthor dignity to the latter,he is for evermore canting aboutthe bad taste of the French school ; its cold and artificial
refinements; and in affecting to admire and imitate thechaster beauties of the old English sty le,he falls into
the Opposite extreme of themost disgusting freedomand
vulgarity; and has unfortunately adopted al l the errors,without perceiving or possessing any of the merits of
OB SERVATIONS
in the constru ction of his Dramas : yet was he fertile inthe means whereby they were formed. The one is purely intellectual,the other a matter of precept and of
practice. But Vol taire,like Leigh,
Hunt,was overawed
by the authority of what are called standard works;fromwhose decision upon these points they would fainpersuade you,there is no appeal .
To return to themoral philosophy,we cannot sayphilosophical morals of Leigh Hunt,we would examinea littl e further,as they lie in our way,his opinions af
fecting that species ofpoe try,which seems to be the result rather of a certain constitutional temperament,thanof any defect in mental or moral organization,as heseems to think. We do this the more willingly,as itmay afford u s an opportun ity of evincing the falacy of
those sentiments that tend to reflect upon themind,andc onsequently the theological tenets !for these are re
garded now a- days as of close afli nity,)of some of thegreatest gen iu ses,that have adorned the literary annals
ofany age or country. Mr. Hunt is the poet of social and
of rural life; and although he affects to condemn the badtaste of the Continental School,he is himself as deeplytinctured with its prejudices,and fettered by its cold
and formal perceptions,as though he had been broughta professed disciple of its principles . He sits down
to writemoreover,evidently under the influence of a
UPON POETRY. 1 87
self- suggested and most idolized system,the end of
which is,to introduce,or as he says,revive a relish for
themore simple beautie s of Poetry; rural life and occu
pations,dancing and music,the more lively and fauciful portions of Greek fable,and the happier and bright
er creeds of Christian faith; these tending to diffuse a
spirit of cheerfulness,charity,justice and good fellow
ship amongmen,which is clearly desirable,and whichhe thinks it has been the aimof every great Poet to ef
fect . Of course among these Mr. Hunt numbers himself.Thus he sets out,and has the vanity to tell you so with
al,with the view not of writing Poetry,but of framingrules andmaxims ofmora li ty; and the verses comprisedin his volumes,are intended as specimens or illustrations of what he advances upon this doctri nal point.Now all thismay seemvery speciou s,but as knaves
and hypocrites cant most of that they never practice,this i s a mere show and pretence of writing; a gaudy
drapery to hide deformity; amere bustle to prevent hisimbecility frombeing suspected. But his design ends
not here,of recommending in Poetry a certain tone offeeling and of thought,like all inferiormind s wedded tosystem,adopting prejudices to hide weaknesses,perceiving no beauty in any thing that does not tally with
his own individual notions of the great or beautiful,he
is at open war wi th those who either in their writings or
1 88 OBSERVATIONS,&0 .
their lives,give proof of upholding different sentimentsand theories from his own. The Sophist and the Epi
curean,however formally at variance,are now a -days,we are inclined to think,verymu ch allied,and perfectly concur in their notio
‘
ns as to the nature and the sou rces
ofmoral virtue. Mr. Hunt has as mu ch,perhaps moreof the enthu siast in his compos ition,than any of those
writers wh omhe presumes to arraign,for what he sagely conceives to be their errors of head and heart; and
when he preaches about the “ involuntary blasphemersofnature ’s goodn ess,” if he designs any allu s ion to the
Cloi stered Votari s t,who bends before his crucifix or
rosary,in hope of appeasing or averting the wrath he
deprecates,or the g lori ous martyr who perishes in defence of his faith,he himself,we mu st th ink,is the“ blasphemer” he denounces : if on the other hand,hemeant to convey any censure or reflection upon the
writings of those great men,who becau se they looksomewhat deeper into things have a more sorrowful
sen se than his own,he is like the dog barking at the
moon,because he cannot reach it.
