Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern — Volume 11

Volume Xi

PAGE The Oldest Lombardic Manuscript (Colored Plate) Frontispiece Dante Alighieri (Portrait) 4316 Charles Robert Darwin (Portrait) 4386 "The Ape-Man" (Photogravure) 4398 Alphonse Daudet (Portrait) 4436 Daniel Defoe (Portrait) 4480 "Robinson Crusoe" (Facsimile) 4486 Demosthenes (Portrait) 4536 Thomas De Quincey (Portrait) 4556 René Descartes (Portrait) 4586 Charles Dickens (Portrait) 4626 "Gadshill" (Photogravure) 4634

VIGNETTE PORTRAITS

Richard Henry Dana Richard Henry Dana, Jr. Madame du Deffand Jean F. C. Delavigne Paul Déroulède Sir Aubrey De Vere Charles Dibdin

RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR

(1787-1879)

Richard Henry Dana the elder, although he died less than twenty years ago, belonged to the first generation of American writers; he was born in 1787, in Cambridge, four years after Washington Irving. He came of a distinguished and scholarly family: his father had been minister to Russia during the Revolution, and was afterwards Chief Justice of Massachusetts; through his mother he was descended from Anne Bradstreet. At the age of ten he went to Newport to live with his maternal grandfather, William Ellery, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, and remained until he entered Harvard. The wild rock-bound coast scenery impressed him deeply, and ever after the sea was one of his ruling passions. Only one familiar with all the moods of the ocean could have written 'The Buccaneer'. After quitting college he studied law, and was admitted to the Boston bar. Literature however proved the stronger attraction, and in 1818 he left his profession to assist in conducting the then newly founded North American Review. The critical papers he contributed to it startled the conservative literary circles by their audacity in defending the new movement in English poetry, and passing lightly by their idol Pope. Indeed, his unpopularity debarred him from succeeding the first editor. He withdrew, and began the publication of The Idle Man in numbers, modeled on Salmagundi and the Sketch-Book. His contributions consisted of critical papers and his novelettes 'Paul Felton,' 'Tom Thornton,' and 'Edward and Mary.' Not finding many readers, he discontinued it after the first volume. He then contributed for some years to the New York Review, conducted by William Cullen Bryant, and to the United States Review. In 1827 appeared 'The Buccaneer and Other Poems'; in 1833 the same volume was enlarged and the contributions to The Idle Man were added, under the title 'Poems and Prose Writings.' Seventeen years later he closed his literary career by publishing the complete edition of his 'Poems and Prose Writings,' in two volumes, not having materially added either to his verse or fiction. After that time he lived in retirement, spending his summers in his seaside home by the rocks and breakers of Cape Ann, and the winters in Boston. He died in 1879.

Dana's literary activity falls within the first third of this century. During that period, unproductive of great work, he ranked among the foremost writers. His papers in the North American Review, as the first original criticism on this side of the Atlantic, marked an era in our letters. He was one of the first to recognize the genius of Wordsworth and of Coleridge; under the influence of the latter he wrote the poem by which he is chiefly known, 'The Buccaneer.' He claimed for it a basis of truth; it is in fact a story out of 'The Pirate's Own Book,' with the element of the supernatural added to convey the moral lesson. His verse is contained in a slender volume. It lacks fluency and melody, but shows keen perception of Nature's beauty, especially in her sterner, more solemn moods, and sympathy with the human heart. Dana was not so much a poet born with the inevitable gift of song (he would otherwise not have become almost silent during the last fifty years of his life), as a man of strong intellect who in his youth turned to verse for recreation.

