PUNY POETS AND PIRATICAL PUBLISHERS.* THIS book is certainly a literary curi- | ridiculous-indeed, dishonorable. We are sity, not because of its superior merits or thus particular because we have an especial rare composition, but because of its singular object in view while we go through with popularity and success, when we compare our task of criticism; which object mainly is these with its absolute unworthiness. Mr. to expose the unworthiness of Mr. Willis Willis himself has long been eminent among and his coterie to represent American literaa certain class of American litterateurs, and ture, and, at the same time, to unfold some his writings have generally been puffed into of the causes which make us, in a literary a sicklied notice through their influence; sense, the slaves of English writers, and the added to the efforts of a whole legion of mere tools of Anglo-American publishers. venal journalists, whose inferior talents, We shall address our efforts, in an especial wholly disproportioned to their ambition, manner, to this latter class, for we believe find always a most agreeable task in com- that they are justly answerable for the asing to the rescue of poems emanating from cendency of that herd of venal pretenders their cherished model, and whose life and to literary excellence, whose daily flip-flap occupation consist in playing an eternal from job presses not only discourage meriand endless game of "Tommy come tickle torious and independent competitors, but me;" that, thus, by a method of amiable have created such disgust for home literacollusion, they may hoist their confederates ture as to divert the interest of our truly and themselves into an ephemeral notoriety. tasteful and literary people across the waters, Now, as we, in common with all true and to sicken them at the sight of an Amefriends to genuine American literature, have rican work. Their selfish and unpatriotic a thorough contempt for this species of conduct is manifested daily. Not content writers and literary representatives, though with flooding our country with mutilated these are not the most objectionable class, and spurious English books, we are favored and sincerely regard them as obstructions by these enterprising gentlemen with reto all healthful development of a pure na-prints of foreign magazines and reviews, to tional literature, we have a mind to express the serious and ruinous disparagement of our opinious quite freely and candidly in con- our American works of that description. nection with Mr. Willis's book. But we desire They go even farther. Their bloated forit to be distinctly understood that no personal tunes are sparsely lavished on English and antipathies, as concerns our author, prompt French writers, who, unprotected against us to the task. We have no acquaintance, American book pirates, and debarred from personally, with Mr. Willis. We never met all pecuniary profits in this country, are him or saw him, to our knowledge, and willing to write for pennies, rather than lose we know nothing unfavorable to his charac- all. A monthly magazine may thus be ter or reputation; for if we did, we should gotten up by influential and wealthy houses, be very far from entering into a review of which will overmatch American productions, his poems which, we fear, may justly be as well in quantity as quality of matter. considered harsh and condemnatory. If American writers and journalists are generwe had any personal spleen to vent, we ally too poor to write and work for nothing, should seek a more manly course of satis- which they must do if they would enter into faction; while we should regard a goose- competition with Anglo-American writers quill ebullition of wrath as contemptible and and Anglo-American publishers. The ab The Poems, Sacred, Passionate, and Humorous, of Nathaniel Parker Willis. Complete edition, and enlarged. New-York: Clark, Austin & Co. 1850. sence of an international copyright law | American literature is almost in the dust; cuts off British writers in America, and, and when Irving, Cooper, Prescott, and vice versa, cuts off American writers from all some few other master souls shall have profits in Great Britain. Hence, a large passed away, it is greatly to be feared that publishing house like that of the Harpers, genuine American literature will be without. wealthy, influential, and anti-American in a worthy representative. feeling as concerns literary development and encouragement, may easily swell their enormous gains by pampering British writers who are legally debarred from copyright in this country, and who, poorly paid at home, pleasantly condescend to pick up pennies from foreign bidders; while an American-hearted publisher, devoted to the culture of home literature, and forced to pay high for good writers, is crowded out of the market. It is not difficult to perceive the drift and intent of these prefatory discursive remarks. We mean to be understood as endeavoring to demonstrate, that we, Americans, owe all our literary discouragements to AngloAmerican publishers, who, like the Harpers, and one or two other publishing houses farther east, employ their vast captial and influence to nurse and pillow British writers at the expense of American writers. An American journal or review, high-toned and able in character, is necessarily very expensive, because its contributors must, in general, be well paid. But an Anglo-American publisher, who refuses high-toned American productions, which are protected by law, and casts his bait for British writers who have no copyright privileges in our midst, is at no expense save that of his paper and type. The last can afford to undersell the first, and, of course, obtains precedence with the public. Hence, American readers are far more familiar with British novelists, poets, essayists, and historians, than with those of the United States. Where Putnam or Hart publishes one genuine American book, the Harpers can throw out a dozen English reprints, of the very first class, at half the cost of the first. Thus is America made the slave of England, literarily, not for want of equal talent on the part of her writers, but from the selfish policy of large and influential publishers. An American journalist is underbid by literary poachers on British disabilities. The American writer offers his work to an Anglo-American publisher, only to be told that a British work of equal merit can be thrown before the public free of all original cost. Hence 1 Such are some of the hapless causes from which has sprung the sickly ascendency of such poetry as that of Mr. Willis, and his numerous confrères. America is without a poet, or a poetical prestige. Here, in our opinion, is the reason. We have no Byron, no Moore, no Walter Scott. The minds, if any such have ever been born in our midst, which felt a consciousness, perhaps, of inspiration akin to theirs, have shrunk from competition with mere handicraft pretenders, or else have been deterred by repulsive and avaricious publishers. But we have Mr. Willis, and, as the Coryphæus of his venal band, it is with Mr. Willis we intend to deal. He has habitually assumed to himself for a long series of years a species of supremacy in the second-rate literary circle, which makes him pre-eminently fit, and proper, and legitimate game for our present undertaking. The lofty and self-important tone which distinguishes, even yet, his weekly editorial bulletins, impresses, and is doubtless designed to impress, all readers with an idea of his judicial supereminence in literary affairs. Nor have we the least fault to find with this. On the contrary, we award to Mr. Willis a high and enviable degree of moral courage in playing his game; for it must be confessed, in view of his slender materials, that he plays his game with remarkable address. It is not every day that we find a man who has the courage to put forth and father such a production as Mr. Willis's "Sacred Poems," and yet complacently and serenely supererogate weekly patronage to all other American poets and writers. Nobody will doubt, we imagine, but that Mr. Willis has acquired his poetical notoriety by means of a systematic and welldirected course of magazine and newspaper puffing; for no sane person, we are persuaded, can read his poetry, and trace the same to any merits he possesses in that line. We know that puffers can do much. We know that authors, when plac d in certain situations, can do more still, to emblazon their works, and snap public opinion, or rather public notoriety. But we confess that, to our judgment, neither puffers per se, nor puffed authors par excellence, ever accomplished a more dexterous or unaccountable achievement than when they succeeded in puffing Mr. N. Parker Willis into existence as a poet. It is no inconsiderable source of amusement, we may remark en passant, to sit apart and watch the trickery of nowa-day authors, especially poetical authors, to create for themselves a saleable notoriety. The method is complete, and may lay claim to quite a venerable antiquity. The proprietor of a magazine projects a creditable scheme to disseminate agreeable light reading, mingling with the same fashion plates, fancy engravings, and much learned talk about tournures and trousseaux. He enlists one or two really talented and able writers, and a dozen or two second and third-rate writers. The first require too high pay to fill up an entire number with their writings. Therefore, the last are called in to fill up the intervals; serving the first pretty much in the same capacity as common actors, in a stock company, serve the "star" actor. By-andby the best of the commoners is selected for a puff offering; and then the clangor of editorial clarions begins: "Wonderful genius developed," "unrivalled début," "Tom Moore surpassed," "Walter Scott equalled,” "Byron matched," and many other rare and rich specimens of genuine blarney are. blazoned on the covers, and new contributions announced from the pen of some "newly-discovered, fast-rising, and worldeclipsing poet." The whole pack of venal pennymen open on the scent, and weeks and months are consumed in crying up a literary synonym of "Jarley's wax works," or Barnum's "Chinese lady." In the meanwhile, the readers of the magazine are all agape with astonishment at their protracted obtuseness as regards the merits of this amazing child of letters. They have whiled away years of intimacy with the author's writings, and yet were required to be waked up to his accomplishments. The din of trumpets is systematically prolonged; their ears are so continuously racketed with the noise of his achievements, that, at length, they read everything bearing such a redoubtable name, and tacitly consent to have him enrolled as a standard author. This account will not, we incline to think, be considered too overwrought or exaggeratory to those who are familiar with the reading of the various literary newspapers and magazines of our northern cities. At all events, we think we may safely say that the "Sacred Poems" of our author are mainly indebted to this species of collusive heraldry for their singular notoriety. And to increase the chances of their being shelved as standard specimens of American poetry, Mr. Willis has thought proper, we suppose, to bring them out at this time, in connection with other poems, prefaced with a serenetempered, somewhat self-gratulatory introduction, and quite a pretty picture of himself in one of his most sentimental attitudes. Whatever may be our opinions, we are, however, constrained to criticise Mr. Willis as a poet. Magazine publishers and newspaper editors chronicle his comings and his goings, his sayings and his writings, his adventures and his onslaughts, as those of "the poet." He himself tells us that he "has no hesitation in acknowledging the pedestal on which public favor has placed him." We are forced, therefore, to regard such high authority; and as he looms forth to the public eye, self-sculptured and architraved, we should be wanting in respect to "public favor," not to recognize his claims to the name of poet. We expect to confine this article mainly to a notice of the "Sacred Poems," as these, we believe, are generally supposed to form the principal cornice of that "pedestal" to which our author refers. We must begin by saying that they are, to our judgment, very tame and unsuccessful transpositions of beautiful Scriptural incidents. That which is intended for poetical amplification and illumining, pales and flickers beside the unpretending but impressive diction of the sacred writers. Indeed, in the progress of their perusal, we meet oftentimes, as we shall presently demonstrate, with really pitiful and sickly attempts to retouch and embellish what has been far better told in the original, thousands of years ago, when languages had scarcely assumed definite form. They abound with expressions which are not only shamefully unpoetical, but are uneuphonious, ungraceful, and improper; while they are most untastefully repeated, as applied to the different characters, and for lack of originality of thought, in nearly every poem of the series. We cite, as an instance of this striking want of true taste in the choice of expres sion, the following lines from the poem of "Jairus's Daughter:" "The old man sunk Upon his knees, and in the drapery Of the rich curtains buried up his face." Also the following from the poem of "The Leper:" "And in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face.” Again, in the "Sacrifice of Abraham," we are favored with the same expression as the first, as follows: "And Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself, And buried up his face," &c. In the poem on "Absalom," David is reduced to the same grievous necessity as Jairus and Abraham, but the expression is slightly varied for the better, thus: "He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself," &c. We next find "Hagar" seeking like consolation as her predecessors in the volume: “And, shrouding up her face, she went away," &c. The last example to which we shall refer in corroboration of our alleged fault against "the poet," is found in the poem on "Lazarus and Mary," where the latter, seemingly in a sort of mesmeric communication with Hagar, David & Co., resorts to the very same expedient while grieving: "She cover'd up her face, and turn'd again To wait within for Jesus." ment to the taste of his readers when he In But more than all, we must seriously object to the justness of that popular award which seems to have greeted these poems, because of their unpleasing, spiritless sameness and resemblance. They are alike in thought, in character, in description, and in language, nearly; and if the names were not different, and the scenes slightly shifted, we might unconsciously mistake Jairus for David, and Abraham for Jepthah; as also the Shunammite mother for the widow of Nain, Hagar for Rizpah, and Absalom on his bier, for Lazarus as he lay shrouded for the grave. There is a grating continuity of all the essential features and groundwork which form each separate poem throughout intrinsic merits, all interest in them would the entire series; and, even if they possessed be marred and spoiled by so inexcusable a blemish. We turn over leaf after leaf without finding that relief which is so necessary when engaged in reading poetry; that variNow we contend that the term "buried ety of thought and description which conup," or "shrouded up," is not only an un-stitutes the secret of true poetical composipoetical and ungraceful, but a manifestly incorrect term, besides being harsh and discordant; not to mention the fact that the expression is used six or eight times in short, succeeding poems, comprising in all only some fifty-eight pages. We had better say bury down than "bury up," for the first is more likely; but the phrase, either way, is clearly