0 B SERVATI ONS
even of Voltaire ’s Tragedies,are all formed upon suchbasis as the imagination supplies. It is moreover theOpinion of Dr. Blair,the correctness ofwhose judgmentin these matters is not to be impugned,that it is ofverylittle moment whether the Dramatist draw hi s materialsfromthe pages of the Historian,or fromsources suppliedby his own invention; but withou t appeal ing to the au
thority of judges,whose opinion alone,perhaps,wou l d
be sufficient to settle all dispute—or referring to examples thatmight bear us out upon the point—we will examine the question for ourselves. It wil l appear,we
think,to every unbiassedmind,upon amoment’s reflection,that inasmuch as we go to a theatre rather for thepurpose of moral than of intellectual gratification,r
'
ao
ther with the view of witnessing great physical exertion
on the part ofthos e who present themselves in any try
ing and interesting scene,and of having our sympathieselicited by su ch scene,it i s of little import whether thatexertion be d isplayed in portraying the sufferings of a
real or imaginary personage,provided the exertion itselfbe powerful ; or whether the scene in which it exhibit
itself be one of historical fidelity or fictitiou s semblance,if that scene be strongly conceived and ably delineated;the display of great power in any shape,or of any de
scription,tends to expand and elevate the mind,andthu s becomes a source of the sublime,in feeling and in
UPON THE DRAMA. 1 9 1
thought,which is ever attended with the highest grati
fication of which our intellectual being is susceptible
let the writer be gifted with strongmental energieslet the tragic performer,who may be said to embodythose energies,be possessed of such qualifications of
mind and body as wil l enable himto sustain and display
themwith a corresponding vigour,and we will answer
for the impress ion which such power i s calculated to
produce,be it employed upon what theme,or in whatmanner soever. We are told that some of the greatestVenetian painters are known to have displayed the pow
ers of their gen ius in the most unattractive,and indeedalmost disgus ting representations,in which there wasl ittle to be found of what is termed imitation or colour
ing ofnature,nothing to attract the senses : but then sayjudges upon the subj ect,there is such an exhibition of
ski ll and fidelity of execu tion,as to impress the mindwith the most overwhelming conceptions of undefinedpower,and thus to raise and stimulate the imaginationwith images of the sublime ; and as the ideas derivedfromsu ch exhibi tion s of skill and power,are associated
wi th and tran sferred to,the subj ects themselves in whichthis skill and power aremade man ifest,these subj ectsbecome to be invested with al l that energy and interestwhich render them so precious in the judgment andgratifyi ng to the taste,of those capable of d iscerning
OBSERVATIONS
and relishing true excellence : thus then,let the subjects
of the Tragic Muse be ever so unpromising in themselves—whether they be founded upon fact,or upon su chnotions of probability as may impart to theman air at
least of verisimilitude,it is matter of little or no con
cern,provided the Poet be possessed of strong and ori
ginal genius; in which case,he cannot fail in attaining
the end he proposes to himself—which is,by irresistibleeloquence,and powerfu l appeals to the passions,tomeltus at one moment into tears,and at another,to expandand elevate themind,by awakening sentiments of thenoblest enthusiasm,and of generou s admiration: wherethis i s brought about,the exertions of the Poet have
been rewarded,inasmu ch as they have proved successful,for su ccess is the hope that inspires his pen : there
is another point of view in which we will consider this
question,of equal consequence with the former,if indeed itmerit at al l that degree of importance that hasbeen at tached to it; - those who are in favour of the sys
t emof affording to al l Tragedy an historical basis,tell
you very pompou sly,that where the Poetmakes choiceof a proper subj ect,that is,one in its nature Dramatic,the very circumstance of its being collected fromau
thentic records,imparts to it a weight and dignity ofcharacter highly adapted to the purposes of the writer,calculated to assist and elevate his developments of
the un ities of the Drama,and to fetter the flights of hismu se with these leaden canons of the schools,is theobj ect,in the attainmen t of which they labour; but asthe zealous bigot in religion,in order to promote theviews,and disseminate the doctrines of an exclusivefaith—cants most about the terrors of another world,asthreatening and impending over those who rej ect his
p ecu l iar notions and principles—so,these denouncing
critics,with the view of establishing a systemof theirown,and of forcing upon the writer an observance of
their narrow laws,assume a tone of high dictation,andtel l you,unless your subj ect be historical,the displeasure and the frown of those most qualified to j udge,willmost assu redly prove the reward of your labours—thefact is,there can be but one opin ion upon the subj ect ofthese unities; those of time and place may be almostaltogether dispensed with,while that of action perhaps
