[To "Voices from 19th-Century America"]
By the time The Token for 1830 was published, the practice of reprinting choice pieces from the gift annuals in newspapers and magazines was so well established that reviewers commented on it -- and, at least in the case of The New-York Mirror, did not hesitate to perpetuate it. As usual, Sarah Josepha Hale, probable author of the review in The Ladies' Magazine had a piece in the Token; she found much to praise in the volume -- even the work of N. P. Willis, whose poetry she usually found "mawkish" and "sentimental." She differed greatly, however, from the reviewer in the Mirror, over "Height of Impudence."
"Take time by the forelock," is a very excellent and commendable proverb, but like many other excellent and commendable things, it is liable to much abuse; for example, this is the middle of September, and we have already received a christmas present, in the shape of a choice specimen of that beautiful and costly division of the book tribe, denominated "the annuals." If the competition amongst these pleasant little "hot-pressed darlings" continues, it is probable there will be no bull in the Irish gentleman's expression, of "two annuals in one year." We all know that Christmas is the season of good cheer--of mirth and music--blazing hearths and merry faces--when men begin to live and turkeys cease to do so--when little boys enjoy the sweetest pleasure of what poets term "happy childhood," that is, gormandizing to their heart's content--when lasses expect presents, and swains evince their tact and delicacy, by gratifying those expectations amid all the change and mutability of human affairs--the getting up and putting down of princes and potentates, powers and principalities; the rise nad fall of stocks, statesmen, generals, and plenopotentiaries--this season has been invariably set apart for joy and hilarity--for a mutual interchange of good offices--for giving and receiving--and the policy and propriety of putting a book, expressly intended for this season, into the hands of the public before the dog-days are well over, is not exactly apparent. It does not accord with the natural fitness of things; and when the proper time for their presentation arrives, instead of the lady receiving her Token or Talisman with the gloss of novelty fresh upon its silken leaves; it has become little better than an old song, and the contents of its delicate pages have been transferred into half the vile white-and-brown newspapers in the country, and jumbled up with politics, law-suits, quack-advertisements, and other ill-flavoured and anti-sentimental concoctions. But what avails it to say these things? This is the age of competition, and one half of mankind are assiduously employed in pulling the bread out of the mouths of the other half, frequently without securing a crumb for their own, and it is about as much use talking reasonably to them on such subjects, as to make a set speech, touching the virtues of moderation and forbearance, to two hungry dogs over an unpicked bone.
Mr. Goodrich, of Boston, has fallen in with the prevailing custom, and his "Token" has been sent into this breathing world "before its time," though we cannot continue the quotation and say that it is either "half made up," or "lamely and unfashionabley." We have been politely favoured with an early, that is, a very early copy, and will do our best to give somewhat of a tolerably impartial account of it. We say tolerably impartial, because the public are so unused to an altogether unbiased opinion on a subject, that it might seem strange to them, and moreover be deemed presumptuous in us to commence such a startling innovation. As, however, from dear-bought experience, they have got into the habit of making a deduction of ninety-nine per cent. from what is said in favour of any thing, it would be unfair not to keep up a small balance of praise in favour of the present handsome volume.
In classing the American annuals of last year, we would put the Token first as regards the texture of the paper, neatness of binding, and general appearance; and place it between the Talisman of this city, and the Atlantic Souvenir of Philadelphia in point of literary merit. As compared with itself of last year, there is no falling off in the former particulars, and a visible improvement is apparent in the latter. Many of the articles not only good in themselves, but such as will add to the already well-earned literary reputation of their authors; for instance, the "Country Cousin," a beautiful tale, told with all the unaffected and graceful ease of the authoress of "Hope Leslie;" the "Withered Man," by William L. Stone; and the "Utilitarian," by John Neal; though utility is rather a mal-apropos subject for the beautiful and expensive little volume which contains it. The poetry, though not impregnated with any great quantity of the fire of genius, evinces considerable talent; it is very pretty and agreeable, and reads as smoothly as it looks. Some of the best of it is from the pen of the editor himself and Mrs. Sigourney. Willis, Mellen, and other popular poets have also furnished contributions. One thing is against it; a good part of it has been "made to measure," that is, written to suit the plates, instead of the plates being engraved to illustrate the subjects.
