Zounds! how did I miss this before? I guess the focus on margins and their multiple meanings last time around kept me from seeing a fine instance of text-as-flowing-river in one of Melville's letters to Hawthorne. Writing in reply to a letter from Hawthorne, Melville compared his friend's recent "long" letter to a flowing river, specifically the Housatonic:
"My dear Hawthorne: This is not a letter, or even a note, but merely a passing word said to you over your garden gate. I thank you for your easy-flowing long letter (received yesterday) which flowed through me, and refreshed all my meadows, as the Housatonic—opposite me—does in reality." --Melville's Correspondence, N-N ed. p199
Living then at Arrowhead, Melville identified himself with his natural surroundings. Melville figures himself as the land, the margin, and Hawthorne's writing as a river that runs through him. Hawthorne's river of a letter metaphorically flows through and revives Melville like the Housatonic flows through and nourishes the actual physical "meadows" of Berkshire. Melville wrote that now lost thing to Hawthorne on Tuesday, July 22, 1851. Less than two months before, the first installment of "Scenes Beyond the Western Border" appeared in the Richmond Southern Literary Messenger, including this thoroughly Melvillean comparison of Washington Irving's writings to a river:
They have spared Irving, his writings, flowing through broad margins of letter press; to what can we compare them, but to a crystal streamlet purling through flowery savannahs and sweet shady groves; and anon delving into cave-like clefts,—romantic recesses, where, of old, the fairies sought shelter from the glare of day. --Scenes Beyond the Western Border, June 1851
There's more on the passage from "Scenes Beyond the Western Border" in the earlier Dragooned post on Washington Irving's very fluid text. On the same theme also check out
In the last episode of the series (August 1853), Frank again proves himself the Mohi of "Scenes Beyond the Western Border." A fictional character in Melville's Mardi, Mohi a.k.a. Braid-Beard is the historian who explores strange islands in company with the narrator Taji, King Media, Babbalanja the philosopher and Yoomy the youthful minstrel. The previous Dragooned post on being sung/talked to sleep showed Frank's criticizing the writing-in-progress by the narrator, like Mohi's criticizing the song of Yoomy right after its performance. Mohi says he wants what Frank "luxuriously" gets in being put to sleep by the narrative performance of a traveling companion. All that happened in the September 1852 and March 1853 installments of what is supposed to be the 1845 journal of the actual historical march by U. S. Dragoons to the Rocky Mountains and back. (6:10--Remember Alice? This is a song about Alice.) The final August 1853 installment features an extended dialogue on narrative aesthetics, with a strong claim by the narrator for the deeper aesthetic and spiritual truths of poetry over the merely factual depiction of "grim realities." Aiming to please Frank by writing of "grim realities," the narrator found "a little vein" of poetry anyhow. Frank certainly would have preferred "grim realities" if the narrator could only have managed a plain, "simple narrative" of facts. Likewise Melville's Mohi favors, in the words of Yoomy, "mangled realities" over imaginative fictions.
Upon this presumptuous interference, Mohi looked highly offended; and nervously twitching his beard, uttered something invidious about frippery young poetasters being too full of silly imaginings to tell a plain tale.
Said Yoomy, in reply, adjusting his turban, “ Old Mohi, let us not clash. I honor your calling; but, with submission, your chronicles are more wild than my cantos. I deal in pure conceits of my own; which have a shapeliness and a unity, however unsubstantial; but you, Braid Beard, deal in mangled realities. In all your chapters, you yourself grope in the dark. Much truth is not in thee, historian. --Mardi; and a voyage thither vol. 1
C.—"Ah! no bantering now—there is a dreamy art of more pretension still;—that would paint the heart;—that would fix the wandering thought;—that would delve for discoveries in the deep mine of man's nature!
"But I have been writing, Frank, something for your especial approval; I have been setting forth grim realities,—and most philosophically. I did strike at last, but most naturally and truly, a little vein of—"
F.—"—Poetry, perhaps? by the merest accident in the world."
C.—"Nature is poetry! For what are sunsets often gorgeously beautiful, or delicately lovely, beyond all representation? For what, the endless variety, the exquisite combination of resplendent colours, of tints and hues of beauty in flowers and birds? Not for utility, Frank, but to soften our hearts—to refine and elevate our thoughts. Poetry is Worship!"
