Part 1

Chapter 13,778 wordsPublic domain

Thomas Wentworth Higginson

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CARLYLE’S LAUGH

AND OTHER SURPRISES

CARLYLE’S LAUGH AND OTHER SURPRISES

BY THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press Cambridge MDCCCCIX

_Published October 1909_

NOTE

The two papers in this volume which bear the titles “A Keats Manuscript” and “A Shelley Manuscript” are reprinted by permission from a work called “Book and Heart,” by Thomas Wentworth Higginson, copyright, 1897, by Harper and Brothers, with whose consent the essay entitled “One of Thackeray’s Women” also is published. Leave has been obtained to reprint the papers on Brown, Cooper, and Thoreau, from Carpenter’s “American Prose,” copyrighted by the Macmillan Company, 1898. My thanks are also due to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences for permission to reprint the papers on Scudder, Atkinson, and Cabot; to the proprietors of “Putnam’s Magazine” for the paper entitled “Emerson’s Foot-Note Person”; to the proprietors of the New York “Evening Post” for the article on George Bancroft from “The Nation”; to the editor of the “Harvard Graduates’ Magazine” for the paper on “Göttingen and Harvard”; and to the editors of the “Outlook” for the papers on Charles Eliot Norton, Julia Ward Howe, Edward Everett Hale, William J. Rolfe, and “Old Newport Days.” Most of the remaining sketches appeared originally in the “Atlantic Monthly.”

T. W. H.

CONTENTS

I. CARLYLE’S LAUGH 1

II. A SHELLEY MANUSCRIPT 13

III. A KEATS MANUSCRIPT 21

IV. MASSASOIT, INDIAN CHIEF 31

V. JAMES FENIMORE COOPER 45

VI. CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN 55

VII. HENRY DAVID THOREAU 65

VIII. EMERSON’S “FOOT-NOTE PERSON,”—ALCOTT 75

IX. GEORGE BANCROFT 93

X. CHARLES ELIOT NORTON 119

XI. EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 137

XII. EDWARD EVERETT HALE 157

XIII. A MASSACHUSETTS GENERAL, RUFUS SAXTON 173

XIV. ONE OF THACKERAY’S WOMEN 183

XV. JOHN BARTLETT 191

XVI. HORACE ELISHA SCUDDER 201

XVII. EDWARD ATKINSON 213

XVIII. JAMES ELLIOT CABOT 231

XIX. EMILY DICKINSON 247

XX. JULIA WARD HOWE 285

XXI. WILLIAM JAMES ROLFE 313

XXII. GÖTTINGEN AND HARVARD A CENTURY AGO 325

XXIII. OLD NEWPORT DAYS 349

XXIV. A HALF-CENTURY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE 367

CARLYLE’S LAUGH

None of the many sketches of Carlyle that have been published since his death have brought out quite distinctly enough the thing which struck me more forcibly than all else, when in the actual presence of the man; namely, the peculiar quality and expression of his laugh. It need hardly be said that there is a great deal in a laugh. One of the most telling pieces of oratory that ever reached my ears was Victor Hugo’s vindication, at the Voltaire Centenary in Paris, of that author’s smile. To be sure, Carlyle’s laugh was not like that smile, but it was something as inseparable from his personality, and as essential to the account, when making up one’s estimate of him. It was as individually characteristic as his face or his dress, or his way of talking or of writing. Indeed, it seemed indispensable for the explanation of all of these. I found in looking back upon my first interview with him, that all I had known of Carlyle through others, or through his own books, for twenty-five years, had been utterly defective,—had left out, in fact, the key to his whole nature,—inasmuch as nobody had ever described to me his laugh.

It is impossible to follow the matter further without a little bit of personal narration. On visiting England for the first time, in 1872, I was offered a letter to Carlyle, and declined it. Like all of my own generation, I had been under some personal obligations to him for his early writings,—though in my case this debt was trifling compared with that due to Emerson,—but his “Latter-Day Pamphlets” and his reported utterances on American affairs had taken away all special desire to meet him, besides the ungraciousness said to mark his demeanor toward visitors from the United States. Yet, when I was once fairly launched in that fascinating world of London society, where the American sees, as Willis used to say, whole shelves of his library walking about in coats and gowns, this disinclination rapidly softened. And when Mr. Froude kindly offered to take me with him for one of his afternoon calls on Carlyle, and further proposed that I should join them in their habitual walk through the parks, it was not in human nature—or at least in American nature—to resist.