unchaste-especially when, seeking to glide softly through the melodious flow of blank verse, we chance suddenly to stumble against its roughness. Indeed, we must say that Mr. Willis pays quite a poor compli tion, and without which, as they well know, the best of poets become soon insupportably tiresome. The genius of Spenser and of Ariosto is universally admired and admitted; yet no one wades through the Faerie Queene or the Orlando Furioso, without wearying sadly under the weighty and monotonous versification. We do not, by any means, intend to compare Mr. Willis or his "Sacred Poems" to these fathers of poetry and their hallowed chefs d'ouvre; we mean only to say that he has fallen into their only error--and that, not because he intended to do so on 66 the ground of allowable precedent, but be- | the notion to resume. We naturally look cause, although poet-born as he seems to for some novelty and refreshment. But, lo! think, he has failed to learn one of the very the third is but the first and second, dignifirst elements of the ars poetica. Our pri- fied with a change only of incident and vate opinion is, to say truth, that these awk- name; the same thoughts, the same conward and uncomely transpositions of Scrip- ceptions, the same descriptive outlines, exture were squirmed forth by their author cept, perhaps, that one transpires at dayjust as the blank pages of Mr. Godey's dawn, another at noontide, and the third at Book" required, or as Mr. Godey's purse twilight or late evening. With the precicould afford, monthly offerings to the pile of sion of a musical box which is wound up at those "present gains." Their arrangement intervals, that it may play over the same and composition do not indicate or fore- tunes again and again, we find Mr. Willis, in shadow that slumbering genius which, after nearly every successive poem of his sacred long years have passed, can now inspire its series, true to his familiar portraitures of a possessor with such exultant confidence as distressed father, an anguished and doting to herald the publication of his early-day mother, an interesting corpse, and a minispoems with an assurance to his readers that tering spirit; varied only as the scenes are the "ripeness of poetical feeling and percep- made severally to occur by sunlight, or startion are all before him." The series forms light, or moonlight. a perfect family, in which the resemblance between the various members is so great as to strike the most casual observer. Each succeeding poem is but a transfiguration of its predecessor; and the shade of difference is so slight as to be almost imperceptible, excepting, as we have said, as to locality and name. Sir Walter Scott, in his book on Demonology and Witchcraft, if we may pursue farther this course of remark, tells us of a young London gentleman who, from extreme nervous disarrangement, was seriously annoyed by a troup of phantoms which appeared to his vision nightly at a certain hour. He found it necessary to call the advice of a medical gentleman. After examining the state of his patient, the physician advised a removal to his country seat. The change of scene effected wonders. The patient thanked his physician, determined on settling permanently in the country, broke up his house in town, and brought his furniture to the villa. But this, alas! proved to be a fatal move. The sight of the familiar furniture revived the unhealthy associations of his malady, and he had scarcely retired to bed before the whole company of dancing spectres re-appeared with an expression of countenance that seemed to say to him, "Here we all are again! Here we all are again!" Now this anecdote we take to be aptly illustrative of the character and style of Mr. Willis's series of Sacred Poems. We read the first and second, and then, for a rest, lay the book aside. In a short time we take But there are, in these poems, other and more serious blemishes than those of repetition and sameness, merely. The diction is oftentimes imperfect, and sometimes quite obscure. For instance, in the opening lines of the poem of Jairus's Daughter, we have the following lines: "The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, And as it stirr'd with the awakening wind," &c. Here is a palpable impropriety. The pronoun it must refer to the noun nominative, or the sentence is without meaning; and if it be intended thus, the idea is nonsensical, for we are at a loss how to imagine that "the awakening wind" can stir the shadow of a leaf; and yet shadow is the relative of it, as leaf is in the objective case. We have heard of "airy tongues that syllable men's names," where the scene supposed is mingled with something unnatural or superstitious; but, in a plain, matter-of-fact case, taken too from Holy Scripture, we have never before observed where shadow is so complacently made substance. Nor are we at all satisfied, as a reader of poetry, or of what is meant for poetry, with the figure of speech to which Mr. Willis here resorts to bring forth his idea. There is something strained in the idea of casting the shadow of a leaf on a dying girl's lips. Her bosom, her cheek, her forehead, any of the three could more properly have been used than lips. The whole sentence is mawkish and ungainly, even though it had been properly constructed. |