Now available: Tales, Sketches, & Poems of Charles Fenno Hoffman

I am very pleased to announce the release of my first book, Tales, Sketches, & Poems of Charles Fenno Hoffman, published by Brom Bones Books. It highlights what I consider to be his best work, and I hope that it renews interest in Hoffman’s life and literature.

Available here.

Quick Note Regarding Social Media

It has come to my attention that there are multiple accounts across different platforms that sport the name “Literary Maiden.” None of these belong to me, except for my blog’s Twitter account.

-A.N.

“Indian Summer, 1828” by Charles Fenno Hoffman

In an earlier blog post, I discussed and included an excerpt from Hoffman’s “The Excursion,” a short and fun log about his native New York during the fall. Hoffman was known to enjoy his rambles through nature (consider his anthology Wild Scenes in the Forest and Prairie and his travelogue A Winter in the West), observing everything around him through poetic and prosaic lenses. He was especially fond of his beloved New York, it being where he most often resided before being permanently institutionalized in 1854 in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. We may infer, therefore, that most of his poems and prose works showcase New York, and perhaps specifically New York City, in the early- to mid-1800s, unless when noted otherwise. Take his poem “Indian Summer, 1828,” for example:

Indian Summer, 1828

Light as love’s smile the silvery mist at morn
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The blue-bird’s notes upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air he carols, faintly quiver;
The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving,
Beaded with dew the witch-elm’s tassels shiver;
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springy spray the squirrel gayly leaping.

I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery, ere
The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes
That richly deck the slow declining year;
I love the splendor of thy sunset skies,
The gorgeous hues that tint each failing leaf
Lovely as beauty’s cheek, as woman’s love too, brief;
I love the note of each wild bird that flies,
As on the wind he pours his parting lay,
And wings his loitering flight to summer climes away.

O Nature! fondly I still turn to thee
With feelings fresh as e’er my childhood’s were;
Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be,
Toward thee I still the same devotion bear;
To thee—to thee—though health and hope no more
Life’s wasted verdure may to me restore—
Still—still, childlike I come, as when in prayer
I bowed my head upon a mother’s knee,
And deem’d the world, like her, all truth and purity.

We may infer from this text and title that at least one Indian Summer occurred in November 1828, and this perhaps pleased Hoffman enough to write about this forecast occurrence. It causes one to wonder which body of water he was near when he wrote about the “limpid river” in the first stanza (perhaps the Hudson?), or from where he viewed the “silvery mist at morn” [perhaps from the window of his home on 100 Houston Street as he overlooked a bustling New York City street that morning (Longworth’s American Almanack, New-York Register, 1828, 255]? From wherever or on whatever he was looking, this moment in time became permanently preserved in his reflective poem, as were so many snapshots in time preserved in his other works. Many of these works can be found in my book here, in a freshly anthologized, edited, and footnoted format. Whether or not we get an Indian Summer is always yet to be seen, but Hoffman’s poem certainly encourages the reader to observe and record their own natural surroundings, no matter the forecast, don’t you think?

“The Haunted Spot” from The New-York Mirror

Moonlit Landscape, Henri-Joseph Harpignies

The Haunted Spot
Anonymous
The New-York Mirror, August 8, 1829

‘Tis a haunted spot, but go not thou
When the sun is burning bright on high,
If thou wouldst seek its shapes to know,
Or hear its mournful melody;
But when the dim sweet twilight falls
Upon the tall and spectral trees,
And wraps in mist the ruined walls;
And when the gusty evening breeze
Sighs sadly round that ruin gray,
As mourning honours passed away,

Then go with awe, not fear, and gaze
Upon the wreck of pride and power;
And when the rising moonbeam plays
Upon the ivy-mantled tower,
Dim shadowy shapes are seen to glide
Beneath those arches’ frowning pride,
And music’s melancholy wail
Floats sadly on the sighing gale,

Thou shudderest—’tis a haunted spot—
But thou canst from the scene depart;
But what can cheer his shunless lot
Who bears about a haunted heart?
More fearful are the shapes that dwell
Within that dark and dreary cell;
And far more numerous is their train
Than those which haunt the ruined fane.

Yes—ghosts of buried joys are there,
And hopes long dead rise from their grave;
And faded visions, once too fair,
Now changed and saddened he must brave;
And every ghastly visitant
Which doth his troubled bosom haunt,
He cannot shun, he may not flee
Their torturing society.

The ruined dome attracts thy sigh
Of pity for its doom of ill,
Its days of glory long passed by—
But ruined hopes are sadder still!
The spectres of the silent tomb
Seek but the hours of night and gloom;
When dawns the morning sun they flee,
Unseen till night’s obscurity.

But—the hearts are a sleepless brood,
Alike at night or noontide hour,
In gayest scene or solitude
The restless shades exert their power.
It boots not now the names to tell
Of all that haunt that gloomy cell,
Returning hope and peace to blast,
The ghastly spectres of the past!

Then, if when’er thou dost behold
That dark tower, phantom-visited,
Thy heart should tremble and grow cold,
Turn from the fearful spot thy tread,
And thy reviving heart shall be
From all its former terrors free:
But dark and hopeless is his lot
Who cannot shun the haunted spot!

