The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1886-02-11
FORGOTTEN POETS.

Il
\ ines, describes her as lone of Shaks-
/! peare's women,' and Emerson con-
4 stantly commends us to Plutarch's men.
| 1t is therefore little startling to read
| in Western journal that Plutarch's
men are crowded out of the minds of
| young Americans by the images of Lin
coin and Grant. Against this view
I Shelly also supplies comfortable
| thought:
| True love in this differs from gold and clay,
| That TO divide is not to take away"
Those laurels of Miltiades not only Sc
| cured him to heroic remembrance, but
| they also embalmed Thenistocles. Lin
| coin and Grant rather send US back to
| Plutarch than obscure his gallery. One
| of their greatest services is that of re-
vealing to us the truth that the essen
italy noble and heroic qualities are al
| ways the same. The time and the cir
| cumstance differ. not the very man.
Emerson found in Lincoln the shrewd-
ness of Esop. Have we not seen in
| Grant the magnanimity of Fabius?
| But the paper of which we speak re-
marks that it is sadly true that Percival
is forgotten poet, and then, seizing
| promiscuous assortment of names, ex-
| claims that Charles Sprague, William,
Writ, Washington Irving, and Jack
Downing may be referred to as forgot
ten authors. But this is the luxury of
woe. Why should not Percival be
| forgotten poetp That is to say, what is
| there in the verse of Percival that
should command interest and attention
| to-day?
He was an admirably and remarkably
accomplished man and most excellent
gentleman, and his name is very famil-
lar in the reading books of the time
when certain grandfathers of to-day
were going to school. But he was
| noted poet not because he took rank
with his contemporaries Byron,
| and Scott, and Keats, and Shelly, and
Coleridge, and Wordsworth-but be-
cause there were very few Americans
who wrote verses, and our fathers pa
triotically stood by them.
Grenville Mellen is forgotten poet
also. If the gentle reader will turn the
pages of Kettell, he will seem to him
self to be walking among tombs. Upon
each page might be suitably inscribed,
Sacred to the memory of almost every
one of the lamented singers. John Neal
is there, and Rufus Dawes, and James
G. Eastburn, excellent gentlemen,
worthy writers, all of them. But can
we say, with honest reproach, forgot
ten poets?" Is Fame to be held response
BILE for not retaining the name of every
minstrel who loiters by and touches his
harp lightly and sings sweet song as
he passes on? 1t is a hard fate to give
pleasures to those who listen, because
+ho. ,hr ofh hao do
turn and applaud?
Many an author may have tone and
touch which please the ear and taste of
his own day, and which, as characters
tic of time, may be curious to a later
taste, like the costumes and bonnets of
our great-grandmothers. But Young
America, sauntering at the club and at
Newport, would not willingly wear the
boots of Beau Nash, nor even the cloak
Of Beau Brummel. 1t is, indeed, doubt
full whether the great law which pro-
vides that nothing shall be lost is not
equally observable in the realm of liter
airy fame. Is anything of literature lost
that deserves remembrance, or, more
properly. can it be lost? A fair answer
to the question may be found in the re-
ply to another, whether delving in Ket-
tell or in any other anthology reveals
treasures dropped by fame as precious
as those she carries.
Our newspaper is certainly too swift
in saying that Irving may be classed
among the forgotten authors. There are
two ways in which an author survives
one, by the constant reading of his
works: the other, by his name. Is Mil
ton forgotten authorp But how much
is he read, compared with the contem-
porary singers? Is Plato forgottenP
Yet how many know him except by his
name? Irving thus far holds by both.
Time also winnows its wheat, blowing
away much chaff, but the golden grain
remains. This is true not only of the
whole multitude of authors, but of the
works of each author. How many OF
gyP Astoria and Captain Bonneville
and Mahomet and other books of Irving
may gradually disappear. But the
Knickerbocker, and Rip Van Wrinkle,
and certain other tales and essays, have
become, SO far as we can foresee, an in
tegral part of our literature.
As for Sprague-m mild, genial, charm
ing gentleman, who carried his simple
freshness of nature and of manner to
the end, and about whose venerable
head in State Street always shone the
faint halo of early poetic renown-his
literary talent was essentially for day,
not for all time. In every age there will
be singers, and delightful singers, of
the day. On Christmas Eve the Easy
Chair heard the passing music in the
street that supplies for us the song of the
waits. 1t was sweet and melodious, and
pensively recalled the days and the
faces and the voices that are no more
But they were not the same waits that
it heard long ago; still less were they
those that the Easy Chairs of half
century since heard with musing melan-
choly. But the substance of the song,
and the emotion which it awakened,
and the tender pathos of association,
these were all the same both then and
now. Sprague was wait of yesterday,
of last year, of fifty years ago. Others
sing in the street the song that he sang,
and singing they pass on, and the sweet
strain grows softer, and fainter and
fainter, and the echoes answer, dying,
dying, dying it is gone.
Fame does not forget these trouba-
dours. 1t never knew them. They had
the vogue of their day. See how kindly
Mr.. Stedman speaks of those who are
singing for US now, whose names are
familiar, who trill and twitter in the
magazines, and in tasteful and delicate
vr.umes which seem to tempt the
stream of time to suffer such light and
graceful barks to slip along unnoted to
future ages. But the kindly critics tone
forecasts the fate of the sparkling and
pleasing ventures. Moore tells us of the
Indian maids upon the banks of the
Ganges who light tiny paper, and on
frail little chip set it afioat upon the
river. 1t wrinkles and dwindles and
flashes and expires. Mr.. Stedman
watches the minor poets trimming their
tapers, and carefully launching their
chips upon the brimming river. '.Pleas-
ant journeyr' he cries, cheerily from