There is one story, which, being altogether out of the common, we have copied, entitled the "Height of Impudence." This is an unique affair, and evidently written by one that knows something; such a man as people intend to describe when they wink their eye and say, "He's no fool;" thereby meaning to distinguish the person so indicated from the mass of his fellow-mortals. The writer of this article ought to indite a duodecimo on phraseology, illustrated with examples, for he certainly has the knack of forming the most ludicrous and out-of-the-way combination of words imaginable. But this is by no means his principal qualification; he has an uncommonly fine eye for the ridiculous; for instance, the democratic, revolutionary, worthy Jedidiah Cobb, in his borrowed boots, "waiving all considerations of rank" towards his bootless, shoeless, stockingless, and consequently bare-legged henroost-robbing comrade.
The embellishments are thirteen in number, and many of them are executed in a manner highly creditable to the artists. The Doomed Bride, painted by H. Inman and engraved by G. W. Hatch, forms the frontispiece. The bride is a glorious looking woman. The ample and elegant proportions of her figure--her swanlike neck, and beautifully intelligent countenance, form altogether a very desirable object. Though leanness in a woman is ever to be abhorred, the arms, we think, are rather too substantial. The Banks of the Juniata is a sweet and tranquil scene, engraved by G. B. Ellis, from a painting by the justly admired Doughty; and a fine contrast to it is a bold nad striking picture entitled Chocorua's Curse, from the vigorous pencil of Cole, also engraved by Hatch: the scene is laid amid the wilds and fastnesses of the New-Hampshire hills. The best plate, however, in the volume, is, we think, the Lost Children, engraved by J. Cheney, from a painting of Scheffer. The portraits of J. G. C. Brainard and Grandfather's Hobby, have somewhat of a gray and misty appearance, though this may perhaps be the fault of the printing of these two plates in the copy now before us. Altogether the Token is well worthy of the patronage of the public.
[In this issue, the Mirror selected from the 1830 volume "The Height of Impudence," by James Isaacs, as one of its "Desultory Selections." (pp. 85--87)]
Review of The Token for 1830 (from The Ladies' Magazine, November 1829, pp. 529-531)
[excerpt]
The Annuals. We have, on our table, quite a boquet [sic] of these flowers of art and intellect; but to think of describing, elaborately, the elegant things is quite out of the question. We have not room; and besides our fair readers must before this have become familiar with the kind of knowledge such literary notices can import. They will, we hope, speedily enjoy the more exquisite gratification of possessing one, at least, of these same beautiful annuals. The season will soon make these gifts, which taste has so splendidly embellished, the appropriate offering of friendship and affection. Then every writer and artist who has contributed to make the gift so worthy may hope for separate and individual praise. But we cannot thus particularise, partly because we are somewhat cloyed with the profusion of sweet fancies thus offered to our taste at once; and partly because, in virtue of our office, we are obliged to be a little critical. Now, were we to proceed in the manner adopted by some reviewers, naming each writer, and reviewing separately each article, we could not eulogize all that these volumes contain; and besides we should never finish our notices in time for this number of the Magazine. So we will only glance at the different books, and in the order we received them. Those of our readers who feel dissatisfied with this brief survey will, we hope, do justice themselves; and justice requires that they who are endeavoring to improve the public taste, and thus elevate our national character should be generously sustained in their effort. To do this the books must be paid for as well as praised.
The Token.--Edited by S. G. Goodrich. Boston, Carter & Hendee. We begin with the preface, which is a very sensible exposition of the present management and future plan of the Token. To make it 'strictly American' has been, and will be the aim of Mr. Goodrich. This, in our opinion, is its most valuable recommendation.