Though best known by his poems, he stands out strongest and most original as novelist. 'Paul Felton,' his masterpiece in prose, is a powerful study of a diseased condition of mind. In its searching psychologic analysis it stands quite apart from the more or less flaccid production of its day. He indeed could not escape the influence of Charles Brockden Brown, whom he greatly admired, and he in turn reached out forward toward Poe and other writers of the analytic school. One powerful story of Poe's, indeed, seems to have been suggested by Dana's work: the demon horse in 'Metzengerstein' is a superior copy of the Spectre Horse in 'The Buccaneer.' These stories were not popular in his day: they are too remote from ordinary life, too gloomy and painful; they have no definite locality or nationality; their characters have little in common with every-day humanity. His prose style however is clear, direct, and strong.

Even after he ceased to write, he had an important influence on American letters by the independence of his opinions, his friendships with literary men, chief among whom was Bryant, and his live interest in the younger literature produced under conditions more favorable and more inspiring than he had known.

THE ISLAND

From 'The Buccaneer'

The Island lies nine leagues away; Along its solitary shore Of craggy rock and sandy bay, No sound but ocean's roar, Save where the bold wild sea-bird makes her home, Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.

But when the light winds lie at rest, And on the glassy, heaving sea, The black duck with her glossy breast Sits swinging silently, How beautiful! no ripples break the reach, And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach.

And inland rests the green, warm dell; The brook comes tinkling down its side; From out the trees the Sabbath bell Rings cheerful, far and wide, Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks That feed about the vale among the rocks.

Nor holy bell nor pastoral bleat In former days within the vale; Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet; Curses were on the gale; Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men: Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.

But calm, low voices, words of grace, Now slowly fall upon the ear; A quiet look is in each face, Subdued and holy fear. Each motion gentle; all is kindly done-- Come, listen how from crime this Isle was won.

THE DOOM OF LEE

From 'The Buccaneer'

Who's sitting on that long black ledge Which makes so far out in the sea, Feeling the kelp-weed on its edge? Poor idle Matthew Lee! So weak and pale? A year and little more. And bravely did he lord it round this shore!

And on the shingles now he sits, And rolls the pebbles 'neath his hands; Now walks the beach; then stops by fits, And scores the smooth wet sands; Then tries each cliff and cove and jut that bounds The isles; then home from many weary rounds.

They ask him why he wanders so, From day to day, the uneven strand? "I wish, I wish that I might go! But I would go by land; And there's no way that I can find--I've tried All day and night!"--He seaward looked, and sighed.

It brought the tear to many an eye That once his eye had made to quail. "Lee, go with us; our sloop is nigh; Come! help us hoist her sail." He shook.--"You know the Spirit Horse I ride! He'll let me on the sea with none beside!"

He views the ships that come and go, Looking so like to living things. O! 'tis a proud and gallant show Of bright and broad-spread wings, Making it light around them, as they keep Their course right onward through the unsounded deep.

And where the far-off sand-bars lift Their backs in long and narrow line, The breakers shout, and leap, and shift, And send the sparkling brine Into the air, then rush to mimic strife: Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life!--

But not to Lee. He sits alone; No fellowship nor joy for him. Borne down by woe, he makes no moan, Though tears will sometimes dim That asking eye--oh, how his worn thoughts crave-- Not joy again, but rest within the grave.

* * * * *

To-night the charmèd number's told. "Twice have I come for thee," it said. "Once more, and none shall thee behold. Come! live one, to the dead!"-- So hears his soul, and fears the coming night; Yet sick and weary of the soft calm light.

Again he sits within that room; All day he leans at that still board; None to bring comfort to his gloom, Or speak a friendly word. Weakened with fear, lone, haunted by remorse, Poor shattered wretch, there waits he that pale Horse.

Not long he waits. Where now are gone Peak, citadel, and tower, that stood Beautiful, while the west sun shone And bathed them in his flood Of airy glory!--Sudden darkness fell; And down they went,--peak, tower, citadel.

The darkness, like a dome of stone, Ceils up the heavens. 'Tis hush as death-- All but the ocean's dull low moan. How hard Lee draws his breath! He shudders as he feels the working Power. Arouse thee, Lee! up! man thee for thine hour!

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