FEINBERG - WHITMAN Box 33 Folder 18 LITERARY FILE Prose "Emerson's Books, (the Shadows of Them), " Literary World, May 22, 1880, Newspaper Clipping. 177 Emerson's Books, (the Shadows of Them.) In the regions we call Nature, towering beyond all measurement, with infinite spread, infinite depth and height - in those vast regions, including Man, socially and historically, with his moral-emotional influences - how small a part, (it came in my mind to-day,) has Literature really depicted - even summing up all of it, all ages. Seems at best but some little fleet of boats, hugging the shores of a boundless sea, and never venturing, exploring the unmapp'd - never, Columbus- like, sailing out for New Worlds, and to complete the orb's rondure. Emerson writes frequently in the atmosphere of this thought, and his books report one or two things from that very ocean and air, and more legibly address'd to our age and American polity than by any man yet. But I will begin by scarifying him - thus proving that I am not insensible to his deepest lessons. I will consider his books from a Democratic and western point of view. I will specify the shadows on these sunny expanses. Somebody has said of heroic character that "wherever the tallest peaks are present must inevitably be deep chasms and valleys." Mine by the ungracious task (for reasons) of leaving unmentioned both sunny expanses and sky-reaching heights, to dwell on the bare spots and darknesses. I have a theory that no artist or work of the very first class may be or can be without them. First, then, these pages are perhaps too perfect-- too concentrated. (How good, for instance, is good butter, good sugar. But to be eating nothing but sugar-and-butter all the time! even if ever so good.) And though the author has much to say of freedom and wildness and simplicity and spontaneity, no performance was ever more based on artificial scholarships and decorums at third or fourth removes, (he calls it culture,) and built up from them. It is always a make, never an unconscious growth. It is the porcelain figure or statuette of lion, or stag, or Indian hunter - and a very choice statuette too -- appropriate for the rosewood or marble bracket of parlor or library; never the animal itself, or the hunter himself. Indeed who wants the real animal or hunter? What would that do amid astral and bric-a-brac and tapestry, and ladies and gentlemen talking in subdued tones of Browning and Longfellow and art? The least suspicion of such actual bull, or Indian, or of Nature carrying out itself, would put all those good people to instant terror and flight. Emerson, in my opinion, is not most eminent as poet or artist or teacher, though valuable in all those. He is best as Critic, or Diagnoser. Not passion or imagination or warp or weakness, or any pronounced cause or specialty, dominates him. Cold and bloodless intellectuality dominates him. (I know the fires, emotions, love, egotisms, glow deep, perennial, as in all New Englanders - but the facade hides them well - they give no sign.) He does not see or take one side, one presentation only or mainly, (as all the poets, or most of the fine writers anyhow,) -- he sees all sides. His final influence is to make his students cease to worship anything -- almost cease to believe in anything, outside of themselves. These books will fill, and well fill, certain stretches of life, certain stages of developement-- are (like the tenets or theology the author of them preached when a young man,) unspeakably serviceable and precious as a stage. But in old or nervous or solemnest or dying hours, when one needs the impalpably soothing and vitalizing influences of abysmic Nature, or its affinities in literature or human society, and the Soul resents the keenest mere intellection, they will not be sought for. For a philosopher Emerson possesses a singularly dandified theory of Manners. He seems to have no notion at all that manners are simply the signs by which the chemist or metallurgist knows his metals. To the profound scientist, all metals are profound, as they really are. The little one, like the conventional world, will make much of gold and silver only. Then to the real artist in humanity, what are call'd bad manners are often the most picturesque and significant of all. Suppose these books becoming absorbed, the 178 permanent chyle of American general and particular character -- what a well-washed and grammatical, but bloodless and helpless, race we should turn out! No, no, dear friend; though The States want scholars, undoubtedly, and perhaps want ladies and gentlemen who use the bath frequently, and never laugh loud, or talk wrong, they don't want scholars, or ladies and gentlemen, at the expense of all the rest. They want good farmers, sailors, mechanics, clerks, citizens -- perfect business and social relations -- perfect fathers and mothers. If we could only have these, or their approximations, plenty of them, fine and large and sane and generous and patriotic, they might make their verbs disagree from their nominatives, and laugh like volleys of musketeers, if they should please. Of course these are not all America wants, but they are first of all to be provided for, and on a large scale. And, with tremendous errors and escapades, this, substantially, is what The States seem to have an intuition of, and to be mainly aiming at. The plan of a select class, super- refined, the plan of Old World lands and literatures, is not so objectionable in itself, but because it chokes the true plan for us, and indeed is death to it. As to such special class, The United States can never produce any equal to the splendid show, (far, far beyond comparison or competition here,) of the principal European nations, both in the past and at the present day. But the production of an immense and distinctive Commonality over our vast and varied area, West and East, South and North, -- in fact, for the first time