From: The Life and Letters of Christopher Pearse Cranch (1917)
Author: Leonora Cranch Scott
Published: Houghton Mifflin Company 1917 Boston
TRANSCENDENTALISM—EMERSON CORRESPONDENCE.
IN regard to the meaning of the word “Transcendentalism,” we find a letter about this time to Mr. Cranch’s father, who had undoubtedly read the charges against the “New Views” and Professor Andrews Norton’s pamphlet reprinting two articles by two divines of the Presbyterian Church,—Drs. Alexander and Dod,—where “an exposition of Cousin’s philosophy” and the German transcendental philosophy were “arraigned,” says Mr. Lindsay Swift, in his interesting book on “Brook Farm.”
The young Transcendentalist writes:—
MY DEAR FATHER:—
You express alarm at intimations you have received, that I am “inclined to the Transcendental sentiments of the German theologist’s,” and refer to a statement of “Transcendentalism” in the “Examiner.” The article in the “Examiner” I have not seen, and indeed must confess that I know very little about this system of philosophy. So far, however, as I do know anything about it, I can assure you, that it neither recommends itself to my mind nor heart. The philosophy of Kant, Fichte, Hegel, Schelling, etc., which is what I suppose to be the Transcendental philosophy, has always, from the very slight idea I have of it, struck me as a cold, barren system of Idealism, not calculated to strengthen the soul’s faith in the external realities of the spiritual world, or enable it as a perfect philosophy should, to give a reason for the hope that is in us; although to some minds it may have this effect. However that may be, and however these Germans distinguished themselves as profound thinkers and acute reasoners, I am very certain that to my mind, a philosophy quite opposite to theirs has far greater recommendations. Though not much inclined to metaphysical studies, I have found great truths in the philosophy of Victor Cousin and his school, who seems to stand between both Locke and Kant, the two extremes. I will only say that while Kant’s system seems to me to leave the soul without any certain power of knowing the great truths of God, duty, revelation, etc., Cousin expressly contends for a religious element in the soul; a faculty breathed into us by God Himself, whereby we become surer of the existence of such great truths than of anything else. He grounds faith on what is deepest in the soul. And his philosophy is spiritual; is religious in the highest degree, for it effectually removes the possibility of skepticism by proving man to be created a religious being, a being who has an inner light, which can never be entirely quenched, whereby he acquires a knowledge of God and duty and spiritual things.
But somehow the name “Transcendentalist” has become a nick-name here for all who have broken away from the material philosophy of Locke, and the old theology of many of the early Unitarians, and who yearn for something more satisfying to the soul. It has almost become a synonym for one who, in whatever way, preaches the spirit rather than the letter.
The name has been more particularly applied to Mr. Emerson, or those who believe in or sympathize with him. Mr. Emerson has been said to have imported his doctrine from Germany. But the fact is, that no man stands more independently of other minds than he does. He seems to me very far from Kant or Fichte. His writings breathe the very spirit of religion and faith. Whatever his speculations may be, there is nothing in anything he says, which is inconsistent with Christianity.
I can assure you that my faith is as strong as it ever was, in the truth and the divine origin of Christianity. I believe that no man ever was inspired, spoke, or lived like Jesus Christ. What my intellect receives must accord with the blessed revelation to my heart and conscience. God cannot utter two voices.
It is convenient to have a name which may cover all those who contend for perfect freedom, who look for progress in philosophy and theology, and who sympathize with each other in the hope that the future will not always be as the past. The name “Transcendentalist” seems to be thus fixed upon all who profess to be on the movement side, however they may differ among themselves. But union in sympathy differs from union in belief. Since we cannot avoid names, I prefer the term “New School,, to the other long name. This could comprehend all free seekers after truth, however their opinions differ.
All Unitarians should be of this school, but I must confess that there are several of the Orthodox who more properly belong to it than do many Unitarians. There is certainly an old and a new school of Unitarianism.
His belief was more fully and decidedly expressed, a little later, in his journal: “Men will never agree about the fundamentals of Christianity as long as they are possessed with the idea that Christ came to teach a system of doctrines. The only steadfast ground to be taken is that Christ came as a spiritual reformer, not as an instituter of new doctrines.”
In his journal he speaks of having consigned to the flames twenty-four of his sermons, saying that others would soon follow. He thus states his growth from the old ideas to the new: “They are old clothes. I feel myself too large to get into them again. I do not stand where I stood a year ago.”
