HON. WILLIAM WRIGHT, OF NEW JERSEY. (WITH A PORTRAIT.) which he has been ever since connected, is located. WILLIAM WRIGHT, the subject of this sketch, was born at Clarksville, Rockland county, in the State of New-York, within a From his large interest in the extended few miles of the Jersey line, in 1794; and trade and manufacturing business of the is now in his 57th year. His father was a city of Newark, his strict integrity, and his graduate of Yale College, an educated phy-extended information, he soon became one sician, and a gentleman in the true sense of of its most valued citizens. He declined, the term. He died in 1808, leaving his however, all official position, until in 1839, son, then but fourteen years old, an orphan, '40 and 41, he was successively elected and with no other patrimony than an honest Mayor of the city, without opposition. name. At the period of his father's death he was pursuing his studies, preparatory to a profession, at the academy at Poughkeepsie; but, deprived of his means of support by his father's death, it was necessary for him to abandon his studies, and adopt measures to obtain his subsistence by some more industrial pursuit. In 1843 he was brought forward by the business interests of one of the strongest manufacturing districts in the Union, as a suitable candidate for its representative in Congress. He was duly elected, and represented the Fifth District of New-Jersey in the "Twenty-eighth and Twenty-ninth Congress, where his intimate acquaintance with the commercial and manufacturing interests of the country rendered him a most valuable member. While in Congress he was scarcely ever found absent from his post; and his votes and acts proved him a true representative of the interests of his district, and of the Union at large. On his declining a re-nomination to Congress, in 1846, he was regarded throughout the State of New-Jersey as the most eligible candidate for Governor which the Whig party could select; and at the Whig State Convention, held in 1847, he was nomi He was accordingly placed by his uncle with Anson G. Phelps, Esq., now one of the most respectable and wealthy citizens of New-York, (and who could very appropriately apply to himself those beautiful and expressive words of Job, as recorded in the Scriptures of Divine Truth, "The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me, and I caused the widow's heart to sing for joy,") to learn the trade of a saddle and harness maker. The industry and vigor of his character were here shown; for, besides supporting himself, he was able to save, by the end of his term, the sum of three hun-nated for that office by a large majority dred dollars. With this sum, which was the foundation of the large fortune he subsequently acquired, he repaired to Bridgeport, hired a small store, and soon began to develop those mental resources which have placed him at the head of the manufacturing interests of the section of country where he resides. He remained in Bridgeport for seven years, engaged in extending his business; and in 1822 removed to Newark, N.J., where he has since resided, and where the principal manufacturing establishment, with on the first ballot. Unexpectedly to the Whig party, whose standard-bearer he had become, an insidious opposition was manifested by a small number of Whigs during the canvass which succeeded; and yet, small as was this number, it was of serious importance in a State so evenly balanced as New-Jersey. The result of the contest, though gallantly fought, was the defeat of Mr. Wright; but it did not in the slightest degree weaken the confidence of his friends, or his strong position in the State. It was well known from the commencement that the contest was doubtful, and that the slightest defection rendered it hopeless; yet the vote given him was a flattering testimonial from the working Whigs, of their entire sympathy with him as a Whig, and their estimation of him as a man. his interests strongly identified with the full protection of American industry-his large resources heavily invested in the internal improvements of the State-he seems naturally to possess a powerful influence. Few men are better acquainted with its manifold resources, or have more liberally co-operated in their profitable development. This is with him not simply the result of business speculation, but is the effect of an enlarged and vigorous conception of the true uses of pro education of business-life to an attentive observation of political affairs-combining the experience of the manufacturer with that of the legislator-his judgment ripened by intercourse with the best statesmen of the country, it is natural that he should exert a decided influence in any party. In the character of a liberal benefactor, few men in the Union can surpass the subject of our sketch. In all departments of education, among all religious denomina-perty and wealth. Uniting the practical tions, he has munificently expended the fortune which his ability and prudence had acquired, by steady perseverance in honest and honorable pursuits. It has ever appeared to be a pleasure to him to do good with the ample means with which Providence has blessed him. He has not locked up his money in his coffers, but has distributed it broadcast, to relieve the destitute, to aid the enterprising but poor mechanic, to promote the cause of education, of morals, and of religion. He has ever been the warm and steadfast friend of the industrial classes, and in no one instance has he ever departed from that policy which secures their rights and promotes their interests. He is in private life a courteous, well-bred gentleman, and marked in all his dealings by the strictest integrity of action. New-England and the Middle States have furnished, within a few years, a number of this class to the National Councils, and they have been uniformly regarded as among the ablest, in their practical views of the policy of the Government. We trust that such individuals, wherever found, may be truly ranked in our estimate of public men. It is not always the most brilliant speaker that deserves the highest honors, but rather he whose services to his country have been measured by their pracThe position of Mr. Wright in New- tical good. In the ranks of such men few Jersey is one of a commanding character. can more justly claim pre-eminence than At the head of the manufacturing interest-Hon. William Wright, of New-Jersey. PARODY. HAIL, Politics! thou power reserved! In chase of thee what crowds hae swerved Frae honesty, and sunk enerved 'Mang heaps o' papers; And och o'er aft thy joe's hae starved LONGFELLOW'S POEMS.* No THESE poems, taken as a whole, form a | overflowing with legendary interest, are book at once tasteless, tedious, and unin- every where displayed through a region exteresting. We had once some hopes of tending from latitudes of unbroken winter Mr. Longfellow as a poet, but his book has, to perennial spring and tropical suns. Hisunfortunately, spoiled all-has even spirited tory teems with numberless events-thrillaway the partiality we had entertained for ing, vivifying, enchanting-which are linked some of his fugitive poems which chance with poetic inspirations, and which belong threw in our way some years since, and more properly to verse than to prose. Rowhich, now that they are thrown in com- mance and reality, both, dallyingly open pany with the pithless train before us, have their storied arms, and invite a foray on somehow lost their former hold. Familiar- their luxuriant possessions. The wondrous ity, it is said, breeds contempt; and if the tales of the Mexican Conquest-the lovely truth of the old proverb is doubted, we need and touching story of Pocahontas-the landonly refer, in proof, some lang syne friend of ing of the Pilgrim Fathers-the wild lethis author, who, like ourself, may have been gends of King Philip's heroism-the Salem momentarily won to an American poet by witches-and many other incidents which some stray lines travelling the newspaper might be named, all afford tangible materounds,—we need only to refer such, we say, rial with which to weave a poet's chaplet. to the elaborated production now in our The poetry shines in every page of the old view; and if he can so tax his patience and chroniclers' quaint books, from Bernal Diaz his taste as to read through both volumes, to Captain Smith and Cotton Mather. we are quite sure that he will doubt no pedantry, no tasteless detail can distort or longer. We know that this is a very harsh smother the enlivening features of song, sentence, but there is consolation in know- which gather shape and symmetry as we ing also that malice is not the prompter. turn each succeeding leaf. There are, on the contrary, strong reasons why we could have wished to admire and praise Mr. Longfellow's poetry. He is, in the first place, an American; and this, of itself, is a sufficient cause to induce regret that his book of poems has fallen so very far short of that standard which, in our judgment, must be fully compassed, if one would attain to even passing excellence in this hallowed art. It is greatly to be lamented, indeed, that our land should have been, thus far, so barren in this respect; and the mystery is, how to account for it? The harvest is plentiful-themes are not want-Germany-what Camoens did for Portuing-minstrelsy is challenged on all sides. gal-what Moore has done for Ireland, and The Indian history, wandering through the Walter Scott for Caledonia, these illustrious checkered fortunes of a thousand different writers, though no poets, have accomplished tribes, abounds richly in the lore of tradition. for our country. All human beings, of whatThe charms of nature, whether in the asso-ever clime or tongue, long for some informaciation of primeval forests, of scenery wild, tion about past times in their history, and majestic, and beautiful, of lakes and rivers are delighted with narratives which present Here, then, is ample ground-ample inducement; but genius, so far, is the thing yet lacked. So far, indeed, as prose is concerned, master artists have been engaged in the work. Prescott, Irving, and Cooper have gone over the field, and illumined the path to poetical elicitation. Their works have clothed history with a fascination that the sons of song, whose province it more properly is to gather the romance of early time, may well envy, and has thrown all attempts at minstrelsy completely in the background. What Goethe and Schiller have done for *Poems. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. In two volumes. A new edition .Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. pictures to the eye of the mind. To this is a man of practical sense, of very considermay be traced the origin of ballad poetry | able talent, and of high and enviable attainand of metrical romance; and the man who ments as a scholar; yet we see the strong possesses the genius to embellish the scanty evidences of nature's inconsistency in his but treasured memorials of early-day scenes condescension to father poems which might and events, will always be highly esteemed have graced the Dunciad, and which, for bad in his own generation, and almost reverenced taste and tame composition, might stand a by a grateful posterity. To this enviable comparison with the shallowest specimens of fame, no one in our country has yet pre- the American school. Indeed, this gentleferred a successful suit. The materials lan- man, highly accomplished though he may guish in neglect, and have nearly