itmav be well to observe : indeed few writers ever feeldisposed to violate the unity of their des ign,where their
obj ect is,as it ever shou ld be,tomake a deep and lastingimpression ; though even with regard to this un ity,you
may discriminate between the individuality and identityof the leading and forming idea,and the various action sand incidents that it may give rise to—the agentmu stbe one,but its operations may be manifold . In the G re
eian theatre,we are told the unities of time and place,
UPON THE DRAMA. 1 9 5
and necessarily of action,were amatter of absolute necessity; the very constitution of their Drama renderedan attention to themnecessary,being a continued rept e
sentation,without pause,the time and place of an ac
tion therefore could not possibly have been varied—therules that regulated the formation of their Drama,cannot then bemade to apply to our own . Why is it,that
in themodern Drama,the Prologue i s made subservientto the author’s plan of expressing his fears and anxieties,and of addressing the audience in “ propria personae,”
before whomhe is sensible he stands on trial—we askwhy is the Prologuemade to answer a purpose of thiskind among u s,when on the Grecian stage,it was ex
press!y intended to unfold the preliminary circumstancesleading to the grand even t of any piece? have we fol
lowed the Greeks in this parti cular? No; why then are
we to be fettered by any rules or practices relating to
composition of any kind,which they were compelled toobserve,becau se they usually Originated e ither in neces
sity,or the peculiarity of the national tas te . A mostlamentable ins tance is recorded of the incongruities resulting froma strict adherence to these rules upon theGrecian stage,in the Electra of Sophocles,which is re
garded as one of the best and most correct pieces ofwhich the Greeks could boast—a conspiracy is actuallycarried on before the very door of the person against
whomi t is set on foot—such an absurdity would no t betolerated at the present day—i twas as gross a violationof probability,nay,even grosser than any thing of the
same kind that Shak Speare himself ever was guilty of,with all his disregard of these common laws of theDrama; but it has been said,that a strict Observance ofthese ru les was not a practice peculiar to the Greeks,bu t one founded in nature; were this altogether the case,should we not reject tho se pieces in which this naturallaw was neglected? Whereas,on the contrary,some ofthe most masterly productions of Dramatic geniu s arefound deficient in an att ention to these regu lations—thatis,productions the most powerfully i nteresting and pas
s i onate; and it is in such pieces that we are less,if at
all,sensible of these improbabilities of change of timeand place—and these are the pieces that prop erly belongto the stage; so that as to the effect being lessened in
consequence of p ercei ving the decep ti on,which results
fromtoo gross violation of those ru les that tend to keepit alive—they are mistaken who uphold the other opi
n ion,because,we say,that in pieces fu l l Of i nterest and
p assi on,and such alone are Dramati c,we are never al
lowed a “ breathing time,” for these ni ceti es Of cold
cri ti c ism,inasmu ch therefore as this is true,those ar
guments in favou r of the unities,bu ilt upon the suppositiou that their violation i s immediately detected,and
1 9 8 OB SERVATIONS
made to denote or express mere uniformi ty and sys
temati c arrangement in any composition; the termori
ginated among the Greeks,fromthe circumstance of thepeople having been divided into tribes or classes—thoseconstituting the first class,were called classi ci,hen ce
all works Of the highest merit,were said to be classi cal;the word was never meant to express mere regu lari tyin composition,but had a far more liberal and extendedapplication—but modern du lness has p erverted the orimeaning to su it its own purposes—extreme regu
larity,the sublime of fools,” i s now regarded as con
s titut ing the chief,if no t the so le merit of any work,and is allowed to appropriate ex clusi vely to itself,the
distinction implied in this word of h igh sound,which
has been held up like a death’s -head,” to awe and in
t imidate,what it has been common among literary mooncalfs,” to termthe arrogance and impetuos ity ofgenius .
With’! regard to the second question relating to the
Drama—whether Tragedy will admit Of the introduc
We are pleased to find our opinion upon th is subject in coinci
dence wi th that of SirWal ter Sco tt,who,in some late remarks upon
Nove l wri ting and the Drama,mwhich he d ist ingui shes the former de
partment fromthe latter,has the fo l lowing words, Descrip tion and
Narrat ion,wh ich formthe very essence Of the N ovel,must be very spa
t ingly introduced into Dramatic compos i ti on,and scarce ever have a
good effect upon the stage .