F.—" Well, let me hear your specimen of 'grim reality.' If you could only realize the charm of simplicity! [1857 version gives the word "simplicity" in italics for added emphasis, thus: "That you could only realize the charm of simplicity!"] For poetry I generally go to Job, David, or Isaiah."
I read to him my day's experiences. He listened impatiently; and at last broke out— "You are incorrigible! Do you call that abstraction, the real?"
C.—"Surely it has a mournfully same, and daily reality!"
F.—" And how easily by a mere turn of expression, you could have given it the interest of a simple narrative!"
C.—"Well, I'm too indolent; for, if commenced, I might imagine myself bound to keep it up; and I scribble by no rule, and with no object but pastime; and, to compare in some future day the old with the new tone of mind."
F.—" And a rather singular acquaintance will the old gentleman make! Pray why then did you trouble yourself with the dry abstract of our daily doings?"
C.—" Thank-ye for solving—in your complimentary way—a question of my own! I will tell you: I am convinced that written descriptions, not only from carelessness or design, but from inherent imperfection, invariably paint very feebly; and from consciousness of this, are dashed with discoloured exaggerations; they deceive more than they enlighten the imaginations of those who are unable to apply the convictions and the tests of some experience; you perceive, then, that I was experimenting?" --August 1853 Scenes Beyond the Western Border; and Scenes and Adventures in the Army
Reading in Mardi about the reception of Yoomy's song THE SONG, I noticed how Yoomy's critic Mohi craves being sung to sleep, a state of existence that Yoomy regards as "luxurious":
“Then, minstrel, you shall sing me to sleep every night, especially with that song of Marlena; it is soporific as the airs of Nora-Bamma.”
“Mean you, old man, that my lines, setting forth the luxurious repose to be enjoyed hereafter, are composed with such skill, that the description begets the reality; or would you ironically suggest, that the song is a sleepy thing itself?” --Mardi; And a Voyage Thither vol. 2 chapter 103
Interesting parallels to Melville's notion of eternal sleep as a "luxurious" state of repose and the idea of being put to sleep by one's traveling companion may be found in a revision to the original dialogue in the March 1853 installment of "Scenes Beyond the Western Border."
Original magazine version:
But now, "the morn is up again,"— and we have marched many miles fasting, and have been attracted through a turbid river by the sight of grass, and have stopped for breakfast under some cotton woods,— and in their shade I am scribbling with a
pencil—
F.—" Yes, and fine work you are making of it! The day should commence with the morning, and the brighter the better; not with the nightmare of a sleeper, who should have watched." --March 1853 Scenes Beyond the Western Border:
1857 revision:
July 7th.—But now, "the morn is up again" [Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage], and we have marched many miles fasting, and have been attracted over the turbid river by the sight of grass, and have stopped and breakfasted under some cotton-woods; and in their shade my pipe and pencil are struggling for exclusive attention;—but pipe has it!—for here comes my sympathetic companion of the night, looking as discontented as if he had not been luxuriously talked to sleep.
"What's the matter?"
Friend.—O, confound the bivouac! the dew or frost has got into my joints.
Although added later in revision of the 1851-3 magazine series, the narrator's sense that his friend ("Frank" in the original magazine version) had been talked to sleep accords perfectly with the end of the previous installment. In the September 1852 number, Frank had asked for a plain tale of military adventure. The narrator obliged with a story of the Florida Seminole wars that put Frank to sleep.
When I reached the wood, I found they had charged through a camp, whence every soul fled to a near swamp: while they were entangled there, I ascertained that these fugitives were Seminoles of an earlier migration; and soon drew out my skirmishers—not without some captures. Our spirits were all up; and returning to the prairie, I made other combinations—managed by signals—armed its hills and groves; we over-run many miles of country, and made numerous prisoners, giving but one sabre wound.
But —
"——I will not tire
With long recital of the rest." [Byron, Mazeppa 20]
It was dark again when we returned to the Illinois. Frank! he was sound asleep!
the dialogues in Scenes Beyond the Western Border 1851-3 abound in verbal parallels to Mardi (1849), aptly described by John Wenke as "Melville's first book of talk."
