The New York herald. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1840-1920, 1853-02-21
V.ss.~<y Review.
Tas GOLDEN Lx.4SD, by H. W. Longfellow Bos'
ton Tioknor. Rid and Fields, 1851

ton Ticknor Rssd ana fleids 1904
Ii ia singphr that the greatest poets OF the
present day are as much distinguished by the mysti
cal charter of their writings as by any other pecu
liarity Surrounded every side by undeniable evil
dene.s of the practical matter-offact tendencies 0,
tie world we may well be astonished, when we open
our poets, to find them imbued with an intense love
for the visionary and the supernatural or to behold
them revealing in of the widest speculation.
II would seem though the muse OF song was veil.
ING her face, while each day enables US to view her
sisters more closely and more accurately. The Ian
guage of science is being strpt Of the hard words in
which it has so long been muled, and children need
nolongerfear search itsmyseres History written
in style as clear as crystal The politician addresses
his speech to the crowd and suits it to the meanest
understanding. In modern prose, every fault is ex-
cusable but obscurty. Neither the design, nor the
style of the prose author must require study TO be
understood and appreciated We have not time in
the present day, to puzzle a writer's meaning
aud grope for hours in the dark in the vague hope of
discovering jewel the treasure must be laid be-
fore us in open daylight ready TO grasp, or we
spurn It, What lie intends to say, why he says it,
what object he gains by saying it, and we by reading
it, are things which the modern essayst, historian
philosopher must satisfactorily explain TO US at
the very first glance or we cast him aside without
mercy. With the poet the case is different. The
closer we cling to earth the higher he scars in the
clouds. The more tangible our lifes aim, the more
nnntelligible the aim of his song. An age ruled by
commerce produces Tennyson, Longfellow. An
age Of railroads, and steamers. and telegraphs and
caiorc engines gives birth to poems in which Luci-
Ter plays leading part, and the cloyenfooted myth
OF ancestors is introduced in lesh aud blood upon
the stirring stage of life.
{ To say that these things are wrong would be
impairment. The popular verdict is in their favor.
The utmost we can venture is to suggest plausi-
bic reason as we can for the phenomenon--to re-
conce, if possible, by some theory more less in
genious stern attachment to the practical in real
lifOwith our weakness for the transcendental in
poetry. 1t may be that transcendentalism is the
portal to the inner temple of pure philosophy. One
by one the barriers which have hitherto irnpeded
progressin science yield to the batterng ram Of
modern intellect, and We penetrate chambers which
were sealed to the gaze of past ages. The light Of
day bursts upon recesses where all was obscurty
since the world began. But the victory has been
purchased at the cost OF many ardent student lost
in the labyrinth Of inquiry There have been many
errors many groupings in the dark false discoveries,
perlous decisions, sad jack olanerns, to bewder his
OF subsequent explorers. Achemists and transmuters
Of metals paved the way for scientific chemists.
Herschel and La Place owe more perhaps than they
would readily admit to the astrologers. May
not the transcendentalists-the poetic dream
ers of modern times-be the alchemists, the
astrologers Of philosophy We read their books
just as our ancestors used to adde their brains over
crucibles and horoscopes, wondering, like they
whether the strange science mean anything and il
1t does, what that is Dazzled by the glare of bril-
liant imagery, and luued into delicious dreami
ness by the harmony OF their tones, We can suffer
Bailey to allure US far out of our depth without
single fear of shipwreck Longfellow to lead US
away up the side Of an Unreasonable mountain peak,
without the slightest thrill Of vertigo or the faintest
apprehension Of fall. They, like the alchemists,
are cropping in the dark and so are we. Matter we
can resolve into its elements-of it we know at all
events enough to talk nationally the subject; but
ofourselyes our soul, our existence Cod eternity,
sad future state, we are absolutely ignorant; and
any speculation which gives a promise of light we
eagerly welcome. Hence, perhaps, the popularity
OF Festus, of Emerson. OF Iamartine- hence eroba.
bly,, the appearance Of the Golden Legend
Not that we would class Professor Longfellow
among the transcendentalists. No school Of poetry
Is
Emerson. There is too much or, at all events, there
was too much, of humanity in Longfelow, to permit
him TO be ranked among those writer's whose sphere
is anywhere out OF the world" The
man who wrote
Not enjoyment and not orroy
Is our destined end o way:
But to at, that each to morrow
Find US further than TO day
eanpt be credited to the school whose peculiar char
acerstic it todecry acting and promote dreaming
There was in the Longellow had been used tol love
great fund of deep sympathy with his fellow man
much tenderness though but little passion an acnte
perception of the nobler instincts Of humanity and
just appreciation OF the manly impulses of nature
He could express that high ambition which most
exalted minds have felt but could not define and in
chastest and n0best lines applaud, while he painted
the heroic struggles of the modern martvr He could
weep with the suffering Evangeline and glow with
honest Indignation at the sturdy blacksmith wrongs
He could smile happily on the innocent mirth of in
fancy and share the blthe carols of country village
Fer him, this world once seemed enough: nature
aud the heart of mantle gentle love OF the wife
and the meek devotion Of the Chrstianwere all the
subjects he cared 10 paint. And with what earnest
ness, with what charming simplicity, with what
soothing harmony, did he trace their outlines.
He is changed since then. The fatal example of
others, whom we need not mention, and the study of
his aVorite Germans, have perverted his taste. Ma
tnre and man have lost their charms for him. He
cannot abide the real the visionary has tempted him
too long, and, in an evil hour the Golden Legend il
written. Let us attempt TO describe it.
Prince Henry Of Hohenech is a victim TO the
spleen. The devil visits him disguised as a quack
doctor, and after some little persuasion administers
patent medicine, which is like draught of fire.
and after taking which his weary breast at length
finds rest The effect OF the dose soon wears
of. however, and the Prince again experiences all
the sensations OF an h00me base The priests in the
Beighb0rhood hear Of the visit Of h satanic majesty
and forthwith exercise the Prince Turned out
OF his castle, he takes refuge with a neighbor who
has pretty daughter named Elsie. school of
quacks, at Salem who are consulted by the Prince
on biz disease. send him the following novel pre-
scrptc3 =
Not to be cured yet not incurable
The only remedy that remains
IL the blood that flows from msiden's veins
Who Of her free will shall die
And give her life as the price of yours