” We must be al lowed to differ wi th the
UPON THE. DRAMA . 1 9 9
tion of descriptions of ex ternal nature,it may be re
marked,that like the choral songs of the Grecians,theymay be veryfine,but co ld and unnatural; and as it has
wri ter however,when he te l ls us that the Novel ist,in attempting theDrama,fai ls not so much froma want of Dramatic talent,as froma
deficiency of sk i ll in inventing and conducting the commonmechanismof the stage—not somuch froma want of power,as of certain habitsofmind—these two province s of l i terature are more wi dely opposedhowever,than i t is general ly supposed,and require,each,pecu l iar powers ofmind ; that is,powers balanced in pecu l iar re lationship— imaginat ion is requ ired of the Geometer as we l l as of the Poe t,and yet i ts process in themind of the former,i s very different fromwhat i t i s in thatof the latter; the facul ties of imaginative perception,abstraction,comb ination and associat ion. be long al ike to the Poe t and the Painter; and
ye t the process of each of these powers in the mind of the one,i s con
trary to what i t i s in that of the other; and this amounts almost to distinct powers themse lves— the Dramat is t may certainly become a goodNove l ist,as in the instance of Maturin ; wh i le the professed Nove l isthas se ldomperhaps succeeded in the Drama—the fai lures of Fiel dingand others,bear test imony to the fact ; th is may perhaps be thus ac
counted for,the former is supposed to possess all the powers of thePoet; and the Romance,or higher Nove l l ies in the region of poe try ;whereas,to the latter,many of these powers are denied,or at least notgiven in e qual ratio,and d ifi
'
erently tempered a priori— the Dramaticwri ter in e ssaymg the Nove l,has only to cal l in all the various powersof hismind ; but the Nove l ist,in at temp ting the Drama,finds i t necessary to exert energies to wh ich his mind has been a stranger—he hasbeen habi tuated to indulge in theory and ampl ification,he finds i t requisi te to analyse and compress ; he has been accustomed to wander in
200 on ss avarro xs
been suggested,that had the d ialogue been first intro
duced upon the Greek theatre,the chorus probablywou ldnever have been invented ; in l ikemanner we think,that
the region of imagination,he is called down fromhis h igh fl igh ts to adjust the differences and lead the d isordered powers of the heart ; i t is notthe sensiblemediumthrough which the Dramatist conveys his concept ions,that interferes wi th the mental habi ts of the Nove l i s t,forhe coul deasi ly render h imse lf fami l iar wi th th is,but the facul ti es of h ismindare requ ired to exert themse lves wi th a h igher degree of vigour,moreintense,andmore d ifficul t to be commanded by h imthan restrained bythe Dramatis t ; he has not the absorbing fire of the latter—his nice andintu i tive i nsigh t into human character perhaps,h is e lastic springs of
fee l ing and' of though t,that e levate or depress the sympathies as theymay be p laint ive ly or passionate ly touched,that fine frenzy” that iscaugh t fromWi th in,l i ghting up the temple where inspirat ion s i ts,andwh ich,bursting in i ts fulness,imparts to the surround ing atmosphere offee l ing,i ts e lectrifying influence . It is not a l i t t le s ingular to observethe d i sagreement be tween two able wri ters,re lative to the operations ofan art,wi th which i t is to be supposed they are fami l iarly acquainted,having often employed the ir pens in i ts service . Mr. Campbe l l is ofopinion,that the Poe t se l domor never copies froml iving nature,butpresents you wi th exemp lars of ideal exis tence—SirWal ter Sco t t,onthe contrary,remarks that the Poe t is furni shed wi th h i smaterials rather by the study of actual l ife,than by the se lecting powers of theimagination—when Mr. Campbe l l says,however,that some l iving personage has usual ly perhaps beenmade “ the rallying po int to the innumerable origi nal trai ts of the fancy ;” hemakes a very just remark,andone wh ich we th inkmus t se tt le all differences of opinion upon this subjcet.