We accordingly went after lunch, one day in May, to Carlyle’s modest house in Chelsea, and found him in his study, reading—by a chance very appropriate for me—in Weiss’s “Life of Parker.” He received us kindly, but at once began inveighing against the want of arrangement in the book he was reading, the defective grouping of the different parts, and the impossibility of finding anything in it, even by aid of the index. He then went on to speak of Parker himself, and of other Americans whom he had met. I do not recall the details of the conversation, but to my surprise he did not say a single really offensive or ungracious thing. If he did, it related less to my countrymen than to his own, for I remember his saying some rather stern things about Scotchmen. But that which saved these and all his sharpest words from being actually offensive was this, that, after the most vehement tirade, he would suddenly pause, throw his head back, and give as genuine and kindly a laugh as I ever heard from a human being. It was not the bitter laugh of the cynic, nor yet the big-bodied laugh of the burly joker; least of all was it the thin and rasping cackle of the dyspeptic satirist. It was a broad, honest, human laugh, which, beginning in the brain, took into its action the whole heart and diaphragm, and instantly changed the worn face into something frank and even winning, giving to it an expression that would have won the confidence of any child. Nor did it convey the impression of an exceptional thing that had occurred for the first time that day, and might never happen again. Rather, it produced the effect of something habitual; of being the channel, well worn for years, by which the overflow of a strong nature was discharged. It cleared the air like thunder, and left the atmosphere sweet. It seemed to say to himself, if not to us, “Do not let us take this too seriously; it is my way of putting things. What refuge is there for a man who looks below the surface in a world like this, except to laugh now and then?” The laugh, in short, revealed the humorist; if I said the genial humorist, wearing a mask of grimness, I should hardly go too far for the impression it left. At any rate, it shifted the ground, and transferred the whole matter to that realm of thought where men play with things. The instant Carlyle laughed, he seemed to take the counsel of his old friend Emerson, and to write upon the lintels of his doorway, “Whim.”

Whether this interpretation be right or wrong, it is certain that the effect of this new point of view upon one of his visitors was wholly disarming. The bitter and unlovely vision vanished; my armed neutrality went with it, and there I sat talking with Carlyle as fearlessly as if he were an old friend. The talk soon fell on the most dangerous of all ground, our Civil War, which was then near enough to inspire curiosity; and he put questions showing that he had, after all, considered the matter in a sane and reasonable way. He was especially interested in the freed slaves and the colored troops; he said but little, yet that was always to the point, and without one ungenerous word. On the contrary, he showed more readiness to comprehend the situation, as it existed after the war, than was to be found in most Englishmen at that time. The need of giving the ballot to the former slaves he readily admitted, when it was explained to him; and he at once volunteered the remark that in a republic they needed this, as the guarantee of their freedom. “You could do no less,” he said, “for the men who had stood by you.” I could scarcely convince my senses that this manly and reasonable critic was the terrible Carlyle, the hater of “Cuffee” and “Quashee” and of all republican government. If at times a trace of angry exaggeration showed itself, the good, sunny laugh came in and cleared the air.

We walked beneath the lovely trees of Kensington Gardens, then in the glory of an English May; and I had my first sight of the endless procession of riders and equipages in Rotten Row. My two companions received numerous greetings, and as I walked in safe obscurity by their side, I could cast sly glances of keen enjoyment at the odd combination visible in their looks. Froude’s fine face and bearing became familiar afterwards to Americans, and he was irreproachably dressed; while probably no salutation was ever bestowed from an elegant passing carriage on an odder figure than Carlyle. Tall, very thin, and slightly stooping; with unkempt, grizzly whiskers pushed up by a high collar, and kept down by an ancient felt hat; wearing an old faded frock coat, checked waistcoat, coarse gray trousers, and russet shoes; holding a stout stick, with his hands encased in very large gray woolen gloves,—this was Carlyle. I noticed that, when we first left his house, his aspect attracted no notice in the streets, being doubtless familiar in his own neighborhood; but as we went farther and farther on, many eyes were turned in his direction, and men sometimes stopped to gaze at him. Little he noticed it, however, as he plodded along with his eyes cast down or looking straight before him, while his lips poured forth an endless stream of talk. Once and once only he was accosted, and forced to answer; and I recall it with delight as showing how the unerring instinct of childhood coincided with mine, and pronounced him not a man to be feared.

