The Knickerbocker, Or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844 Part 13

EDITOR'S TABLE.

A DAY WITH THE GREAT SEATSFIELD.--The Boston Daily Advertiser recently divulged, with a most curious air of bewilderment, the name of a new, and as it seems. .h.i.therto unheard-of, ornament to American literature--the ill.u.s.trious SEATSFIELD. Ill.u.s.trious, however, only upon the other side of the water; for it appears that we Yankee cotton-raisers have somewhat else to do than to busy our brains about any letters except letters of credit, or any fame that is not reverberated from abroad. No one, of course, at all conversant with modern German literature, not even the slightest skimmer of their late periodical publications, or the most occasional peruser of the _Allgemeine Zeitung_ or _Dresden Bluthundstaglich_, can have failed to notice with patriotic pride the gradual but gigantic progress of this new VOLTAIRE to the highest pinnacle of popular renown.

But, sooth to say, our western world is so overrun with pretenders; there are so many young gentlemen annually sp.a.w.ned by Yale and Cambridge, who affect to read German without being able to construe the advertis.e.m.e.nt of a Leipsic bookseller; so numerous are the blue-spectacled nymphs who quote JEAN PAUL betwixt their blanc-mange and oysters, without comprehending even the outermost rind of its in-meaning; so utterly ignorant are our so-called literati of any subject beyond the scope of a newspaper, that the name of SEATSFIELD sounded as strangely in American ears as if he had lately arrived from Herschel or Georgium Sidus in a balloon. It is true that some two or three of our eminent scholars, a few travellers, men of taste, who had wandered by the Rhine, were acquainted with his reputation, and in some degree with his productions. EMERSON doubtless must have been aware of his renown; Professor FELTON of course had read him as often as he has HOMER; JONES, WILKINS, and F. SMITH had studied him with delight.

The 'Dial,' a journal of much repute, had even spoken openly, we are told, of his success in Europe. Mr. W. E. CHANNING, the poet, had evidently but perhaps unconsciously imitated his peculiar viscidity of style, and (if we may use such an expression.) extreme flakiness of thought. But in spite of these few exceptions to the general indifference, let it stand recorded, that when the name of SEATSFIELD returned to his own sh.o.r.e, it was an alien and unmeaning word. His own country, so deeply indebted to his powerful pen, absolutely knew him not. The literati stared, and the Boston Advertiser was struck aghast with wonder. What a comment upon the state of letters in America! 'Literary Emporium,' forsooth! 'Western Athens!'

Medici of Manhattan! how grossly we Yankees do misapply t.i.tles! It was the very 'Literary Emporium' itself that was most astounded at the newly-discovered mine. SEATSFIELD'S name had overspread civilized Europe; his productions had been dramatized at Munich and Bucharest; they had been translated into Russian and Turkish; the Maltese mariner had learned to solace himself with his 'Twilight Helmsman's Hymn,' and the merchants of Syra and Beyrout adorned their mansions with his bust; yet Boston, New-York, and Philadelphia had never heard his name! In the lack of more minute information with regard to this remarkable man, perhaps the following page or two from a traveller's journal may prove acceptable to the public. The absolutely total obscurity of the subject in America, may also, it is hoped, serve as an apology for the openness of detail and apparent breach of etiquette in regard to private intercourse.

'It has been my fortune to spend a day in company with the man who of all men has done the most to ill.u.s.trate our manners and character; yet who, strange to say, is less known than 'Professor' INGRAHAM. As it was then my fortune to speak _with_ him; I now consider it my duty to speak _of_ him, and to do what little I am able, to extend his name among his compatriots.

'In the spring of the year previous to this, or to be exact, in April, 1843, I found myself at Berlin. My friend, Mr. CARLYLE, of London, had given me a letter to THEODORE MUNDT, and I had learned soon after my arrival that this distinguished man was in town. I had consequently looked over my letters, after dinner, and had selected the one addressed to MUNDT, and laid it under a little plaster bust of SCHILLER that stood just over the stove, in the room where I dined. In the evening I walked into the _Ermschlagg Buchzimmer_.[2] Several students were making annotations from huge volumes, and many grave, pale gentlemen were turning over the reviews and periodicals of the day. Among these I recognized an Englishman whom I had fallen in with at Cologne but parted with at Heidelberg. He had been in Berlin three days before me, and I was truly glad to meet with an acquaintance even of so recent a date, to whom I could apply for information or advice as to the best way of seeing the lions. While I was whispering to him, a grim-visaged old Teuton looked up at us with a stern frown, and my friend observed, 'We must retire into the _Sprechensaale_, or conversation-room.' As soon as we had entered this adjoining apartment, to the evident satisfaction of the aforesaid grim Teuton, I observed a tall, thin man, of angular and wiry aspect, see-sawing his body in front of the stove, toward which he had turned his back, as he stood in apparently deep cogitation. 'You don't know who that is,' quoth my friend; 'there is _one_ of the lions, to begin with. I found out his name this morning: that is THEODORE MUNDT.' Struck as I was with the stranger's aspect, which appeared to me altogether American, I stared at him till he suddenly raised his dark eyes, and fixed them on mine. To disembarra.s.s myself from my seeming rudeness as politely as possible, I bowed to his gaze, and said inquiringly: 'I have the honor to address Mr. MUNDT?'

