THERE THE TRUE CRITICISM. [Papers on Literature and Art. 1846.—From the Same.] HERE are two ways of considering Poems, or the products of literature in general. We may tolerate only what is excellent, and demand that whatever is consigned to print for the benefit of the human race should exhibit fruits perfect in shape, color, and flavor, enclosing kernels of permanent value. Those who demand this will be content only with the Iliads and Odysseys of the mind's endeavor.-They can feed nowhere but at rich men's tables; in the wildest recess of nature, roots and berries will not content them. They say, "If you can thus satiate your appetite it is degrading; we, the highly refined in taste and the tissue of the mind, can nowhere be appeased, unless by golden apples, served up on silver dishes." But, on the other hand, literature may be regarded as the great mutual system of interpretation between all kinds and classes of men. It is an epistolary correspondence between brethren of one family, subject to many and wide separations, and anxious to remain in spiritual presence one of another. These letters may be written by the prisoner in soot and water, illustrated by rude sketches in charcoal;-by nature's nobleman, free to use his inheritance, in letters of gold, with the fair margin filled with exquisite miniatures.;—to the true man each will have value, first, in proportion to the degree of its revelation as to the life of the human soul; second, in proportion to the perfection of form in which that revelation is expressed. In like manner are there two modes of criticism. One which tries, by the highest standard of literary perfection the critic is capable of conceiving, each work which comes in his way; rejecting all that it is possible to reject, and reserving for toleration only what is capable of standing the severest test. It crushes to earth without mercy all the humble buds of Phantasy, all the plants that, though green and fruitful, are also a prey to insects, or have suffered by drouth. It weeds well the garden, and cannot believe that the weed in its native soil may be a pretty, graceful plant. There is another mode which enters into the natural history of everything that breathes and lives, which believes no impulse to be entirely in vain, which scrutinizes circumstances, motive, and object before it condemns, and believes there is a beauty in each natural form, if its law and purpose be understood. It does not consider a literature merely as the garden of the nation, but as the growth of the entire region, with all its variety of mountain, forest, pasture, and tillage lands. Those who observe in this spirit will often experience, from some humble offering to the Muses, the delight felt by the naturalist in the grasses and lichens of some otherwise barren spot. These are the earliest and humblest efforts of nature, but to a discerning eye they indicate the entire range of her energies. These two schools have each their dangers. The first tends to hypercriticism and pedantry, to a cold restriction on the unstudied action of a large and flowing life. In demanding that the stream should always flow transparent over golden sands, it tends to repress its careless majesty, its vigor, and its fertilizing power. The other shares the usual perils of the genial and affectionate; it tends to indiscriminate indulgence and a levelling of the beautiful with what is merely tolerable. For indeed the vines need judicious pruning if they are to bring us the ruby wine. In the golden age to which we are ever looking forward, these two tendencies will be harmonized. The highest sense of fulfilled excellence will be found to consist with the largest appreciation of every sign of life. The eye of man is fitted to range all around no less than to be lifted on high. WHE RACHEL. [Letter in the Memoirs of M. F. O. 1852.-From the Same.] HEN I came here, my first thought was to go and see Mademoiselle Rachel. I was sure that in her I should find a true genius. I went to see her seven or eight times, always in parts that required great force of soul, and purity of taste, even to conceive them, and only once had reason to find fault with her. On one single occasion, I saw her violate the harmony of the character, to produce effect at a particular moment; but, almost invariably, I found her a true artist, worthy Greece, and worthy at many moments to have her conceptions immortalized in marble. Her range even in high tragedy is limited. She can only express the darker passions, and grief in its most desolate aspects. Nature has not gifted her with those softer and more flowery attributes that lend to pathos its utmost tenderness. She does not melt to tears, or calm or elevate the heart by the presence of that tragic beauty that needs all the assaults of fate to make it show its immortal sweetness. Her noblest aspect is when sometimes she expresses truth in some severe shape, and rises, simple and austere, above the mixed elements around her. On the dark side, she is very great in hatred and revenge. I admired her more in Phèdre than in any other part in which I saw her; the guilty love inspired by the hatred of a goddess was expressed, in all its symptoms, with a force and terrible naturalness, that almost suffocated the beholder. After she had taken the poison, the exhaustion and paralysis of the system,-the sad, cold, calm submission to Fate,-were still more grand. I had heard so much about the power of her eye in one fixed look, and the expression she could concentrate in a single word, that the utmost results could only satisfy my expectations. It is, indeed, something magnificent to see the dark cloud give out such sparks, each one fit to deal a separate death; but it was not that I admired most in her. It was the grandeur, truth, and depth of her conception of each part, and the sustained purity with which she represented it. The French language from her lips is a divine dialect; it is stripped of its national and personal peculiarities, and becomes what any language must, moulded by such a genius, the pure music of the heart and soul. I never could remember her tone in speaking any word; it was too perfect; you had received the thought quite direct. Yet, had I never heard her speak a word, my mind would be filled by her attitudes. Nothing more graceful can be conceived, nor could the genius of sculpture surpass her management of the antique drapery. She has no beauty, except in the intellectual severity of her outline, and she bears marks of race that will grow stronger every year, and make her ugly at last. Still it will be a grandiose, gypsy, or rather Sibylline ugliness, well adapted to the expression of some tragic parts. Only it seems as if she could not live long; she expends force enough upon a part to furnish out a dozen common lives. PARIS, 1847. Willis Gaylord Clark. BORN in Otisco, N. Y., 1810. DIED in Philadelphia, Penn., 1841. [Literary Remains. 'TIS A WITCH SONG. Edited by Lewis Gaylord Clark. 1844.] IS a haunted place where thou art now, Then sweep the witches' trains along, And charm the air whereon they ride. And, as between the waning moon And Brocken's height their forms are seen, While midnight's melancholy noon Extends its thoughtful reign serene, Their rustling folds are heard above, The branches groan in every tree; Till on the lake these spectres move, And sing this song of the Hexen Zee: SONG. Our boat is strong, its oars are good, It is a felon's blood-shot e'e, And it shineth forth from his skeleton brow There's a scream of dreaming birds afar, And a hollow blast in the old Hartz wood: Our course was marked by the evening star, By the wakeful eagle's glance pursued; The tree-toad moaned on the mossy limb And plunged in the pool 'neath the dark yew-tree, But what care we for the likes of him, While we sing and sail on the Hexen Zee? We have come over forest, and glen, and moor, There's a vapor of gray, and a crimson hue, And our voices are hoarse with this elfin song: A-floating in lifeless throngs we see; To Hecate an offering thus we make, Who is fond of fish from the Hexen Zee. Look to the east! there the dawn is red, Through the cedar branches it 'gins to glow; Our song must be ended-our spell is dead, |