We passed a spot where some nobleman’s grounds were being appropriated for a public park; it was only lately that people had been allowed to cross them, and all was in the rough, preparations for the change having been begun. Part of the turf had been torn up for a road-way, but there was a little emerald strip where three or four ragged children, the oldest not over ten, were turning somersaults in great delight. As we approached, they paused and looked shyly at us, as if uncertain of their right on these premises; and I could see the oldest, a sharp-eyed little London boy, reviewing us with one keen glance, as if selecting him in whom confidence might best be placed. Now I am myself a child-loving person; and I had seen with pleasure Mr. Froude’s kindly ways with his own youthful household: yet the little _gamin_ dismissed us with a glance and fastened on Carlyle. Pausing on one foot, as if ready to take to his heels on the least discouragement, he called out the daring question, “I say, mister, may we roll on this here grass?” The philosopher faced round, leaning on his staff, and replied in a homelier Scotch accent than I had yet heard him use, “Yes, my little fellow, r-r-roll at discraytion!” Instantly the children resumed their antics, while one little girl repeated meditatively, “He says we may roll at discraytion!”—as if it were some new kind of ninepin-ball.

Six years later, I went with my friend Conway to call on Mr. Carlyle once more, and found the kindly laugh still there, though changed, like all else in him, by the advance of years and the solitude of existence. It could not be said of him that he grew old happily, but he did not grow old unkindly, I should say; it was painful to see him, but it was because one pitied him, not by reason of resentment suggested by anything on his part. He announced himself to be, and he visibly was, a man left behind by time and waiting for death. He seemed in a manner sunk within himself; but I remember well the affectionate way in which he spoke of Emerson, who had just sent him the address entitled “The Future of the Republic.” Carlyle remarked, “I’ve just noo been reading it; the dear Emerson, he thinks the whole warrld’s like himself; and if he can just get a million people together and let them all vote, they’ll be sure to vote right and all will go vara weel”; and then came in the brave laugh of old, but briefer and less hearty by reason of years and sorrows.

One may well hesitate before obtruding upon the public any such private impressions of an eminent man. They will always appear either too personal or too trivial. But I have waited in vain to see some justice done to the side of Carlyle here portrayed; and since it has been very commonly asserted that the effect he produced on strangers was that of a rude and offensive person, it seems almost a duty to testify to the very different way in which one American visitor saw him. An impression produced at two interviews, six years apart, may be worth recording, especially if it proved strong enough to outweigh all previous prejudice and antagonism.

In fine, I should be inclined to appeal from all Carlyle’s apparent bitterness and injustice to the mere quality of his laugh, as giving sufficient proof that the gift of humor underlay all else in him. All his critics, I now think, treat him a little too seriously. No matter what his labors or his purposes, the attitude of the humorist was always behind. As I write, there lies before me a scrap from the original manuscript of his “French Revolution,”—the page being written, after the custom of English authors of half a century ago, on both sides of the paper; and as I study it, every curl and twist of the handwriting, every backstroke of the pen, every substitution of a more piquant word for a plainer one, bespeaks the man of whim. Perhaps this quality came by nature through a Scotch ancestry; perhaps it was strengthened by the accidental course of his early reading. It may be that it was Richter who moulded him, after all, rather than Goethe; and we know that Richter was defined by Carlyle, in his very first literary essay, as “a humorist and a philosopher,” putting the humorist first. The German author’s favorite type of character—seen to best advantage in his Siebenkäs of the “Blumen, Frucht, und Dornenstücke”—came nearer to the actual Carlyle than most of the grave portraitures yet executed. He, as is said of Siebenkäs, disguised his heart beneath a grotesque mask, partly for greater freedom, and partly because he preferred whimsically to exaggerate human folly rather than to share it (_dass er die menschliche Thorheit mehr travestiere als nachahme_). Both characters might be well summed up in the brief sentence which follows: “A humorist in action is but a satirical improvisatore” (_Ein handelnder Humorist ist blos ein satirischer Improvisatore_). This last phrase, “a satirical improvisatore,” seems to me better than any other to describe Carlyle.

A SHELLEY MANUSCRIPT

Were I to hear to-morrow that the main library of Harvard University, with every one of its 496,200 volumes, had been reduced to ashes, there is in my mind no question what book I should most regret. It is that unique, battered, dingy little quarto volume of Shelley’s manuscript poems, in his own handwriting and that of his wife, first given by Miss Jane Clairmont (Shelley’s “Constantia”) to Mr. Edward A. Silsbee, and then presented by him to the library. Not only is it full of that aroma of fascination which belongs to the actual handiwork of a master, but its numerous corrections and interlineations make the reader feel that he is actually traveling in the pathway of that delicate mind. Professor George E. Woodberry had the use of it; he printed in the “Harvard University Calendar” a facsimile of the “Ode to a Skylark” as given in the manuscript, and has cited many of its various readings in his edition of Shelley’s poems. But he has passed by a good many others; and some of these need, I think, for the sake of all students of Shelley, to be put in print, so that in case of the loss or destruction of the precious volume, these fragments at least may be preserved.

