Part 4

There is nothing which Droneville people resist so much as innovation. An attempt to change old customs, or to drive them from the well trodden path of their ancestors, will raise such a cackling among long-winded gossippers and slippery tongued spinsters, as would drive Beelzebub himself from the roost. Mr. Long Metre--a member of that fraternity who wander about teaching one half of the people how they can best _squeal off_ the ears of the other half--attempted to reform Droneville choir. This Radical broached the theory, that it was impossible for the young ladies to sing melodiously while they wore their bonnets, since the sweet nightingales were prevented from hearing their neighbors’ voices. The singing master, having been joined by a few of the young bucks--bold fellows these--venturing sometimes to give the ‘gals’ a sneaking glance or a sly wink, made a movement to carry the reform into operation. What pen can describe the “comper” which this excited! It was too much for the equanimity of the gentlemen of the old school. It was like touching a torch to their beards. Oh Droneville! who would have thought, that the flames of party animosity could ever have been kindled in thy peaceful streets? yet such was the fact. Every man, woman, and child, was ranged under the banner of the bonnets, or the anti-bonnets. The bonnets claimed, “that the measure of their opponents was an unheard-of innovation, exposing the health of the ‘little dears,’ encouraging extravagance in dress, endangering the morals of the young men, in short, that it was wholly unrighteous, unscriptural and indelicate, for St. Paul expressly declares that ‘every woman that prayeth or prophesieth with her head uncovered, dishonoreth her head.’” I noticed that this doctrine was warmly espoused by all the red haired young ladies, and desperate spinsters. The anti-bonnets, headed by the singing master, supported by the aforementioned bucks, and all the most buxom of the village girls, unable to withstand the cogent arguments of their adversaries, dispatched a delegation to secure upon their side, the influence of the parson. The good man stood aghast! What could he do? To commit himself upon either side, would be his ruin: to stand neutral, was impossible. Mr. Soporific Heth--the village tailor--a most vigorous performer upon a cracked clarionet, was chosen ambassador. Mr. Heth was a lean, long sided piece of anatomy, with an elongated phiz, nose like a fish hook, and lips blown to a point by his constant musical exertions. In order to add dignity to the delegation, Mr. Wonderful Gruff--whose magic powers wooed harmony from an antiquated base viol--accompanied Mr. Heth. Mr. Gruff was the wisest man in Droneville. To be sure, he never spoke a word to reveal his wisdom, but then he _looked_ tremendous wise, and a nod or a grunt from Mr. Gruff, had more influence in the village councils, than a speech of an hour’s length from most men. Mr. Gruff was a perfect personification of conceited obstinacy. His short stubborn neck and mulish character, evinced a perfect harmony of parts, and unity of design. Such were the animals which presented themselves in the parson’s study. Mr. Heth, of course, was the orator--and such a one! He was none of your concise speakers, who tell all they have to say in the fewest words possible, but an eloquent, long-winded orator, able to talk a vast while without saying any thing. Mr. Heth was very fond of onions--the parson, however, had rather an aversion to these delicacies. Mr. Heth was, moreover, afflicted with deafness, and for the double purpose of increasing the effect of his own masterly powers, and hearing his auditor’s replies, he drew a chair near his victim, and for about half an hour, blew an irresistible torrent of eloquence into the parson’s nose. Unable to resist such honied words, accompanied by a voice which rivaled the most cracked notes of Mr. Heth’s own clarionet, and seconded by the momentous nods and grunts of Mr. Gruff, the parson declared himself a convert to the principles of the anti-bonnets. This was the signal of triumph to their party--their opponents were crushed, and the bonnets were banished from the choir. After several weeks spent in preparation, the eventful Sabbath finally arrived, when the _élite_ of Droneville maidens, were to appear in ‘unbonneted’ beauty. Never had there been such an excitement in Droneville. The choir, and their appearance, were discussed in all places. It was regularly “served up,” at every tea table in the village. “What are Droneville people coming to,” exclaimed the old ladies; “things are changed since we were lads,” responded the veterans. “If I hadn’t any more hair than Polly Snipe, you wouldn’t catch me singing with my bonnet off,” said Miss Catnip. The day arrived; it was a cool bracing morning in January; but never, “within the memory of the oldest inhabitants,” had Droneville church been so crowded. While the parson was imploring God’s blessing, the bucks were ogling and whispering, the singers were turning over the leaves of their books, an occasional note escaped from the nose of Mr. Long Metre, Mr. Gruff was tuning his base viol, Mr. Heth was caulking his clarionet. The hymn is at length “given out,”--all eyes are turned to the gallery,--every mouth is opened in wondering expectation,--the blind wipe their spectacles, the deaf seize their trumpets, the eyes of the young bucks flashed with pleasure, those of the spinsters looked “unutterable things.” The choir arise, and while they stand like impatient coursers, with parted lips, awaiting the signal from Mr. Long Metre, let me attempt to describe the vision of paradise which burst upon my enraptured sight. It was a scene worthy the graphic pencil of Hogarth. There stood the assembled beauty of Droneville, with cheeks and noses kindled into a glow by the fresh air of a January morning. The gallery rose, seat over seat, presenting to the beholder an inclined plane of all that is beautiful in a red and blue phiz, studded with love-darting eyes, and party-colored heads, which might rival the coat of the patriarch. There they stand--long hinnies and short hinnies, sylph-like hinnies and porpoise-like hinnies, in regular confusion, with pates arrayed in every variety of fantastical gear ever invented by womankind. Some were adorned with flowers, others with feathers; some, having strained their hair so tight from their foreheads that they could not wink, had twisted it into a pig’s-tail upon the top of their craniums; a few, of more classic taste, had parted their locks from their brows, a la Madonna; others suffered them to float in unbraided beauty, a la witch of Endor; and one roguish little urchin was evidently arrayed in her grandmother’s cap. Thus they stand--the “pitch” is given, and away burst Droneville choir with impetuous fury--the power of every voice and every instrument is strained to its utmost capacity--Mr. Long Metre managed to scream the loudest--Mr. Soporific Heth blew his clarionet into several pieces--Mr. Gruff sawed his base viol ‘in two.’