Lindsay Swift in his “Brook Farm” says:—
In personal appearance he was of the picturesque type of beauty, with much dark, curling hair, a broad forehead, delicately cut features, and great sensitiveness of expression. Tall, slight, and graceful, he was an alluring presence at all times, and especially when, as at Brook Farm, his imagination was kindled and his sympathies strongest.
Another glimpse of Mr. Cranch at Brook Farm is given in “Years of Experience,” by Georgiana Bruce Kirby:—
“Take thou, where thou dost glide,
This deep-dyed rose, O river,”—
Mr. Cranch was invited to deliver a poem at the two hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town of Quincy at the First Church, May 25, 1840.
The fields, the forest, and the leaping rills,
For Spring hath breathed upon us, and the hours
Move to the dial of the budding flowers.
Joy to ye, leaves and blossoms—ye are springing
Fast to the melodies around you ringing:
New life, new thought, midst tame and common things.”
Then he speaks of the contrast, the sternness, the barrenness of the scene, and of the Pilgrim Fathers, of their high aims, and deep religious cult.
In another measure comes a very devout “Hymn of the Pilgrims”:—
No light but thy great eye above us shines!
Darker and darker gather
The shades of twilight through the moaning pine—
Hear while we pray!
“Hear us, thou great Jehovah!
When, wandering through the tangled wilderness,
Cloud after cloud goes over,
Forsake us not in our loneliness!
Shield us to-night!
“Guard us from every danger,
Thou, who hast ever been our sun and shield,
‘When trials deeper and stranger
Swept o’er us, as the wind sweeps o’er the field!
O guard us still!
“From the wild foeman’s arrow—
From the dread pestilence that walks unseen –
From sickness and from sorrow,
And more than all, from hearts and lips unclean,
Save us, O God!
“And unto thee, great Spirit,
All that we are and have would we commit;—
Not for thy children’s merit,
But through thy own free grace, so clearly writ,
Keep us, we pray!”
The poem goes on to speak of the superstition, narrowness, and even ignorance, contrasted with the better forms of a later religion. He cannot resist contrasting that older faith with more liberal ideas.
The poem is rather long, but there are some fine verses in it. It is not “stuff,” as he has written to his friend John Dwight. Mr. Cranch had that mauvaise honte which never appreciated himself, especially in those early days. It was sent to his friend Miss Julia Myers who marked in it the best verses. In another place I find, “How like C. P. C. “; and at the end, “Trés bien, mon ami Christophe!” in her handwriting.
To Miss Julia Myers
To John S. Dwight
I mean soon to visit Emerson, and he shall impart some knowledge of the different “wandering voices” which fill the air and woods.
That you might see no lack of strength within.”
I made a visit of a week at Parker’s, immediately on my return from Northampton. Parker was taken ill suddenly at Chelsea, while preaching, and I went out to Spring Street, expecting to find him on his back, the nurse, doctor and wife and aunt all in attendance,—but no, the creature was up and alive, laughing and working and digging at Sanctus Bernardus like a very Theodore Parker as he was. You might as well put a young steam engine to bed, cover it up and give it physic, as this marvellous creature. The learned Theban was by no means dieting in the article of books, though forced to do so in profane, vulgar, material eatables and drinkables.
To Ralph Waldo Emerson
And may I take this occasion, to express what I have long wished to do, my deep gratitude for the instruction and delight I have derived from all your productions, published and spoken. I utter no hollow compliments or vain imaginings when I say that I have owed to you more quickening influences and more elevating views in shaping my faith, than I can ever possibly express to you. From my very heart I thank you. With what delight I have read and listened to you, cold words like these, have no force to utter. I trust, therefore, you will pardon this expression of my gratitude and admiration, which could not have been restrained, while addressing you, without pain.
Ralph Waldo Emerson to Mr. Cranch
Within a year my contemporaries have risen very much in my respect, for, within that period, I have learned to know the genius of several persons who now fill me with pleasure and hope. My dear sir, I recognize with joy your sympathy with me in the same tastes and thoughts, in the kind, though extravagant, expression of your letter. If my thoughts have interested you, it only shows how much they were already yours. Will you not, when our fields have grown a little more invitingly green, make a leisure day and come up hither alone, and let us compare notes a little farther, to see how well our experiences tally. I will show you Walden Pond, and our Concord poet too, Henry Thoreau.
To Ralph Waldo Emerson
September 12, 1841.