QOQ OB SERVATIONS
sons of the Drama—where he i nd iv idually describesthings and persons,wemay cons istently look for ep i sodes,abstract moralizing philosophical reflections,and rural
descript ions ; for without these,the Poet wou ld be at a
s tand,as he seldomif ever brings the p assi ons into playconflict ing and mingling in their stormy elements,tolighten and to thunder before the nakednes s and tender
susceptibility of our roused and en li sted sympathies,hemust have recourse to his imagination,which,if it bestored with rich imagery,and class ic recollections andal lu sions,cannot fail of dappling with its “ gorgeou s
palaces,and cloud - capt towers;” but these splendid de
corat ions of the fancy,seldomaffect the heart—whenintroduced therefore into Tragedy,where terror,love,and pity are the soft and thrilling chords to be tou ched
where human character and pass i on are represented as
struggling with the chains of despotism,the suggestionsof ambition or revenge,the toil s of treachery,the energies ofdisordered power,or the violation and the wreck
of friendship and of love,if the creatures of the ima
gination be allowed to figure in pieces of this cast,its
glories will appear like stars,se t on a frosty n ight,”
distinct,but d i stant—clear,bu t cold—in the Drama,menand manners may be said to represent and delineatethemselves; no fictitiou s adornments shou ld be allowedto arrest and captivate the fancy,at the expense of na
UPON THE DRAMA . 208
ture,and in open contradiction to experience; one deep,warm,and consistent vein of feeling and of action shouldpervade the whole—the great difficulty attending this
mode of composition,is found to l i e i n the art of sustai ning,and the k eep ing,as
’tis termed,of character;the necessity of thus continually preserving in mind thepeculiar traits and distinguishing characteristics with
which the writer sets out,in supposing each of his cha
racters to be endowed either by nature or by habit,fromwhich their actions receive a tin cture,and by which they
themselves are recognised and estimated ; the restrictions imposed upon the flights of the imagination,by thisobligation of fu lfilling the promises w ith which the author commences hi s work,and of strictly bearing in viewthe legitimate end of the Drama—this verymaximwou ldseemto involve in its direction,a caution against all ahstract specu lation,frigid strains of declamatory sen ti
ment,and moralis ing discourses upon external nature,and in the exclusion of such representations,is found to
consist the principal di st inct i on,found to obtain betweenEpic and Dramatic writing,as before remarked,betweenthose works in which things are represented and narrated by the Poet,and those in which theymay be said toact and speak for themselves—the Epic Poet su its hisactions to his characters,and his characters to his ao
tion s ; he varies his scenes asmay best aid his efforts ; in
204 OB SERVATIONS
the Epic a battle is described—in the Drama it is commouly brought before the eye—in the former the Poet isemployed in fu ll,and often pompous descriptions of character,in the latter it is made to develop itself; in theone,every thing is brought to conformto general ideas;in the other,to the known and established principles of
our n ature . Homer represents man as he might be supposed,Shak speare as he is found to exist; though allpoetic ideas be general,yet there is,perhaps,no modeof the poetical systemmore free from abstract representations of al l kind,than the Dramatic; it is the opin ion of the great Philosopher of the Grove,that Poetry
i s more captivati ng and philosophical than History—forthis very reason,that the ideas of the one are general,while those of the other are indivi dual and confined
Poetry presenting you with exemplars of general nature,History with copies or transcripts fromindividual life;the s cenes and characters portrayed by the latter,ne
cessarily pass away with the times in which they flouri shed ; while those of the former,are as eternal as thesource fromwhich they spring. The Poet no doubt,maysometimes copy from individual experience,but probability being the standard of poetical invention,the per
son s and situations with which hemakes us acquaintedhave become somuch heightened and embellished,thatwe can seldomif ever trace an identity or even a re
206 OBSERVATIONS
elusively in fable—the Dramatic,comes nearer to oursympathies,and strikes home by representations whichwe feel to be .founded more or less upon an experience
derived fromobservation s collected upon life—life,suchas we sometimes see it,and believe it generally to befound—immense scope is thu s afforded to the imagi nation of the former; he may indulge himself in the mostdetailed and luxuriou s descriptions of man and nature ;while the latter,for reason s ju st assigned,has a farmorearduou s task devolving upon him—the fancy is caughtand charmed by the brilliant creations of the one,its
grottos,waterfall s,and gardens,while the heartmustfirstfeel,before it admit the claims of the other,to “
un
lock its source of sympathetic tearsz” the d enoumentsof the Epic plot,common ly turn upon the interventionof an agency,long since exploded in the Drama- thepoetic licen se,while freely accorded to the former,i snever new extended to the latter; this circumstance alsocreates a point of difference between the two species of
writing,and evin ces,we think,the greater difficulty con
n ected with subj ects of the Dramatic than the EpicMuse.1We now come to the third and last question,which isn ot perhaps confined to the Drama alone,but applies toPoetry in general ; whether some degree of Obscurity benot only admissible in all the more serious creations ofthe Muse,but whether it doth not tend to heighten those