[2] A new public library and reading-room in Berlin.

''You have the _luck_,' he said, 'but the honor is _his_.'

''Honors are even, then,' said I, as brusquely as I dared; and of all animals a traveller is the most impudent. 'I have in my pocket,' I continued, 'a letter for you from my friend CARLYLE.' At the name of CARLYLE he raised his hands in surprise, then rubbed them with delight, and began to eulogise his friend.

'All this while I was fumbling in my pocket for my letter, when suddenly it flashed over me that I had put it under the bust in the tavern. I grew confused for a moment, and then as Mynheer MUNDT held out his hand for the letter, I burst into a laugh, and confessed that I had left my letter at home. MUNDT looked very serious, and quoted from Oth.e.l.lo, 'That is a fault;' and then from Macbeth, 'To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.'

I thought there was a little affectation in this; perhaps it was merely complimentary; but the immediate result of our imperfect acquaintance was, that I made bold to introduce my friend to MUNDT, who invited us both to his rooms to supper. On our way thither, as we pa.s.sed the _Brunswik Gasthaus_, where I lodged, I stepped in to procure my letter, and MUNDT appeared rejoiced to hear directly from his 'very _fine_ friend' CARLYLE, as he queerly styled him.

'I should feel that I was venturing on forbidden ground were I to reveal more of what pa.s.sed between us that evening. There was some drawing of corks and some puffing of Hamburg-made Cheroots, which MUNDT declared to be genuine Oriental; there was a ham of Westphalia, and a bit of La Gruyere. But with all this we have nothing to do. I fear that I have already made my preface too long. Enough be it then to say, that MUNDT first revealed to me on this occasion (I am ashamed to own it) the name and talents of our countryman SEATSFIELD. How enthusiastic he was I will not describe; but his enthusiasm could only be equalled by his surprise that I was not familiar with his writings.

'On the next day MUNDT gave me a letter to SEATSFIELD, directed to him at Basle, in Switzerland, near which he owns a beautiful villa. I did not find him at Basle, however, and I proceeded to Milan without delivering my letter. On my return from Italy, I happened to learn that SEATSFIELD was at Graffenburg in Silesia; and although it was forty leagues from my purposed route I encountered the delay, out of mere curiosity of seeing so distinguished a man. This time I was not disappointed. One day only I spent at Graffenburg, but that day was sufficient to fill me with a truly German (I wish I could say American) admiration of my countryman.

Graffenburg, it should be remarked, is the famous scene of Doctor PRIESSNITZ'S wonderful hydropathic cures. Being there only for a single day, I did not think it best to submit in all points to the cold water treatment; neither did SEATSFIELD, for I noticed that he mixed two table-spoonfuls of gin with every gill of cold water. SEATSFIELD is a man of about middle-age, with a penetrating eye, and rather a good form, though not unusually muscular. His face bears a remarkable resemblance to the pictures of NUMA POMPILIUS; the benign smile of each is the same. His chin is round and full, although partially concealed by a slight beard; his nose, which is of a truly German outline, is marked by the 'dilated nostril of genius;' and his whole aspect is that of a thorough man of the world. I will continue my reminiscence by extracting verbatim a page or so from my imperfect, though as far as it goes, authentic diary. I am convinced however that his remarks will lose much from the want of his pointed manner of enunciation. His English was faultless, and he spoke as well as if he had never been out of America. Very few Americans indeed, and no British-Islanders, talk so correct and chaste a dialect.

EXTRACT FROM MY JOURNAL.

_Graffenburg, July 4_, 1844.

'I was very fortunate, they tell me, to find SEATSFIELD in so companionable a mood. He appeared in high spirits, and was exceedingly conversible. The glorious return of our national anniversary had a visible effect upon him. I presented my letter to him last evening, but he was weary, and retired early. When I first met him in the Upper Bath-room Walk, this morning, he congratulated me upon the brightness and brilliancy of the day. 'You have much to be thankful for, Sir,' he observed; 'the day is perfectly American. Just such a sun as this is now dawning upon Broadway and the Battery. The sound of India-crackers and the pleasant smell of lobsters is already perceptible to the senses of the awakening Manhattanese.'

'Boston, too, my native city,' I observed, 'is also alive to the holiday influences. Boston Common I dare say is already white with tents, and the fragrant commerce of the booths is just commencing on the Mall.'