“The Excursion”—An excerpt from Tales, Sketches, & Poems of Charles Fenno Hoffman

It has been a few weeks since my last Hoffman-related post, and in an endeavor to keep his memory alive, I hope to continue posting new content and excerpts from stories included in my anthology. It is always my hope that by spreading his works, they reach a vast audience and help preserve his literary legacy. Until the turn of the 20th century, Hoffman’s songs “Sparkling and Bright” and “Monterey” were staples in literary anthologies; however, his poetry and stories gradually dropped from view entering the 21st century. This is a shame, as his works reflect 19th-century humor, culture, language, dialect, and nature. His sketches, which were largely anthologized in both his A Winter in the West (1835) and Wild Scenes in the Forest and Prairie (1839), reveal insight into America’s largely untouched forests, documenting vegetation, fauna, and Native American encounters (in fact, Hoffman was a huge proponent of preserving Native American culture and stories). Here is such an example, which is included in the anthology:

The Excursion

It was early in September when, accompanied by a friend—the companion of more than one pleasant ramble—I started upon the brief but novel tour. The winter sets in so early in the high mountain region for which we were bound that, deeming we had no time to lose, we struck for it by the nearest route and, instead of following the various windings of the river, which offer a delicious summer excursion for the man of leisure, we left tide-water at Lausingburgh, and passing eastward of Lake George, went directly north by the way of Lake Champlain.

Embarking upon this lake at Whitehall, a few hours brought our steamer abreast of Port Henry, a small village which heaves in sight immediately after passing the crumbling fortifications of Crown Point. A pretty cascade tumbles from the rocks near the landing and is the first thing that strikes you when approaching the shore. Several wooded hills rise in succession behind it and give a picturesque appearance to a straggling hamlet along their base. Our route hence was due westward, and the evening being fine, we engaged a conveyance to carry us on at once some twenty miles through an almost unbroken forest, into the interior. 

The autumnal moon was shining brightly as we commenced ascending the hills in the rear of Port Henry, rising continually until we reached the village of Moriah, situated about three miles from the lake. The rearward view, in the meantime, was exceedingly fine. Indeed, I do not hesitate to say that Lake Champlain, as seen from those hills, presents one of the very finest lake views in the United States.

Those living in or interested in New York will recognize many of Hoffman’s old haunts by name, which might provide a fresh perspective the next time you visit the state. Oh, to retrace Hoffman’s footsteps and view the Adirondacks through his eyes! You can read more of this sketch here, or you can check out my book here.

“May Morning” by Anonymous

May Morning
From The Jewel, Or Token of Friendship: An Annual for 1843

Thou art abroad betimes—the laughing wind
Ruffling thy tresses, and with ardent kiss
Heightening the rich carnation of thy cheek,
And thy lip’s roseate grain!
Away! away!
To the fresh meadows—there thy neck of snow,
And broad intelligent brow, with drops to lave
Of clearest May-dew—so no envious stain,
Freckle, nor sunburnt spot, shall mar the sheen
Of that pure skin, which, exquisitely white,
Glows with rich witness of the eloquent blood,
That courses, in its thousand channels warm,
Beneath the snowy surface.
Morn is up,
With all her matin worship—song of birds,
And breath of spangled flowers! Then tarry not
To cull the earliest benefits of May,
Before the sun with scorching touch profane
Have marred their virgin beauties. Life is brief—
Too brief to loiter in the chamber’s gloom,
When thou mayest greet the glorious morning’s pride
In the bright vale, or on the mountain’s side!

“The Fair Student” by Charles Fenno Hoffman

While looking through my computer files yesterday, I found a screenshot of a Hoffman poem that I forgot to put in my book, Tales, Sketches, & Poems of Charles Fenno Hoffman. This one comes from The Gift: a Christmas and New Year’s Present for 1844. The subject matter is reminiscent of his earlier poetry, as his 1840s work tended to focus more on Native American translation and nature themes. Thus, I suspect this one could have been written earlier than 1844, as many of his romance poems were originally written between 1828-1832 and republished during the 1840s. It’s just a theory, but if I come across it, I’ll be sure to update this post.

Of interest in this poem is the name Blanche, which also appears in both his short story, “Fascination,” as well as his poem “Impromptu” (both can be found in my anthology). I have my private ideas about who Blanche is, and perhaps I will approach that topic someday. Until then, enjoy this obscure Hoffman poem!

The Fair Student
C. F. Hoffman
From The Gift: a Christmas and New Year’s Present for 1844

The hair, the brow, the soft, yet earnest eyes—
Yes! though lip and cheek be fuller—rounder—
My own loved Blanche—how doth her image rise,
As o’er her book I often thus have found her.

I’ll call thee Blanche, sweet maiden, all unheeding,
And deem the volume which now rests before thee
Love’s holy Missal, where an angel reading
Might turn the pages as he hovered o’er thee.

“Holier than Love!” Ah! is aught more holy
Than the pure thought which maiden heart may wear,
When Prayer but utters Love in melancholy,
And Love in gladness takes the voice of Prayer!