UPON THE DRAMA. 207
impressions which it is the bu siness of the Poet tocreate—and here we cannot but agree with a late abl e
writer upon the subj ect,that all obscurity is censurabl e
which goes beyond that expans i on and elevati on of an
image,which enables the imagination to conceive it di st inctly,though not determi nately: in this notion we findourselves at variance with Dr. Blair,who seems to thinkthat obscuritv necessarily implies indistinctness,which,with all our deferen ce for the Opin ions of that great
critic,we certainly regard as extreme!y incorrect; in thevery examples cited by the Doctor,we have a distin ctbut by no means a determinate idea of the obj ect de
s cribed : I heard the voice of a greatmu ltitude,as thesound ofmany waters,and of mighty thunderings,saying Alleluj ah;
” here the image immediately presentedto the mind is sufficiently cl ear,while at the same timewe cannot be said to have a determi nate idea of the object itself,with which it is connected—Of the Deity we
are told, he makes dark ness his pav ilionz” Milton describing the faded lu stre Of Satan,liken s his appearance
to the sun seen through “ the misty air,” or frombehindthe moon in d imeclipse .” The image which the Poetpresents u s with of Death,is as i ndeterminate as hislanguage what seem’d his head,the lik eness of a
k ingly crown had ou ;” in all these examples of sublimedescri ption conveying corresponding ideas,by elevating
the imagination with images,that it may enl arge andexpand at pleasure—fromtheir not being too minutelypressed upon the mind—in al l these examples we say,there ismuch obscurity thrown around the obj ects described,though nothing of indi stinctness—j ust leavingto the fancy sufficient scope for indulging its propens ity,of amplifying its v iews and conceptions of obj ectsin themselves grand and impressive,and this i s all ofObscurity it requires. Milton ’s Ode to the Nativity is
full of wild,and sometimes obscure imagery
The lone lymountains o ’er,And the resounding shore,A voice of wail i s heard,and loud lament .”
The image of the different deities forsaking their severaltemples upon the approach of our Saviour,in loud anddismal lamentations,is in the highest degree sublime,wildand impressive; had the Poet entered into aminute andcircumstanti al detai l,he would have rendered the ideatame and familiar,and consequently lessened,if not destroyed its mysterious solemnity. Thu s then when weSpeak of obscurity in writing,nothingmore ismeant,thanthat the Poet should so shadow forth an image,as to allow
fu ll play to the imagination,and roomfor that expansionand elevation of its conceptions,in embracing the Obj ectdescribed,which constitute the source of their sublimity;
210 OBSERVATIONS
said with equal truth,that an image set in toomuch light,1 8 as imperfect as one deprived of al l distinctness—“ light
inefi'
able” i s obscurity,and such is the efl'
ulgent mysterywhich we are taught to believe mantles around the habitation of the Deity; in reply to those who affect to ridi
cule this notion of darkness being a source of sublimityby sagely remarking that upon the same principle,nonsense,which ,is privation of sense,must be equally acau se of the sublime—itmay be said that there is sucha thing as rendering an idea totally indefinite,by labour
ing to express it too clearly; it becomes lost,like the witof Aristophanes,by being too pointed and refined; and
yet,inasmu ch as they ridicul e the n otion of darkness
being sublime,they would seemto support the positionthat its contrary alone can become so,which wou ld beequally false; so that these caviling critics are asmistaken in what their refutation of Burke’s opinion would
seemto imply,as he himself may have been in muchthat he has advanced upon the subj ect in dispute . The
fact is,Burkemeant no more when he declared privation to constitute sublimity,than that there was a certain degree of it which was sublime,even when unaccompanied by any obj ect thatmight tend to heighten itseffect; as for instance,that dubious twilight which l ingers
after sun- set,like the faded cheek of Love weeping at
the shrine of Memory,for the days that are gone : this
UPON THE DRAMA . 21 1
light,which is sublime when deepened to a certain degree,becomes lost when surrounded by the shadows ofcollected night,sweeping into total obscurity,and there
fore into nothingness,the peculiar feelings it before ex
cited; thu s then,we think it doth appear,that al l obj ects
clothed with that degree of obscurity which,while it
enables themind to forma suffi ciently distinct idea ofthemto be interested in its operations,yet places themat such a distance as to invite its contemplation,are rendered in themselves sublime,and consequ ently that al limages drawn fromsuch obj ects,mu st necessarily possess a corresponding sublimity: and this i s the truemeaning of the word obscurity,in all its applications,whether
made to refer to delineations of human character,or toimages taken fromthe natural world. Upon this princi
ple therefore,it were an easy task to defend fromthecharge of indistinctnes s and partial representation,someof the most splendid produ ctions that genius has everbequeathed to the sympathies of an ungratefu l world
we say defend,inasmuch as that world,ignorant of thereal sou rces whence the immortal mind of the Poet isever found collecting its materials,n ever having worshipped at that shri ne upon whose sacred pu rity,the pro
phetic spirit delights tomantle its choicest incensen ever having drank at that fount,whence inspiration
gathers in its holiest draught—in short,essentially defi
QIQ OBSERVATI ONS
cient in al l those.