Here's another example of parallel phrasing, this time from the first volume of Mardi. The similar constructions ("so/how easily you could have....") occur in very similar dramatic settings, dialogues that record ongoing criticism of literary performance by one of the speakers. In the example from Mardi, Mohi the historian first criticizes Yoomy's poem THE SONG as boring (maybe), then
Babbalanja the philosopher criticizes Yoomy's sensitivity to
negative criticism:
Yoomy,” said old Mohi with a yawn, “you composed that song, then, did you?”
“I did,” said Yoomy, placing
his turban a little to one side.
“Then, minstrel, you shall sing me to
sleep every night, especially with that song of Marlena; it is soporific
as the airs of Nora-Bamma.”
“Mean you, old man, that my lines, setting
forth the luxurious repose to be enjoyed hereafter, are composed with
such skill, that the description begets the reality; or would you
ironically suggest, that the song is a sleepy thing itself?”
“An
important discrimination,” said Media; “which mean you, Mohi ?”
“Now, are you not a silly boy,” said Babbalanja, “when from the ambiguity of his speech, you could so easily have derived something flattering, thus to seek to extract unpleasantness from it? Be wise, Yoomy; and
hereafter, whenever a remark like that seems equivocal, be sure to
wrest commendation from it, though you torture it to the quick.”
“And
most sure am I, that I would ever do so; but often I so incline to a
distrust of my powers, that I am far more keenly alive to censure, than
to praise; and always deem it the more sincere of the two; and no
praise so much elates me, as censure depresses.”
--Mardi; And a Voyage Thither vol. 2 chapter 103
In the closing chapter as elsewhere in "Scenes Beyond the Western
Border," the narrator's prairie friend Frank critiques the narrative so far. Too metaphysical, too abstract. As in Mardi, the criticized writer gets space to explain himself and his motives.
I read to him my day’s experiences. He listened impatiently; and at last broke out—
“You are incorrigible! Do you call that abstraction, the real?”
C.—Surely it has a mournfully same, and daily reality!”
F.—“And how easily by a mere turn of expression, you could have given it the interest of a simple narrative!”
C.—“Well,
I’m too indolent; for, if I commenced, I might imagine myself bound to
keep it up; and I scribble by no rule, and with no object but pastime;
and, to compare in some future day the old with the new tone of mind."
"Ay, keep moving is my motto; but speaking of hard students, did my lord ever hear of Midni the ontologist and entomologist?”
“No.”
“Then, my lord, you shall hear of him now. Midni was of opinion that day-light was vulgar; good enough for taro-planting and traveling; but wholly unadapted to the sublime ends of study. He toiled by night; from sunset to sunrise poring over the works of the old logicans. Like most philosophers, Midni was an amiable man; but one thing invariably put him out. He read in the woods by glow-worm light; insect in hand, tracing over his pages, line by line. But glow-worms burn not long: and in the midst of some calm intricate thought, at some imminent comma, the insect often expired, and Midni groped for a meaning. Upon such an occasion, ‘Ho, Ho,’ he cried; ‘but for one instant of sun-light to see my way to a period!’ But sun-light there was none; so Midni sprang to his feet, and parchment under arm, raced about among the sloughs and bogs for another glow-worm. Often, making a rapid descent with his turban, he thought he had caged a prize; but nay. Again he tried; yet with no better success. Nevertheless, at last he secured one; but hardly had he read three lines by its light, when out it went. Again and again this occurred. And thus he forever went halting and stumbling through his studies, and plunging through his quagmires after a glim.” --Melville's Mardi vol. 2 chapter 51
Fruits of "A night-watch in the mountains," the narrator's insight from the March 1853 installment of Scenes Beyond the Western Border:
We wander at most in the dark—stumbling on temptations,—walking on the thorns of passions; or in an awful, but obscure light, refracted by the cloudy medium of philosophy. --also in the later book version, Scenes and Adventures in the Army
restates the moral of Babbalanja's story of Midni the midnight philosopher:
And thus he forever went halting and stumbling through his studies, and plunging through his quagmires after a glim.
Chapter 76 in the second volume of Herman Melville's Mardi (1849) begins:
CHAPTER LXXVI
Some Pleasant, Shady Talk In The Groves, Between My Lords Abrazza And
Media, Babbalanja, Mohi, And Yoomy
ABRAZZA had a cool retreat—a grove of dates; where we were used to lounge of noons, and mix our converse with the babble of the rills; and mix our punches in goblets chased with grapes. And as ever, King Abrazza was the prince of hosts.
"Your crown,” he said to Media; and with his own, he hung it on a bough.
“Be not ceremonious:” and stretched his royal legs upon the turf.
“Wine!” and his pages poured it out.
So on the grass we lounged; and King Abrazza, who loved his antique ancestors; and loved old times; and would not talk of moderns;—bade Yoomy sing old songs; bade
Mohi rehearse old histories; bade Babbalanja tell of old ontologies; and commanded all, meanwhile, to drink his old, old wine.
... If ever, my dear Hawthorne, in the eternal times that are to come, you and I shall sit down in Paradise, in some little shady corner by ourselves; and if we shall by any means be able to smuggle a basket of champagne there (I won't believe in a Temperance Heaven), and if we shall then cross our celestial legs in the celestial grass that is forever tropical, and strike our glasses and our heads together, till both musically ring in concert, then, O my dear fellow-mortal, how shall we pleasantly discourse of all the things manifold which now so distress us,— --Melville's letter to Nathaniel Hawthorne, June 1851 (Redated by Hershel Parker to early May 1851.)
Published June 1851, so probably written before but not much before the time of Melville's early May 1851 letter to Hawthorne:
We
will talk on all subjects, from the shape of a horseshoe to that of the
slipper of the last favorite — say the "divine Fanny," from great
battles, or Napier's splendid pictures of such, down to the obscurest
point of the squad drill — from buffalo bulls to elfin sprites....
...At
that moment I was in a small prairie "island," "reposing from the
noontide sultriness," reclining in that choice part of the shadow of a
fine oak that the boll casts; had been reading about the hot red rays
of the sun not being reflected by the moon; — gazing listlessly through
the gently rustling leaves into the sparkling depths of ether, and
wondering why the sun himself could not dispense with some of these same red rays in such very hot weather.
I. F. "Allow me to say that you are to-day quite as interesting—as original."
"Well, shall we 'talk prairie'
alone? Shall we discuss whether this beautiful purple flower, the
bulbous root of which overflows with balsam, would hear transplanting
into a flower garden— a lady's bower! No? --September 1851; and Scenes and Adventures
We will wait here in this shady grove, and let the horses eat the luxuriant wild pea-vine until the wagons come up....
... "It may be so; but it is a tempting recreation to recline against the shady side of one's tent, to smoke, and watch the curling cloud ascend with
fantastic grace, until lost in the blue ether—to dream dreams too
transparent and airy, or too selfish for other's uses." --September 1851; and Scenes and Adventures in the Army
In 1852 the Captain's Imaginary Friend begins to sound less like Nathaniel Hawthorne, more like Evert Duyckinck. But the writer's object is the same, intimate talk of literary and philosophical matters in the shade, preferably with drinks and tobacco at hand, in view of "grass and river":
After supper.—The Hunter in the mouth of his tent
reclines, with a pipe, upon a glossy bearskin;—before him, a desert
expanse of grass and river;—his attention is apparently divided between
the moon, suspended over the western hills; the flickering blaze of a
small fire, and the curling smoke which he deliberately exhales. His
friend stirs a toddy, reading with difficulty a crabbed manuscript....
... I. F.
Bravo! I have hopes of you! Kill your meat with a good conscience, and
daily labour and excitement over, solid indeed is the hunter's comfort!
With grass and bear-skin bed, his toddy, and his soothing pipe—the
musical ripple of the river sparkling in the moonbeams— I mean"—
"Fairly
caught! I little thought when I heard you abuse my pathos over the
noble beast that had yielded his life to my sport, that mere creature
comforts would thus inspire you. Dear critic, and lover of bathos! hast
thou found poetry in a full stomach?"
Bury me by the road, somewhere Near spring or brook. Palms plant me there, And seats with backs to them, all stone: In peace then go. The years shall run, And green my grave shall be, and play The part of host to all that stray In desert: water, shade, and rest Their entertainment. So I'll win Balm to my soul by each poor guest That solaced leaves the Dead Man's Inn.