SEATSFIELD: 'Yes, Sir; but Boston and Philadelphia both fail in developing the true character-stamp-work (_character-stampfen-werk_) of the day. To see the Fourth of July in its glory, one should visit New-York. To my senses, which are uncommonly acute, there is a peculiar smell about the Fourth of July in New-York, which differs in toto from that of any other holiday.'

'In Boston we also have the perfume of lobsters and egg-pop blended with that of orange-peel and pine-apple----'

SEATSFIELD: 'That, Sir, is but a feeble rationale of the New-York savor. I have often, in a jocose mood, amused myself with a.n.a.lyzing this odor. I have resolved it into the following elements: lobsters, gunpowder, trampled-gra.s.s, wheel-grease, and cigars. It is mainly to these ingredients, grafted upon the other ordinary city smells, that I attribute the Fourth of July smell.'

'There is one that you have failed to detect; namely, a faint whiff of barn-yards, owing I presume to the strong prevalence of farmers and other rustics from the surrounding country.' SEATSFIELD smiled at this, and acknowledged, in a laughing way, an occasional intimation of manure.

'Graffenburg,' I observed, 'is remarkably free from all strong odors; it is a very clean village.'

SEATSFIELD: 'That, Sir, is owing to the water: depend upon it, wherever water prevails neatness will ensue. Temperance and cleanliness go hand in hand. The ancients were a filthy race, and they were great wine-bibbers.

What a condition of personal and mental nastiness is divulged by HORACE in his 'Iter ad Brundusium;' yet HORACE was a choice specimen of a Roman gentleman.'

'Have you had any poets among you here? or is the hydropathic system too repugnant to their art?'

SEATSFIELD: 'Our countryman, LONGFELLOW, was here not long since. I sat at table with him frequently; but never introduced myself to him.'

'Do you think highly of his powers?'

SEATSFIELD: 'As a prolific generator of novel life-images, no; but as a vivid delineator of the inner-thought principle, as an artistical displayer of the higher subjective mood, he is of the very first cla.s.s. I honor LONGFELLOW.'

'He is perhaps our smoothest versifier, next to HALLECK.'

SEATSFIELD: 'Nay, he is the only one among us who can combine extreme polish and the utmost facility of flow with deep-seated reflection.'

SEATSFIELD then quoted, with a sublime energy, from the celebrated 'Psalm of Life:'

''Not enjoyment and not sorrow Is our destined end or way, But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.

'In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb driven cattle, Be a hero in the strife.

'Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant, Let the dead Past, bury its dead; Act, act in the glorious Present, Heart within and G.o.d o'er head.''

'You give the poet a great advantage,' I said, 'in quoting his very finest production, and picking out the choicest stanzas. Beside, his theme here is one of so general a nature, and so familiar to philosophy, that it would be hard for any one to moralize upon it in verse without accidentally hitting upon some sublimity. The commonest intellect has lofty and awful thoughts whenever it gives way to serious meditation upon our mortality.'

SEATSFIELD: 'That is partly true; but LONGFELLOW is not only great upon that ground. His realm is very extensive. No man has the power (had he only the will) of depicting the simplicity of every-day life and objects with more grace or comprehensiveness. There are some touches in his 'Village Blacksmith' inexpressibly beautiful, and worthy of BURNS'

'Cotter's Sat.u.r.day Night:'

'His hair is crisp and black and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can,' etc.

And then again:

'He goes on Sunday to the Church, And sits among the boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the gallery, And it makes his heart rejoice.'

SEATSFIELD repeated these verses with much emotion; and I observed that a tear stood upon his lids. I therefore turned the conversation upon hydropathy, and introduced a quotation from PINDAR: [Greek: ariston men hydor], _etc._

SEATSFIELD: 'PINDAR, Sir, has expressed a great truth; but I think that PIERPONT has expressed it better. In his exquisite 'Ode on the Opening of the Marlborough Temperance-House' how beautifully he says, after speaking in regard to the virtues of cold water:

'Oh! had EVE'S hair Been dressed in gin, Would she have been Reflected fair?'

'And then, after describing the beauty of Eden, with its rills and pellucid brooks bubbling through the fresh meads, he goes on:

'Are not pure springs And chrystal wells The very things For our Hotels?'

'That, Sir, is excellent, and the somewhat homely imagery only enhances in my mind the truth of the sentiment. PIERPONT, Sir, is a very great man.'

'As great as LONGFELLOW?'

SEATSFIELD: 'No, Sir, perhaps not; there is a considerable difference of calibre between them. I should say now that LONGFELLOW was a first-rate artist with a second-rate imagination, and that PIERPONT was only a second-rate artist with a first-rate fancy. There is no mistake in PIERPONT.'

I smiled at SEATSFIELD'S affectation of Americanisms, as if out of compliment to myself, or in honor of the day; and I rejoined: 'There may be no mistake in PIERPONT, but there is one or two in LONGFELLOW.'

SEATSFIELD: 'Grammatical or prosodiacal?'

'Neither; but in the beginning of his 'Psalm of Life,' he says: