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Page 58
We do not know whether H.J. ever recanted this very youthful
disposal of old Walt. The only importance of it at this moment seems
to us this: that appreciation of all kinds of art is so tenderly
interwoven with inherited respect for the traditional forms of
expression by which they are conveyed that a new and surprising
vehicle quite unfits most observers for any reasonable assessment of
the passenger.
As for Walt himself, he was quite unabashed by this or any other
onslaught. He was not gleg at argument, and probably rolled up the
issue of the _Nation_ in his pocket and went down to Coney Island to
lie on the sand and muse (but no, we forget, it was November!). In
the same issue of the _Nation_ he doubtless read, in the "Literary
Notes," that "Poems Relating to the American Revolution," by Philip
Freneau, was "in press under the scholarly editing of Evart A.
Duyckinck to form a complete presentment of the genius of an author
whose influence in the affairs of his time would alone impart a
lasting value to his works." At this Walt smiled gently to himself,
wondered how soon "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed" would
get into the anthologies, and "sped to the certainties suitable to
him."
II
These miscellaneous thoughts on the fallibility of critics were
suggested to us by finding some old bound volumes of the _Edinburgh
Review_ on a bookstall, five cents each. In the issue for November,
1814, we read with relish what the _Review_ had to say about
Wordsworth's "Excursion." These are a few excerpts:
This will never do.... The case of Mr. Wordsworth, we perceive,
is now manifestly hopeless; and we give him up as altogether
incurable, and beyond the power of criticism ... making up our
minds, though with the most sincere pain and reluctance, to
consider him as finally lost to the good cause of poetry....
The volume before us, if we were to describe it very shortly,
we should characterize as a tissue of moral and devotional
ravings, in which innumerable changes are rung upon a few very
simple and familiar ideas.
The world of readers has not ratified Jeffrey's savage comments on
"The Excursion," for (to reckon only by the purse) any frequenter of
old bookshops can pick up that original issue of the _Edinburgh
Review_ for a few cents, while the other day we saw a first edition
of the maligned "Excursion" sold for thirty dollars. A hundred years
ago it was the critic's pleasure to drub authors with cruel and
unnecessary vigour. But we think that almost equal harm can be done
by the modern method of hailing a new "genius" every three weeks.
For example, there is something subtly troublesome to us in the
remark that Sinclair Lewis made about Evelyn Scott's novel, "The
Narrow House." The publishers have used it as an advertising slogan,
and the words have somehow buzzed their way into our head:
"Salute to Evelyn Scott: she belongs, she understands, she is
definitely an artist."
We have been going about our daily affairs, climbing subway stairs,
dodging motor trucks, ordering platters of stewed rhubarb, with that
refrain recurring and recurring. _Salute to Evelyn Scott!_ (we say
to ourself as we stand in line at the bank, waiting to cash a small
check). _She belongs, she understands._ And then, as we go away,
pensively counting the money (they've got some clean Ones down at
our bank, by the way; we don't know whether the larger denominations
are clean or not, we haven't seen any since Christmas), we find
ourself mumbling, _She is definitely an artist._
We wonder why that pronouncement annoys us so. We haven't read all
Mrs. Scott's book yet, and doubt our strength to do so. It is a riot
of morbid surgery by a fumbling scalpel: great powers of observation
are put to grotesque misuse. It is crammed with faithful particulars
neither relevant nor interesting. (Who sees so little as he who
looks through a microscope?) At first we thought, hopefully, that it
was a bit of excellent spoof; then, regretfully, we began to realize
that not only the publishers but even the author take it seriously.
It feels as though it had been written by one of the new school of
Chicago realists. It is disheartening that so influential a person
as Mr. Lewis should be fooled by this sort of thing.
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