Such was the performance of Droneville choir.--The combined power of all that is thrilling in beauty and melody, inflicted a wound upon my sentimental heart from which it has not yet recovered.

EVERY ONE HIS OWN CRITIC.

“A spirit and judgment equal or superior.”--_Milton._

A distinctly formed power of judging of literary productions, and of rightly and fully estimating their intrinsic and their comparative merits, is a thing of rare occurrence. Even educated men, whose opinions with respect to other things are of high value, seem not generally to have carried their systematic habits of thought into this province, deferring it almost wholly to professed critics. On the other hand, there is a crowd of slender judges, of some qualities of books, who are yet utterly incapable of appreciating others which are more vital.

It becomes, therefore, an important question to one who would be an independent thinker, how the evil may be remedied in his own case. It may be answered in general, not chiefly by reading literary reviews. Much, doubtless, may be learned in this way about many books and their authors; so much indeed, so wide is the field opened, as to divert the mind from seeking an intimate acquaintance with any. Without question, the effect of this kind of reading often, and indeed usually is, to overload the mind with a multitude of opinions which speedily pass from it, leaving it advanced in no respect except in an opinion of its own knowledge. Even where something more than mere entertainment is sought, the result is much the same. We would ask those who are so busy in collecting the opinions of others, how often an attempt is made effectually to reproduce those opinions in their own minds, and to test them by a careful study of the author in hand. The comparatively light manner of hurrying over even the extracts, which critical kindness has pointed out, is a sufficient answer. The very object indeed of resorting to reviews is to avoid tasking the mind. It is indeed vastly easier to take from the review opinions ready made, than to struggle to bring up into the light one’s own dim conceptions of excellence or defect, and to summon the mind to make account to itself. But as the result we have an unformed and lifeless acquaintance, with works even of the highest order--an acquaintance consisting, for the most part, of half-remembered, and half-forgotten crude opinions _about_ them. For the mind itself there is a habit of dependence on something without, and not of itself, for the grounds of its opinions--a habit arising, almost necessarily, from being accustomed to submit to the absoluteness and dictatorship of the professed critic.

There is liable to be created also, a habit of dependence for the _interest_ which is felt in literary works generally, novels excepted. It cannot be denied that the critic himself and his opinions, often form the main point of interest, and that the author is comparatively uninteresting; when it is not so, the critic is often depended upon to excite for the author an interest, which is to cease with the remembrance of the former. The sympathies are with the critic, not with the author. Besides this, reviews treat mostly of what is passing; the attention of the review reader is, therefore, in a great degree confined to that. Hence we have, in many of those who are thought to be acquainted with literature, a love for excitement, dependent on what is conventional and present, rather than a permanent interest resulting from broad and well grounded views.

It is certain that he who aims not merely to understand, but vigorously to apprehend, and distinctly to appreciate the work before him, will wish, in matters of opinion, to banish all thoughts of the critic, as an unwelcome intruder, however excellent in his kind, between himself and the author.

In order that a man may thus become a critic for himself, he should seek to excite in himself a love of literature for its own sake, in opposition both to a mere love of entertainment and to mere indifference. For here, it is eminently true that unless a man loves he cannot understand. But then that love must be liberal and discriminating; it must be a love which will carry one through the difficulties of the way. But for these qualities a mere love of entertainment is least remarkable, devouring indiscriminately what is often least valuable, and blindly rejecting the rest.

It deserves to be considered, whether this has not been too much the spirit of the readers of poetry. The maxim, that “it is the office of the poet to please, not to instruct,” ought not to be taken thus absolutely. It is indeed “sweetly uttered knowledge,” which the poet imparts, but is it the less knowledge? It is not indeed knowledge systematized, but not the less real knowledge of the human heart in all its relations.

But the great obstacle to be removed, is an indifference which leads to desultory reading. We refer especially to an indifference to merits. Fault-finding we have enough; while of merits there is often a comparatively languid appreciation. A very low mind and small abilities may be equal to the former; the latter demands a mind liberal and vigorous.

In order to remove this indifference, there must be a love of literature for its own sake. This will animate the mind with a liberal zeal, and, at the same time, will supersede the love of mere entertainment.

Let him who would feel such a love, endeavor to obtain some notion of literature as it is. In order to this let him acquaint himself with its history. Let him view it as the offspring of the human mind in all ages, wrought up to its divinest energy; as that which embodies in itself thoughts of power and images of beauty; as a purifier and refiner of the human feelings. Let him consider it also, with direct reference to his own mind and heart. For this end, he should place himself on the broad ground of our common humanity, in distinction from any prejudice, or conventional mode of thinking. Viewing himself as a man, and as such recognizing the mind and the human feelings within his own breast, let him look upon literature, as the glorious expression of what is kindred to those, and as such demanding his sympathy. By this habit of constant reference to his own mind, he will acquire in literature, a permanent interest. Distinctly conscious of the mind within his own breast, he will welcome mind wherever he meets it: recognizing the feelings of his own heart, he will go forth in sympathy with those of another; feeling within himself a love of the beautiful, he will stand ready to admire and value its objects. Unless a man cultivates such habits, so that he shall have a warm and living interest in ascertaining literary worth, he cannot be a critic. He will not seek out merits which he has not some interest in finding. If, on the other hand, a man have this habit of immediate reference to his own mind, he will not only have such an interest, but will also have placed himself in the only right point of view to judge of any literary production. He will not be guided by a set of rules which are in a manner foreign to the mind; nor will his criticism be expressed in phrases which are unmeaning, or the meaning of which he has never asked himself. It will be the faithful exhibition of the warm impressions upon a mind rightly prepared to receive them. How the mind is to be thus prepared is another question. The attitude which it should take we have stated; but to assume this it is not qualified at once, and with regard to every work. Obviously it must be enlightened by knowledge of the various departments of literature, that it may judge accurately of any one. Yet this is not all that is demanded of it. In order to judge of the intrinsic merits of any literary production, there must be an exercise of powers like those which originated it. The mind must be trained distinctly, and by itself, for this end. Otherwise, it cannot form any conception of those powers, much less can it know how to value their productions. In proportion also as the latter are of a high order, must be the activity to which feebler powers must be aroused to apprehend them. While this is true with respect to every kind of writing, its necessity is more distinctly seen in reading the works of the poet. For the powers there demanded are less in daily use. The reader must, in a certain sense, be himself a poet, in order to be a critic of poetry. Otherwise, he cannot sympathize with the author, and cannot judge of him at all. For, we repeat it, it is by a direct reference to our own minds, as appealed to by the mind of another, that we must judge of literary worth.

Thus to qualify and attune the mind, is indeed a task. The necessity, however, is plain. We may now, also understand how it is that a man may with ease equal the critic whom he reads, and then flatter himself into the belief that he has compassed the author whom he has not the vigor and habits of mind necessary to appreciate. For want of them, the opinions of the critic will be either forgotten, or vaguely remembered or applied. In either case the mind will have gained a feeling of undue self-importance.

It may seem audacious to approach in the manner we have attempted to describe, the works of those to whom we have been wont to look up with implicit reverence. But no one, we think, will be more humble in his own eyes, than he who has tried and found how hard it is to attempt fully to comprehend when fairly set before him, that which another wrought out from unshaped materials. Nor will his admiration be the less, because he sees that it is well grounded; while by a habit of raising himself to cope with great minds, he will be enabled to see in their true light, and to approach with an air of just superiority those which are inferior.

We have thus attempted to show some of the preparations of mind and spirit, for the office of criticism. But there must also be a strict and severe judgment, to exercise over the mind a constant supervision, and to keep it from partaking of the unsoundness of those with which it comes in contact, as well as a sensibility to their merits.

It has not been our object to dwell upon the particular points of criticism. There is one which will be found to include almost all others, and which has been already implied. We have spoken of literature as the means of correspondence between mind and mind. Of course, by far the most important point of criticism will be to study the mind and spirit of the author in his works. Much may be learned, in this way, that shall fix a lasting communion between ourselves and the author who is worthy of such intimacy. And further, by laying bare the shaping and moving spirit of that which is presented to us, and by ascertaining the precise attitude of the author with respect to his work, we shall be enabled to see more distinctly what are merits and defects, because we shall know whither to refer them. By this means, even the minutest peculiarities may be marked; that which is artificial, may be distinguished from that which is genuine; style may be clearly characterized, and the whole work will be set before us in two-fold clearness, and with two-fold interest.

If literature is worth any thing, it is worth such study and such exertions, on the part of every one. He who studies it in this way, will not view the books which meet his eye with a languid and feeble interest; nor as so many subjects for examination, which are afterwards to be set aside, as a sort of explained phenomena. He will study their merits in order to welcome and appropriate them to himself, as the fruits of kindred minds. The wise and the good of all ages will thus become his friends and companions.

G.

TRUMBULL GALLERY.

WASHINGTON ON THE BANKS OF THE DELAWARE.

’Tis well to gaze upon thee, glorious chief: There is instruction with thee. There’s no brief Or fleeting lesson traced on thy calm brow. A nation’s love is thine. Her prayer is now Uprising for thy weal. A nation’s life Is trusted to thy care; and calls thee to the strife. The mother leaneth on her well tried son And finds thee never wanting, Washington.

The angry waters leap and roar below. Danger is on the air--sounds of the mighty foe-- Wildness is all around thee. The scathed oak, Rent rock--earth ploughed by the death wing’d stroke, Wind-shriek, storm-gloom, death-chill. Thou art alone unmoved. Thine eye is still Proudly undaunted--far darting, fearless, grand, Flashing with patriot fire, shielding our father-land.

Thine is no kingly dignity. Thy brow Wears not so poor a wreath.--The sacred glow And majesty of freedom beam around thee there-- Her laurel crown is thine--no other would’st thou wear. She knows thee, her lov’d worshiper. To guard her shrine No truer arm the sword has bared, high chief, than thine. ’Tis well to think of thee--thy immortality how won, Tried warrior, statesman, father, Washington.

IONE.

GREEK ANTHOLOGY.--No. 1.

Reader! hast thou seen the Greek Anthology? If not, go get it. ’Tis passing beautiful. Dost thou wish to see into the very heart of the finest people God ever made? Dost thou long to acquaint thee with the real character of the bright-souled Grecian? Then lay upon the shelf the fiery Homer, with his “damnable iteration,” and even the neat Xenophon--the soldier, historian, and philosopher. Lay them aside, I bid thee, and run thine eye gently over those little heart-bursts, to which chance gave being, and which chance has most marvellously preserved. Dost thou look to see the true proportions of the actor, as he “struts his brief hour upon the busy stage?” Go to the green-room, and behold him divested of all the super-imposed grandeur of cork and buskin. Dost thou think to _know_ men, by scanning them, as they thread the streets of the city, as they toil in the heat of the forum, or pray among the pillars of the temple? The smile is, indeed, gracious--the bow lowly--the look subdued. But, man, you see the _face_, not the _heart_. They are all masquerading--most ludicrously too. Go to their homes, my friend. Watch them by their fire-sides--with their wives and children--in their household familiarity. Vexings are upon them, and their hearts are troubled. The world--the censorious world is far away, and they fear not the scrutiny of its prying eyes. A cloud comes over the sunshine of the soul, and they fret and fume at their petty tribulations. And are _these_ those unctuous men, on whose faces sat enthroned such unruffled peace? Yea, verily!

Thou mayest think this an impertinent digression; but I made it, and _I_ best know its design. ’Tis merely a rambling illustration--a stroll through the woods instead of a prosing walk along the road. ’Tis a similitude, I say--too long--yet a good one. Its pith is this. The poets, orators, philosophers, and historians--in fine, _all_ the great authors dressed for court, or--if that term seem too monarchical for the Republic of Letters--they dressed for a levee--a democratic _jam_--they _rouged_, frizzled, combed, brushed, and bedizened themselves artificially. Homer, the oldest, is likewise the simplest of them all. But even _he_ knew that he was stared at, and, like a man in company, adjusted his neckoloth, felt queer, and walked stiff. He does not give his own sentiments--he was writing a history of his nation, and it was at once his interest and his pleasure, to gild each slightest incident, and turn poverty to splendor. Thus does he show us about as much of the real character of those simple people in that early age, as do the roundelays of chivalry acquaint us with the habits of those motley knights, whose loves they celebrate, and whose prowess they record. It is not, then, in the elaborate writers of any nation, that you are to look for faithful portraitures of that nation’s character. Great geniuses bear the same leading traits in all climates, and their works are simple mental creations, rather than copies of the habits of their age. ’Tis familiarity with the various effusions of a thousand different pens--drinking from the heart’s overflowing fullness,--that thoroughly acquaints one with a people.