in history, a great, aggregated, real PEOPLE, worthy the name, and made of developed, heroic individuals, both sexes -- is America's principal, perhaps only, reason for being. If ever accomplished, it will be at least as much, (I lately think, doubly as much,) the result of fitting and Democratic Sociologies, Literatures and Arts -- if we ever get them -- as of our Democratic politics. At times it has been doubtful to me if Emerson really knows or feels what Poetry is at its highest, as in the Bible, for instance, or Homer or Shakespeare. I see he covertly or plainly likes best superb verbal polish, or something old or odd - Waller's "Go, lovely rose," or Lovelace's lines "To Lacusta" -- the quaint conceits of the old French bards, and the like. Of power he seems to have a gentleman's admiration -- but in his inmost heart the grandest attribute of God and Poets is always subordinated to the octaves, conceits, polite kinks, and verbs. The reminiscence that years ago I began like most youngsters to have a touch (though it came late, and was only on the surface) of Emerson- on-the-brain -- that I read his writings reverently, and address'd him in print as "Master," and for a month or so though of him as such -- I retain not only with composure, but positive satisfaction. I have noticed that most young people of eager minds pass through this stage of exercise. The best part of Emersonism is, it breeds the giant that destroys itself. Who wants to be any man's mere follower? lurks behind every page. No teacher ever taught, that has so provided for his pupil's setting up independently -- no truer evolutinist. Democracy (like Christianity) is not served best by its own most brawling advocates, but often far, far better, finally, by those who are outside its ranks. I should say that such men as Carlyle and Emerson and {??} Rights agitation [??][ an organ of any particular movement, was the literary gazette of the "new spirit," and its natural editor was Mr. Emerson, whose serene genius and temperament, with his commanding and poetic public discourses, and the dignity, simplicity, and purity of his life, had made him the peculiar representative of "Transcendentalism." It was his only service as an editor, in the usual sense, and the labor was not exclusively his. It was understood that Mr. Emerson and Miss Margaret Fuller were the editorial council, and in the opening address of "The editors to the Reader" Mr. Emerson speaks modestly of "those who have immediately acted in editing the present number," in a tone which implies that it was wholly a labor of love. The first number of the Dial was issued forty years ago in July, 1840, and it is still a most interesting and remarkable publication. There has been nothing like it in this country, and if 'Emerson's Books (the Shadows of them) 22 May 1880 Acc 18,5923 178 THE LITERARY WORLD. permanent chyle of American general and particular character -- what a well-washed and grammatical, but bloodless and helpless, race we should turn our! No, no, dear friend; though The States want scholars, undoubtedly, and perhaps want ladies and gentlemen who use the bath frequently, and never laugh loud, or talk wrong, they don't want scholars, or ladies and gentlemen, at the expense of all the rest. They want good farmers, sailors, mechanics, clerks, citizens-- perfect business and social relations-- perfect fathers and mothers. If we could only have these, or their approximations, plenty of them, fine and large and sane and generous and patriotic, they might make their verbs disagree from their nominatives, and laugh like volleys of musketeers, if they should please. Of course these are not all America wants, but they are first of all to be provided for, and on a large scale. And, with tremendous errors and escapades, this, substantially, is what The States seem to have an intuition of, and to be mainly aiming at. The plan of a select class, super-refined, the plan of Old World lands and literatures, is not so objectionable in itself, but because it chokes the true plan for us, and indeed is death to it. As to such special class, The United States can never produce any equal to the splendid show, (far, far beyond comparison or competition here,) of the principal European nations, both in the past and at the present day. But the production of an immense and distinctive Commonalty over our vast and varied area, West and East, South and North, --in fact, for the first time in history, a great, aggregated real PEOPLE, worthy the name, and made of developed, heroic individuals, both sexes -- is America's principal, perhaps only, reason for being. If ever accomplished, it will be at least as much, (I lately think, doubly as much,) the result of fitting and Democratic Sociologies, Literatures and Arts--if we ever get them-- as of our Democratic politics. At times it has been doubtful to me if Emerson really knows or feels what Poetry is at its highest, as in the Bible, for instance, or Homer or Shakspere. I see he covertly or plainly likes best superb verbal polish, or something old or odd -- Waller's "Go, lovely rose," or Lovelace's lines "To Lucusta" -- the quaint conceits of the old French bards, and the like. Of power he seems to have a gentleman's admiration--but in his inmost heart the grandest attribute of God and Poets is always subordinated to the octaves, conceits, polite kinks, and verbs. The reminiscence that years ago I began like most youngsters to have a touch (though it came late and was only on the surface) of Emerson- on-the-brain-- that I read his writings reverently, and address'd him in print as "Master," and for a month or so thought of him as such-- I retain not only with composure, but positive satisfaction. I have noticed that most young people of eager minds pass through this stage of exercise. The best part of Emersonianism is, it breeds the giant that destroys itself. Who wants to be any man's mere