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Froude (search for this): chapter 11
egiance to Europe for a thousand things, for traditions, for art, for scholarship. For many years we must yet go thither, as did Robinson Crusoe to his wreck, for many of the very materials of living. But materials take their value from him who uses them, and that wreck would have long since passed from memory had there not been a Robinson Crusoe. The brilliant and somewhat worldly Bishop Wilberforce was once pointed out to me, riding in the Park at London, as I walked with Carlyle and Froude thirty years ago; and it was perhaps they who told me a story which the Bishop loved to tell of himself, as to the rebuke he once received from a curate whom he had reproved. The curate was given to fox-hunting, and when the bishop once reproved him and said it had a worldly appearance, Not more worldly, the curate replied, than a certain ball at Blenheim Palace at which the bishop had been present. The bishop explained that he was staying in the house, to be sure, but was never within thr
Shakespeare (search for this): chapter 11
e; but from his account of the greatest English poets he omits the names of Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, Massinger, Webster and Marlowe; a tolerably correct list yet producing, we are digesting; food now, literary composition by-and-by; Shakespeare did not write Hamlet at the dinner table. It is of course impossible to expight in poetry — Milton, Byron, Scott, Wordsworth, and Shelley-while he read Shakespeare with supreme enjoyment. Pictures and music also gave him much pleasure. Buy years he cannot endure to read a line of poetry ; that he has lately tried Shakespeare, and found it so intolerably dull that it nauseated him; and that he has los universe, and begins boldly with things real, as sun, moon, and passages of Shakespeare. Sun and moon lie within the domain of science; not long since, to speak ofe in America have we yet got within those three fields,--we will not say of Shakespeare, but of Goethe, of Voltaire, even of Heine,--the hunt has at least been inte
Robert Southey (search for this): chapter 11
ste or vanity of the great poets themselves would restore the balance of their own fame, at least, but Tennyson wrote in his later years, I feel as if my life had been a useless life; and Longfellow said, a few years before his death, to a young author who shrank from seeing his name in print, that he himself had never got over that feeling. Would it please you very much, asks Thackeray's Warrington of Pendennis, to have been the author of Hayley's verses? Yet Hayley was, in his day, as Southey testifies, by popular election the king of the English poets; and he was held so important a personage that he received, what probably no other author ever has won, a large income for the last twelve years of his life in return for the prospective copyright of his posthumous memoirs. Miss Anna Seward, writing to Sir Walter Scott in 1786, ranks him and the equally forgotten Mason as the two foremost poets of the day; she calls Hayley's poems magnolias, roses, and amaranths, and pronounces
Bayard Taylor (search for this): chapter 11
oet, for instance, and connect the author with that poem inseparably thenceforward. Fate appears to assign to each some one boat, however small, on which his fame may float down towards immortality, even if it never attains it. This is the case, for instance, with Longfellow's Hiawatha, Lowell's Commemoration Ode, Holmes's Chambered Nautilus, Whittier's Snow-bound, Mrs. Howe's Battle Hymn, Whitman's My Captain, Aldrich's Fredericksburg sonnet, Helen Jackson's Spinning, Thoreau's Smoke, Bayard Taylor's Song of the Camp, Emerson's Daughters of time, Burroughs's Serene I Fold my hands, Piatt's The morning Street, Mrs. Hooper's I slept and dreamed that life was beauty, Stedman's Thou art mine, Thou hast given thy word, Wasson's All's well, Brownlee Brown's Thalatta, Ellery Channing's To-morrow, Harriet Spofford's In a summer evening, Lanier's Marshes of Glynn, Mrs. Moulton's The closed gate, Eugene Field's Little boy Blue, John Hay's The Stirrup Cup, Forceythe Willson's Old Sergeant, Em
Sidney Lanier (search for this): chapter 11
Whittier's Snow-bound, Mrs. Howe's Battle Hymn, Whitman's My Captain, Aldrich's Fredericksburg sonnet, Helen Jackson's Spinning, Thoreau's Smoke, Bayard Taylor's Song of the Camp, Emerson's Daughters of time, Burroughs's Serene I Fold my hands, Piatt's The morning Street, Mrs. Hooper's I slept and dreamed that life was beauty, Stedman's Thou art mine, Thou hast given thy word, Wasson's All's well, Brownlee Brown's Thalatta, Ellery Channing's To-morrow, Harriet Spofford's In a summer evening, Lanier's Marshes of Glynn, Mrs. Moulton's The closed gate, Eugene Field's Little boy Blue, John Hay's The Stirrup Cup, Forceythe Willson's Old Sergeant, Emily Dickinson's Vanished, Celia Thaxter's Sandpiper, and so on. All of these may not be immortal poems, but they are at least the boats which seem likely to bear the authors' names into the future. If it is hard to make individual predictions, when we turn to the collective forecast for a nation we enter upon a larger and doubtless more diffi