qualitie s and perceptions,upon the
free exercise ofwhich,mu st depend a thorough insightinto themysteries,and a relish for the beauties of ima
gination and of pass ion—the mass of mankind are everfound prone to v olunteer their strictu res upon the Poet,and to arraign himat the tribunal of their own narrow
conception s and unen l ightened humanity,in all the exe lu sive inveteracy of ignorance,and in all the despoti smof a partial and bigoted prepossession . It is a j us t re
mark of the great Au thor of the Intellectual System,thatmen are very apt to measure the extent of all power by that of their own—in allus ion to those preciou s
philosophers,if the v deserve the name,who ever reposeupon the pillow ofdoubt,
” in cases where their limitedunderstandings,cannot be brought to such conclusions
as they requ ire—in the same way with regard to mind,one man is ever disposed to judge of anothers capacity,by reference to his own,which he never fails ofmakingthe standard of a ll excel len ce—by that happy facility,for which we think folly alone conspicuous,ofaccommodat ing every thing to its own shortsightedness,by dis
missing asfalse and inco rrect,all that it cannot com
p rehend —and like the queen in Hamlet,are ever proneto “ lay the flattering unction to their souls,” that not
their ignorance,bu t the wr i ters defi ci ency i s to blame .It is obj ected to the writings of lord Byron,that there
recklessness consequent upon the disappointments oflife,the goading horrors of a polluted conscience,the
vindictivenes s of hate,and the fiendish suggestion s of
revenge,all these various powers,so fearfu lly andfai th
fu lly sustained—carry with themthe evidences of themo st overwhelming energy; and it is this energy whose
potency we areforced to acknowledge,even when exhi
bited under themost terrific aspect. His characters maybe said to be p ersonified energ i es,and not p ictures,
such as we are presented with in all lighter representa
tions of life—with their fu ll drap ery,their lights andshades and variou s accompaniments. In Byron it is one
i ntense and co llectedfeeling—all might and compress i on: the mind is not allowed a moments pau se in theardent impetuosity and irresistible fascination,with
which it is propeled,by which its very existence be
comes riveted in all that it is presented with,which impresses upon the heart the traces of its own supremacy,and which encircles the memory with the Amaranth ofits d ivine remembrances : the images of all the stern
er p ass i ons,and deeper and loveli er affecti ons of the
sou l,which he never fails to create,and which acqu ire
amore deci ded severi ty,and imbibe a wilder and moreluxu rious magic from the many coloured world of hisconceptions—these rays of immortality,come gliding intheir own soft and solemn influences upon the heart,breathing around the freshness of their star
- light dews
UPON THE DRAMA. £21 5
and warming and brightening i ts source,long after theirsun of glory has withdrawn its immedi ate effulgence :and it i s in return for the luxury of these d ivine visita
tions,that we associate with the Mu se of Byron,all that
is grand and el evated in enthus iasm,pure and eloquentin pas sion,generou s in ambition,and sublime in thoseaspirations after glory,that repose upon the pinnacles
of earth,and mingle with the lightenings of Heaven .