follower? lurks behind every page. No teacher ever taught, that has so provided for his pupil's setting up independently-- no truer evolutionist. Democracy (like Christianity) is not served best by its own most brawling advocates, but often far, far better, finally, by those who are outside its ranks. I should say that such a man as Carlyle and Emerson and Tennyson -- to say nothing of Shakspere or Walter Scott-- have done more for popular politicial and social progress and liberalization, and for individuality and freedom, than all the pronounced democrats one could name. The foregoing assumptions on Emerson and his books may seem -- perhaps are-- paradoxical; but, as before intimated, is not every first-class artist, himself, and are not all real works of art, themselves, paradoxical?and is not the world itself so? As also intimated in the beginning, I have written my criticism in the unflinching spirit of the man's own inner teachings. As I understand him, the truest honor you can pay him is to try his own rules, his own heroic treatment, on the greatest themes, even his own works. It remains to be distinctly avowed by me that Emerson's books form the tallest and fiest growth yet of the literature of the New World. They bring, with miraculous opportuneness, exactly what America needs, to begin at the head, to radically sever her (not too apparently at first) from the fossilism and feudalism of Europe. Walt Whitman R.W.E. THE LITERARY WORLD. 177 Upon the Hight. Serene, upon the highest hight, To thee so easeful of ascending, Thou standest, haloed by a light That shines from far beyond our sight, Life's grand emprise superbly ending! In youth, as to that lofty peak, From off the plain, thy footsteps wended, Philosophy did quick bespeak To be thy guide, -- as quickly, eke Fair Poesy, -- and both attended; Content this compromise to make:-- That thou shouldst follow each at pleasure; But that, for their and mankind's sake, Thy song should key from Wisdom take, Thy speech be set to rhythmic measure. Thus thou didst pass from hight to hight, New opened pathways broadly blazing, -- That who would follow, follow might, -- Thy step assured, in open sight Of Gods and men, nor feared their gazing! On all thy way, no backward pace! Not once thy poise or purpose losing, Thou hast not needed to retrace, Nor of thy steps need'st now efface One print, on pathway of thy choosing. But from each newly mounted peak, To those who toiled below thee turning, Thou [?] considerate to speak ing that I am not insensible to his deepest lessons. I will consider his books from a Democratic and western point of view. I will specify the shadows on those sunny expanses. Somebody has said of heroic character that "wherever the tallest peaks are present must inevitably be deep chasms and valleys." Mine be the ungracious task (for reasons) of leaving unmentioned both sunny expanses and sky-reaching heights, to dwell on the bare spots and darknesses. I have a theory that no artist or work of the very first class may be or can be without them. First, then, these pages are perhaps too perfect-- too concentrated. (How good, for instance, is good butter, good sugar. But to be eating nothing but sugar and butter all the time ! even if ever so good.) And though the author has much to say of freedom and wildness and simplicity and spontaneity, no performance was ever more based on artificial scholarships and decorums at third or forth removes, (he calls it culture,) and built up from them. It is always a make, never an unconscious growth. It is the porcelain figure of statuette of lion, or stag, or Indian hunter -- and a very choice statuette too -- appropriate for the rosewood or marble bracket of parlor or library; never the animal itself, or the hunter himself. Indeed who wants the real animal or hunter? What would that do amid astral and bric-a-brac and tapestry, and ladies and gentlemen talking in subdued tones of Browning and Longfellow and art? The least suspicion of such actual bull, or Indian, or of Nature carrying out itself, would put all those good people to instant terror and flight. Emerson, in my opinion, is not most eminent as poet or artist or teacher, though valuable in all those. He is best as Critic, or Diagnoser. Not passion or imagination or warp or weakness, or any pronounced cause or specialty, dominates him. Cold and bloodless intellectuality dominates him. (I know the fires, emotions, love, egotisms, glow deep, perennial, as in all New Englanders-- but facade hides them well -- they give no sign.) He does not see or take one side, one presentation only or mainly, (as all the poets, or most of the fine writers anyhow,) -- he sees all sides. His final influence is to make his students cease to worship anything --almost cease to believe in anything, outside of themselves. These books will fill, and well fill, certain stretches of life, certain stages of developement-- are (like the tenets of theology the author of them preached when a young man,) unspeakably serviceable and precious as a stage. But in old or nervous or solemnest or dying hours, when one needs the impalpably soothing and vitalizing influences of abysmic Nature, or its affinities in literature or human society, and the Soul resents the keenest mere intellection, they will not be sought for. For a philosopher Emerson possesses a singularly dandified theory of Manners. He seems to have no notion at all that manners are simply the signs by which the chemist or metallurgist knows his metals. To the profound scientist, all metals are profound, as they really are. The little one, like the conventional world, will make much of gold and silver only. The to the real artist in humanity, what are call'd bad manners are often the most picturesque and significant of all. Suppose these books becoming absorbed, the Transcribed and reviewed by contributors participating in the By The People project at crowd.loc.gov.