I have been spending the summer at the South, and have lately taken very vigorously to landscape painting, which I am strongly tempted to follow in future instead of sermon writing. It is an art I have fondly looked at from boyhood. Whether I tum artist or not, I become more and more inclined to sink the minister in the man, and abandon my present calling in toto as a profession. Verily our churches will force us to it whether we will or not.
Once more, my dear sir, permit me to express my enthusiastic admiration and love of your writings. You must pardon me, but I am constrained to tell you what I never could do in speech, though I have so often wished to. I feel now as if I should be guilty of a poor and unnatural reserve, were I in writing to you, to be silent in this matter. The rare beauty of your style is but the first charm of your books to me. They are wells of deep truth, which I feel as if I could never exhaust—full of that “divine philosophy” which is described as
where no crude surfeit reigns.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson to Mr. Cranch
May the richest success attend your pencil and your pen. I wish I had any good news to tell you. You will like to know that Miss Fuller transfers the publication of the “Dial,”—now that Mr. Ripley withdraws from all interest in the direction,—from Jordan to Miss Peabody, an arrangement that promises to be greatly more satisfactory to Miss Fuller, and so to all of us, than the former one. Do not, I entreat you, cease to give us goodwill and good verses. We shall need them more than ever in the time to come; and yet I hope the journal, which seems to grow in grace with men, will by and by be able to make its acknowledgments, at least to its younger contributors. I remain your debtor for your kind and quite extravagant estimate of my poor pages. I have a pamphlet in press which I call “The Method of Nature,” an oration delivered lately at Waterville, Maine, which I shall take the liberty to send to you as soon as it appears, if I can learn in town that you are to remain at Fishkill. I have heard lately from Harriet Martineau and Carlyle. The former writes about the latter, that he is—fault of his nervous constitution—the most miserable man she knows; but that lately he seems greatly better, and was happy at her house at Tynemouth for two whole days. Carlyle writes that he has left London and removed to Newington Lodge, Annan, Scotland, but of his works or projects, saith no word.
To Ralph Waldo Emerson, with a copy of Mr. Cranch’s first poems which he dedicated to him.
DEAR SIR:—
Pray receive this hasty note in the light of some fuller testimony it would give me pleasure to send of the admiration and regard of
Yours truly,
C. P. CRANCH.
Ralph Waldo Emerson to Mr. Cranch
I am glad to find my old friends in the book, as well as new ones, and, throughout, the same sweetness and elegance of versification which I admired in the pieces which adorned our first “Dials.” But I should like to talk over with you very frankly this whole mystery and craft of poesy. I shall soon, I hope, send you my chapter on “the Poet,” the longest piece, perhaps, in the volume I am trying to bring to an end, if I do not become disgusted with the shortcomings of any critical essay, on a topic so subtle and defying. Many, many repentances he must suffer who turns his thoughts to the riddle of the world, and hopes to chant it fitly; each new vision supersedes and discredits all the former ones, and with every day the problem wears a grander aspect, and will not let the poet off so lightly as he meant; it reacts, and threatens to absorb him. He must be the best mixed man in the universe, or the universe will drive him crazy when he comes too near its secret. Of course, I am a vigorous, cruel critic, and demand in the poet a devotion that seems hardly possible in our hasty, facile America. But you must wait a little, and see my chapter that I promise, to know the ground of my exorbitancy: and yet it will doubtless have nothing new for you. Meantime I am too old a lover of actual literature, not to prize all real skill and success in numbers, not only as a pledge of a more excellent life in the poet, but for the new culture and happiness it promises to the great community around us. So I am again your debtor, and your grateful and affectionate servant,
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1 The old Cranch and Greenleaf home in Quincy.
2 “Thought is deeper than all speech.”
3 The Aurora Borealis.
4 My father wrote for the Dial, the Inworld and the Outworld. These were separated by a mistake of the printer, the first part appearing alone. Mr. Emerson writes this delightful letter in consequence, to my father at Fishkill.
All Sub-Works of The Life and Letters of Christopher Pearse Cranch (1917):
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- Preface.
- Chapter I. Ancestry.
- Chapter II. Student and Preacher.
- Chapter III. Western Experiences.
- Chapter IV. Transcendentalism.
- Chapter V. Painting — Marriage.
- Chapter VI. First Visit to Europe — The Voyage — Rome.
- Chapter VII. Palestrina — Olevano — Second Roman Winter.
- Chapter VIII. Naples — Sorrento.
- Chapter IX. Florence and the Brownings.