”
With regard to another obj ection that there is toomuchmonotony in his representations of character,we would
remark that the abstract conceptions of man and na
ture,whi ch are embodied in his works,are as true and
e ternal as thefundamental p ri ncip les of our Relig i onand we might as well complain of the du ll uniformi ty,of the conclusions inferred fromthese premises,as censure those delineations of human life,which are foundedin the immutable const itution of our being: so mu ch ishe the Poet of suffering human ity,that his representa
tions are never wanting in the deep est and most pai n
fu l interest; admitted that many of hi s characters,arebut new modifications of the same elements,what then?Is not Tragedy conversant with bu t one set ofpassions?Condemn the repeated u se of these,and what i s l eft the
Drama? Would you substitute in the place of Terror,Love,and Pi ty
—Smi les,Wi t,and M i rth? Are we t ired of the Sun,becau se he i s for ever with us? Sometimes indeed in darkness as well as light,but still the
2 1 6 OB SERVATIONS
same eternal Sun. The rep ly to these questionswemustthink,will go to acquit Byron of the charge preferred
against him; hemay make Love,Ambition,Revenge,each the theme of two ormore efforts of his Muse—butin doing so,his obj ect is,to evince the different effects
produced upon opp osi te natures,by the action of the sameagen t—and such is the power of his genius,that his se
veral characters,however represented as swayed and
marked each by simi lar passions,are yet stamped withtheir own p eculi ar indivi duality,and i dentified with
themselves a lone: he brings his co llected energies to bear
upon one point,the effect produced i s necessari ly over
whelming: vast power concentrated and absorbed with
in itself,in order to amore v ig orous display,presents
to themind an image of real greatness : the impressionleft with us upon closing the pages of Byron,of the
might and majesty of the affections,is one so deep and
fascinating as for ever to remain fresh upon the heart;ri ch and p otent,never waxing weak or out of date,butrather continually upon the increase: and whatmore dowe ask or can we requ ire of the Po et,than that his
exertion should by be such,as by awakening,to keep
ali ve those energies and affections of the soul,that areever prone to lul l themselves into inaction? And hasnot the Muse of Byron,been s ingularly and s ignally
triumphant in this achievement? But thus it i s,“ let
Hercules do what hemay .
”
U fi b b R VA'
l l U N b
ably lessened,by virtue of the lucid and incontroverti
ble arguments of this upright Roman,which have succeeded,we believe,in pointing out to the blind infatua
tion of the times,but too favourable to every thing whichcarries with it an appearance of novelty and revolution
ary innovation—the absurd pretences to poetical inspiration,which the abovementioned volume would holdforth,and the still more wretched attempts at introducing and establishing a hideous and brutalising philoso
phy,which,like an oppressive night -mare,would onlytend to torture ourmoral frame of being. We had beendisposed,in charity to the failings of aman whose genius we had been accustome d to regard as at once sublime and original,to pass over and forget the manyterrible confessions of moral pollution that d isfigure hispages,closing upon them l ike a dark curse,whose s eal,no other than the unhal lowed hand of the Infidel could
dare disturb—and to make some allowances for the
strange wanderings and miserable perversion of amind,sickened and embittered,fromhaving been doomed todrink but too deeply of the ingredients of the poison
ed chal ice,” prepared for himby fate,and drugged withdeadlier venom by the treachery of those incarnatefiends,who,making a pandemoniumof his home,riotedin hideousmockery over the mel ancholy victimof theirhellish arts—yes,we had been inclined fromfeelings ofhumanity,to regard his Lordship as
.
amanmore sinned
UPON THE DRAMA. 321 9
against than sinning;” but alas! the fairy fabric of our
poetic visions,based upon the Iris of Elysian dreams,has fallen and crumbled into fragments,blasted by thestroke of the en chanters wand—Professor Drone, fullof the magic of exploded science,” stalks in triumphover the wrecks and spoils of this vanqu ished pretender
to an exclusive dominion in the realms of necromanticfancy,and adorned with the _tr0phies of his victory,looks
contemptuou sly down upon the defeated efforts of this
specious u surp er,who was gradually ascending to the
throne of that empire,over whose interests and honour,the Professor presides in guardian watchfulness. Thisgreatman has proved himself inmany instances,strongly attached and highly serv i ceable,to the cause both of
Literature and Morals; and the very splendid su ccess
which has attended his exertion s in overthrowing the
pillar of that reputation,in which the dark and designing spirit of Byron d elighted to exu lt,is perhaps the
least of his many glori ous efforts; it is his occupationand hi s pride, to teach the young idea how to grow;”
and the surprising new lights which his original genius
has lately diffused around the science of educati on,hasbeen such,as to shed around his name the halo of animp erishable glory; and when the world shall Speak ofthe merits of Professor Drone,they will long have forgotten the memories of such retenders to Science as
Bacon,Locke and Beattie.