LITERATURE.
A few words on the literary fruits of Transcendentalism will fitly close this history. To gather them all would be exceedingly difficult, but that is not necessary, and will not be required. The chief results have already been indicated. The indirect influence may be left unestimated in detail. Transcendentalism has more than justified itself in literature. The ten volumes of Emerson's writings, including the two volumes of poetry, are a literature by themselves; a classic literature that loses no charm by age, and which years prepare new multitudes of readers to enjoy.
The writings of Theodore Parker contain much that entitles them to a permanent place in letters. Could they be sifted, compressed, strained, the incidental and personal portion discarded, and the human alone preserved, the remainder would interest, for many years yet, a numerous class of men. In their present condition they are too diffuse, as well as too voluminous and miscellaneous to be manageable. The sermon style is unsuited to literature, and Parker's sermon style was especially so, from its excessive redundancy. He paid little heed to the literary laws in his compositions, which were all designed for immediate effect. Aside from the fatal injury that the process must do to the intellectual harmony of the work, there is an objection to abbreviating and abstracting when an author does not perform the task for himself, for no other is credited with ability or judgment to do it for him. In Parker's case the difficulty would be more than commonly great, for the reason that it is not a question of omitting volumes, or even chapters, but of straining the contents of pages,—"boiling down" masses of material, till the spiritual residue alone is left. There is no likelihood that such a task will ever be performed, and therefore his writings must be placed in the rank of occasional literature, valuable for many days, but not precious for generations.
Brownson's writings were astonishingly able, particularly his discussions in the Boston "Quarterly Review;" but their interest ceased with their occasion. His philosophical pieces have no value. They served polemically an incidental purpose, but having no merit of idea or construction, they perished.
The papers of Mr. Alcott in "Tablets" and "Concord Days," are thoughtful and quaint, written with a lucid simplicity that will always possess a charm for a small class of people; but they have not the breadth of humanity that commends writings to the general acceptance; nor have they the raciness that makes books of their class spicy and aromatic to the literary epicures who never tire of Selden or Sir Thomas Browne.
The writings of Margaret Fuller possess a lasting value, and will continue to be read for their wit and wisdom, when those of her more ambitious companions are forgotten. For she treated ever-recurring themes in a living way—vigorous and original, but human. Her taste was educated by study of the Greek classics, and she had the appreciation of form that belongs to the literary order of mind. Her writings are not for those who read as they run, but for those who read for instruction and suggestion. As the number of such increases, it is not unreasonable to expect an increase in her audience. With her, thinking and talking were serious matters. She discussed nothing in a spirit of frivolity; her thoughts came from a penetrating, and not from a merely acute mind; the trains of reflection that she started are still in motion, from the momentum she gave, and the goal she aimed at is not yet discerned by professed disciples of her own ideas.
The "Dial" is a treasury of literary wealth. There are pieces in it of prose and verse that should not and will not be lost. The character for oddity and extravagance which Transcendentalism bore in its day, and has borne on the strength of tradition ever since, would have to be borne no longer, if the contents of that remarkable magazine could be submitted to the calmer judgment of to-day. Not that the sixteen rich numbers contain a great deal that would be pleasing to the hasty mental habit of this generation, but to the lovers of earnest thinking and eloquent writing they have the flavor of a choice intellectual vintage. It is the misfortune of periodical literature to be ephemeral. The magazine sows, but does not harvest. It brings thoughts suddenly to the light, but buries them in season for the next issue, which must have its turn to live. Volumes that are compiled from magazines have lost their bloom. The chapters have already discharged their virtue, and spent their perfume on the air; the smell of the "old numbers" clings to the pages, which are not of to-day, but of the day before yesterday. We call for living mind, and fancy that butterflies, because we see them fluttering in the garden, are more alive than the phœnix that has risen unscathed from the ashes of consuming fires.
The thoughts of William Henry Channing, though keen, brilliant, of great potency in their time, and admirable in expression, were addressed to the exigencies of the hour, and absorbed by them. Such as were committed to paper in the "Harbinger," the "Spirit of the Age," and other periodicals, will never be heard of again; and such as were printed in books passed from memory with the themes he dealt with. His biographical works deserve a place with the prominent contributions of that department.
The poetry of William Ellery Channing has a recognized place in American literature, though much of it has disappeared. Dana's "Household Book of Poetry" contains a single piece of his on "Death," that is characterized by a depth of sentiment and a richness of expression, which his more distinguished contemporary, Mr. Bryant, does not surpass. Mr. Emerson's "Parnassus" contains eight, the last of which, entitled "A Poet's Hope," closes with the wonderful line—
"If my bark sink, 'tis to another sea."