The effect the annuals have in calling forth, by rewarding in some degree, the exertions of native talent, is the chief merit which has hitherto sustained these publications, expensive as they are, in public favor.
The literary department of the Token is respectable: the prose is however superior to the poetry. A few articles of the latter are very good,--such as
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p. 68
'Napoleon,' 'To the memory of J. G. C. Brainard,' 'Song of the Bees,' and a few others; but these have all been extracted by those fortunate reviewers who had the first peep at the book, or the first opportunity of noticing it. We must have one little gem from its mine to enrich our cabinet and break the monotony of a solid page of leaded matter. We will take 'Lines,' by Signora, which, without much pretension, are pretty and touching.
"A cloud lay near the setting sun,
As he smiled on the glowing west;
And his glorious beams, as he slowly sunk,
Fell full on its shining breast;
And it sent him back again his rays,
And grew brighter, and more bright,
Till it seemed, as its glowing colours changed,
An embodiment of light.
But the sun sunk down at the close of day,
And in rain-dops it wept itself away.
A fair young bride at the altar stood,
And a blush was on her cheek;
And her voice was so low, that the vows she vowed
Seemed scarce from her lips to break.
Yet joy sat on her placid cheek,
And in her downcast eye,
For a long--long life of happiness
Before her seemed to lie;
But her lord soon bowed to Death's stern doom,
And she wept herself to her silent tomb."
The prose articles are generally of a superior character. 'The Sea,' is a beautiful sketch from the pen of one of our most elegant writers, F. W. P. Greenwood. 'The Indian Fighter' is written in the bold, graphic, easy style that so eminently distinguishes Rev. T. Flint, and possesses a thrilling interest for those who admire tales of 'bloody murder.' Such are not our favourites, but we like them far better than those which aim to be witty at the expense of common sense, delicacy, and we might almost add decency. We allude to the "Height of Impudence," which we think is indeed impudent to intrude its low humour among such graceful and elegant companions as the "Country Cousin," and the "Doomed Bride." The former of these charming stories was written by Miss Sedgwick,--the latter by Grenville Mellen. "Chocorua's Curse" is worthy of being from the pen of Mrs. Child--it is boldly drawn and touched with those true yet seemingly fanciful tints that genius only knows where to place advantageously. We think this lady peculiarly gifted with the powers of romance writing: had she lived in the 16th century she would probably have rivalled the celebrated Madeline De Scudery. Alas, that the days of romance should be over! The story of the "Captain's Lady," however, implies that the reveries of romance are not yet quite merged in those of cent per cent. The tale is really witty, and we thank Mr. James Hall for the entertainment he afforded us. The 'Huguenot Daughter'
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p. 531
is written in a pure style; but the story is rather heavy--though the subject did not admit of sprightliness, it might have been less grave. But there is the Utilitarian--(Phœbus, what a name for a love story!) in the very best manner of John Neal, which we think very clever. The closing article, furnished by Rev. J. Pierpont is appropriate and beautiful. "The fashion of this world passeth away" is its burden. That sentence is surely descriptive of an "Annual." And yet who can look on the "Token" in its splendid covering of crimson and gold, and contemplate its rich ornaments of pictured scenes and sentiments and not regret that it is so soon to be laid on the shelf!
We are consoled by the hope of seeing a new one more beautiful.
"Man never is, but always to be blest."
So we expect, next season, that the Token will be vastly improved; in the literary department it surely may be; the engravings it will be more difficult to excel. "The Lost Children," as regards effect, is an admirable thing--and the explanation of the scene is finely written. Mr. Willis has, in that little piece, displayed some of the highest attributes of genius; the intuitive perception of the just (which is always the beautiful) in character, and the pathos, (call it the electric power of mind!) which can convey his own impressions to the feelings of his readers. It is worth a folio of his mawkish sentimental poetry. ...