Oliver Wendell Holmes (search for this): chapter 11
scent splendors as this? One thing the larger public is likely to do. It is a fortunate fact that popular judgment, even at the time, is apt to fix upon some one poem by each poet, for instance, and connect the author with that poem inseparably thenceforward. Fate appears to assign to each some one boat, however small, on which his fame may float down towards immortality, even if it never attains it. This is the case, for instance, with Longfellow's Hiawatha, Lowell's Commemoration Ode, Holmes's Chambered Nautilus, Whittier's Snow-bound, Mrs. Howe's Battle Hymn, Whitman's My Captain, Aldrich's Fredericksburg sonnet, Helen Jackson's Spinning, Thoreau's Smoke, Bayard Taylor's Song of the Camp, Emerson's Daughters of time, Burroughs's Serene I Fold my hands, Piatt's The morning Street, Mrs. Hooper's I slept and dreamed that life was beauty, Stedman's Thou art mine, Thou hast given thy word, Wasson's All's well, Brownlee Brown's Thalatta, Ellery Channing's To-morrow, Harriet Spofford'
Heine (search for this): chapter 11
ly appearance, Not more worldly, the curate replied, than a certain ball at Blenheim Palace at which the bishop had been present. The bishop explained that he was staying in the house, to be sure, but was never within three rooms of the dancing. Oh! If it comes to that, your lordship, said the curate, I never am within three fields of the hounds. Grant that nowhere in America have we yet got within those three fields,--we will not say of Shakespeare, but of Goethe, of Voltaire, even of Heine,--the hunt has at least been interesting, and we know not what to-morrow may bring forth. Matthew Arnold indignantly protested against regarding Emerson as another Plato, but thought that if he were to be classed with Marcus Aurelius or Epictetus, a better case might be made out; and certainly that is something, while we wait for the duplicate Plato to be born. Our new literature must express the spirit of the New World. We need some repression, no doubt, as the Old World has never been b
Walter Scott (search for this): chapter 11
pective copyright of his posthumous memoirs. Miss Anna Seward, writing to Sir Walter Scott in 1786, ranks him and the equally forgotten Mason as the two foremost poel of Cambridge, a truly aged young man. Better a thousand times train a boy on Scott's novels or the Border ballads than educate him to believe, on the one side, th to reach human nature itself. When we look at the masters of English fiction, Scott and Jane Austen, we notice that in scarcely one of their novels does one personinging,-- The churl is lord, the maid is bride ; and it proved necessary for Scott to write a sequel, explaining that the marriage was on the whole a rather unhappy one, and that luckily the pair had no children. Not that Scott did not appreciate with the keenest zest his own Jeannie Deanses and Dandie Dinmonts, but they muof thirty, Darwin tells us, he took intense delight in poetry — Milton, Byron, Scott, Wordsworth, and Shelley-while he read Shakespeare with supreme enjoyment. Pic
Voltaire (search for this): chapter 11
id it had a worldly appearance, Not more worldly, the curate replied, than a certain ball at Blenheim Palace at which the bishop had been present. The bishop explained that he was staying in the house, to be sure, but was never within three rooms of the dancing. Oh! If it comes to that, your lordship, said the curate, I never am within three fields of the hounds. Grant that nowhere in America have we yet got within those three fields,--we will not say of Shakespeare, but of Goethe, of Voltaire, even of Heine,--the hunt has at least been interesting, and we know not what to-morrow may bring forth. Matthew Arnold indignantly protested against regarding Emerson as another Plato, but thought that if he were to be classed with Marcus Aurelius or Epictetus, a better case might be made out; and certainly that is something, while we wait for the duplicate Plato to be born. Our new literature must express the spirit of the New World. We need some repression, no doubt, as the Old World
Ernest Hartley Coleridge (search for this): chapter 11
writers. For instance, Addison still stands, traditionally, at the head of English prose writers, in respect to style; but from his account of the greatest English poets he omits the names of Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, Massinger, Webster and Marlowe; a tolerably correct list of the leading dramatic poets in the English tongue. One might almost say that he wrote his list through time's telescope reversed. In the same way Ruskin rules out from his list of English poets Shelley and Coleridge. One might hope that the good taste or vanity of the great poets themselves would restore the balance of their own fame, at least, but Tennyson wrote in his later years, I feel as if my life had been a useless life; and Longfellow said, a few years before his death, to a young author who shrank from seeing his name in print, that he himself had never got over that feeling. Would it please you very much, asks Thackeray's Warrington of Pendennis, to have been the author of Hayley's verse
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