There occur in this manuscript the following variations from Professor Woodberry’s text of “The Sensitive Plant”—variations not mentioned by him, for some reason or other, in his footnotes or supplemental notes, and yet not canceled by Shelley:—

“Three days the flowers of the garden fair Like stars when the moon is awakened, were.”

III, 1-2.

[_Moon_ is clearly _morn_ in the Harvard MS.]

“And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant.”

III, 100.

[The prefatory _And_ is not in the Harvard MS.]

“But the mandrakes and toadstools and docks and darnels Rose like the dead from their ruined charnels.”

III, 112.

[The word _brambles_ appears for _mandrakes_ in the Harvard MS.]

These three variations, all of which are interesting, are the only ones I have noted as uncanceled in this particular poem, beyond those recorded by Professor Woodberry. But there are many cases where the manuscript shows, in Shelley’s own handwriting, variations subsequently canceled by him; and these deserve study by all students of the poetic art. His ear was so exquisite and his sense of the _balance_ of a phrase so remarkable, that it is always interesting to see the path by which he came to the final utterance, whatever that was. I have, therefore, copied a number of these modified lines, giving, first, Professor Woodberry’s text, and then the original form of language, as it appears in Shelley’s handwriting, italicizing the words which vary, and giving the pages of Professor Woodberry’s edition. The cancelation or change is sometimes made in pen, sometimes in pencil; and it is possible that, in a few cases, it may have been made by Mrs. Shelley.

“Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky.”

“Gazed through _its tears_ on the tender sky.”

I, 36.

“The beams which dart from many a star Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar.”

“The beams which dart from many a _sphere_ Of the _starry_ flowers whose hues they bear.”

I, 81-82.

“The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides high, Then wander like spirits among the spheres Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears.”

“The unseen clouds of the dew, which _lay_ Like fire in the flowers till _dawning day_, Then _walk_ like spirits among the spheres Each _one_ faint with the _odor_ it bears.”

I, 86-89.

“Like windless clouds o’er a tender sky.”

“Like windless clouds _in_ a tender sky.”

I, 98.

“Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress.”

“Whose waves never _wrinkle_, though they impress.”

I, 106.

“Was as God is to the starry scheme,”

“Was as _is God_ to the starry scheme.”

I, 4.

“As if some bright spirit for her sweet sake Had deserted heaven while the stars were awake.”

“As some bright spirit for her sweet sake Had deserted _the_ heaven while the stars were awake.”

II, 17-18.

“The freshest her gentle hands could pull.”

“The freshest her gentle hands could _cull_.”

II, 46.

“The sweet lips of the flowers and harm not, did she.”

“The sweet lips of flowers,” etc.

II, 51.

“Edge of the odorous cedar bark.”

“Edge of the odorous _cypress_ bark.”

II, 56.

“Sent through the pores of the coffin plank.”

“_Ran_ through,” etc.

III, 12.

“Between the time of the wind and the snow.”

“Between the _term_,” etc. [probably accidental].

III, 50.

“Dammed it up with roots knotted like water-snakes.”

“Dammed it with,” etc.

III, 69.

“At noon they were seen, at noon they were felt.”

“At noon they were seen & noon they were felt.”

III, 73.

[“&” perhaps written carelessly for “at.”]

“Their decay and sudden flight from frost.”

“Their decay and sudden flight from _the_ frost.”

III, 98.

“To own that death itself must be.”

“To _think_ that,” etc.

III, 128.

These comparisons are here carried no further than “The Sensitive Plant,” except that there is a canceled verse of Shelley’s “Curse” against Lord Eldon for depriving him of his children,—a verse so touching that I think it should be preserved. The verse beginning—

“By those unpractised accents of young speech,”

opened originally as follows:—

“By that sweet voice which who could understand To frame to sounds of love and lore divine, Not thou.”

This was abandoned and the following substituted:—

“By those pure accents which at my command Should have been framed to love and lore divine, Now like a lute, fretted by some rude hand, Uttering harsh discords, they must echo thine.”

This also was erased, and the present form substituted, although I confess it seems to me both less vigorous and less tender. Professor Woodberry mentions the change, but does not give the canceled verse. In this and other cases I do not venture to blame him for the omission, since an editor must, after all, exercise his own judgment. Yet I cannot but wish that he had carried his citation, even of canceled variations, a little further; and it is evident that some future student of poetic art will yet find rich gleanings in the Harvard Shelley manuscript.

III

A KEATS MANUSCRIPT