Sea and Shore | Page 5

for love, let me give you one strain of Pinckney's to begin with;" and,
without waiting for permission, he recited the beautiful "Pledge," with
which all readers are now familiar, little known then, however, beyond
the limits of the South, and entirely new to me, beginning with--
"I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman of her
gentle sex The seeming paragon"--
continuing to the end with eloquence and spirit.
"Now, that is poetry, Miss Harz! the real afflatus is there; the bead on
the wine; the dew on the rose; the bloom on the grape! Nothing
wanting that constitutes the indefinable divine thing called genius! You
understand my idea, of course; explanations are superfluous."
I assented mutely, scarce knowing why I did so.
"Now, hear another." And the woods rang with his clear, sonorous
accents as he declaimed, a little too scanningly, perhaps--too much like
an enthusiastic boy:
"Love lurks upon my lady's lip, His bow is figured there; Within her
eyes his arrows sleep; His fetters are--her hair!"
"I call that nothing but a bundle of conceits, Major Favraud, mostly of
the days of Charles II., of Rochester himself--" interrupting him as I in
turn was interrupted.
"But hear further," and he proceeded to the end of that marvelous
ebullition of foam and fervor, such as celebrated the birth of Aphrodite
herself perchance in the old Greek time; and which, despite my
perverse intentions, stirred me as if I had quaffed a draught of pink
champagne. Is it not, indeed, all _couleur de rose_? Hear this bit of
melody, my reader, sitting in supreme judgment, and perhaps contempt,
on your throne apart:
"'Upon her cheek the crimson ray By changes comes and goes, As
rosy-hued Aurora's play Along the polar snows; Gay as the insect-bird

that sips From scented flowers the dew-- Pure as the snowy swan that
dips Its wings in waters blue; Sweet thoughts are mirrored on her face,
Like clouds on the calm sea, And every motion is a grace, Each word a
melody!'"
"Yes, that is true poetry, I acknowledge, Major Favraud," I exclaimed,
not at all humbled by conviction, though a little annoyed at the pointed
manner in which he gave (looking in my face as he did so) these
concluding lines:
"Say from what fair and sunny shore, Fair wanderer, dost thou rove,
Lest what I only should adore I heedless think to love?"
"The character of Pinckney's genius," I rejoined, "is, I think, essentially
like that of Praed, the last literary phase with me--for I am geological in
my poetry, and take it in strata. But I am more generous to your
Southern bard than you are to our glorious Longfellow! I don't call that
imitation, but coincidence, the oneness of genius! I do not even
insinuate plagiarism." My manner, cool and careless, steadied his own.
"You are right: our 'Shortfellow' was incapable of any thing of the sort.
Peace be to his ashes! With all his nerve and _vim_, he died of
melancholy, I believe. As good an end as any, however, and certainly
highly respectable. But you know what Wordsworth says in his
'School-master'--
"'If there is one that may bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The
household hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth.'"
He sighed as he concluded his quotation--sighed, and slackened the
pace of his flying steeds. "But give me something of Praed's in return,"
he said, rallying suddenly; "is there not a pretty little thing called 'How
shall I woo her?'" glancing archly and somewhat impertinently at me, I
thought--or, perhaps, what would simply have amused me in another
man and mood shocked me in him, the recent widower--widowed, too,
under such peculiar and awful circumstances! I did not reflect
sufficiently perhaps, on his ignorance of many of these last.
How I deplored his levity, which nothing could overcome or restrain;
and yet beneath which I even then believed lay depths of anguish! How
I wished that influence of mine could prevail to induce him to divide
his dual nature, "To throw away the worser part of it, and live the purer
with the better half!" But I could only show disapprobation by the
gravity of my silence.

"So you will not give me 'How shall I woo her?' Miss Harz?" a little
embarrassed, I perceived, by my manner. "I have a fancy for the title,
nevertheless, not having heard any more, and should be glad to hear the
whole poem. But you are prudish to-day, I fancy."
"No, there is nothing in that poem, certainly, that angels might not hear
approvingly; but it would sadden you, Major Favraud."
"I will take the chance of that," laughing. "Come, the poem, if you care
to please your driver, and