gone to be in other respects, seems to be fatuitously decay. Our rhymers are full of every other possessed with the idea that whoever can kind of poetry save that which alone is open make words rhyme, or arrange words in to them. They are eternally inditing silly strange and fantastic measures by square and [verses about every-day silly things-are rule, may aspire to minstrelsy; that a man lavishing pretty words in the sickly attempt may become a poet by a simple act of volito retouch and embellish Scriptural inci- tion. This same hallucination has, we supdents-making sonnets about flowers, and pose, given birth to the thousand and one cigar-girls, and pigeon-nests; or else, like Mr. scrambling and puny contestants who have Longfellow, are running a wild-goose chase ventured to attune their crazed, discordant to catch up insipid fragments of German or lyres, and to set up for being recognized as Swedish verse, for which the reading portion American poets. The observer has only to of their own countrymen care about as much witness, momentarily, this selfish, elbowing as they care for a translation of Merlin, or a strife of frantic aspirants-each, like the reprint of Henry the Eighth's Defense of the hackmen who infest hotels and dépôts, ery Roman Church. And yet these venal pre-ing and huckstering for the floating pennytenders are called poets, have admiring coteries, assume a puny arrogance of air and manner, and, now and then, flaunt over to England, that, after begging a reluctant moiety of praise from one or two writers anxious to court American favor, they may prop their petty productions by exhibiting a transatlantic puff. "These are the themes that claim our plaudits now, These are the bards to whom the Muse must bow." We may here quite aptly observe, in this connection, that among the aphorisms admitted by general consent, and inculcated by frequent repetition, there is none more famous than that compendious monition Gnothi seauton-be acquainted with thyself. In general, we are far more willing to study others than to study ourselves; and hence it so frequently occurs that men, seduced by incautious self-admiration or by the flattery of weak friends, so often mistake their calling and their gifts, and blindly run counter to their destiny. Men of good common sense, and of unquestionable talent, are sometimes as apt as their inferiors to fall into this common error. On no other ground can we account for Mr. Longfellow's poetical adventurings. No one can doubt but that he to find out the secret of our deficiency as regards true poetical development. It thus stands disgustingly revealed to his vision, and, of course, excites most unmitigated contempt. No wonder that the muse should shrink from competition with the rampant and vulgar herd! Now, we should have thought that Mr. Longfellow's ripe scholarship would have effectually unfolded to him the dangers and the miseries of poetasting in the absence of natural endowments, and have also convinced him that Horace uttered no untruth in declaring that a poet is born, not made. Indeed, we incline to think that the Roman bard, when inditing the following advice, was seeking to forewarn just such unwary aspirants as the author of whom we are speaking: "Ludere qui nescit, campestribus abstinet armis, annum. Membranis intus positis, delere licebit Quod non edideris; nescit vox missa reverti." If Mr. Longfellow had been less learned than he is; if he had been gifted with no talent more likely to lift him to eminence; if, longing for fame, he could have addressed himself to nothing else as a mean of attainment than reckless poetical errantries; if, in fine, he had not opened a pathway to literary renown through the surer medium of classic and dignified prose, there would be more excuse for his presumption in throwing before a critical and discriminative public the rickety verses of the two volumes now under review, and we, in common with many others, might have been inclined to exercise more amiability and charity. As it is, we have before us the picture of an accomplished and astute Professor turned topsyturvy by a poetic mania, and evidently laboring under the inflictions of a diseased and morbid ambition. The least censorious would be hard put up to find a palliative for this rhyming furor in one from whom better things might have been expected; for it requires no ordinary effort to suppress a feeling of contempt that tastes, otherwise so well adapted, should thus have been perverted to idolatrous oblations at the shrine of a mongrel deity, no more akin to the true goddess of verse than was the spurious creation of Prometheus to a real man. Mr. Longfellow may, we think, gratefully thank his stars if, after these feeble offerings to the muse, he shall escape the just vengeance which overtook this bold usurper of Jove's functions. The first of these volumes opens with a prelude, as the author calls it, to a series of poems entitled "Voices of the Night," and is not altogether unpleasant; indeed we are not quite certain but that it is the prettiest composition to be found in the whole book. It certainly approximates much nearer than any other piece to real poetry, of which the following stanza is a partial evidence : "The green trees whispered low and mild, As if I were a boy." We desire not to be hypercritical with our author, and we will say that the sentiment of the stanza is tinged with true poetry, though we must insist that the stanza itself is not so harmoniously worded as the idea might have warranted. The author is represented as the hero; who, after giving us an introduction to himself, tells of how he wandered into the heart of a venerable forest, communed with the trees and the air, received a call to write poetry, and then winds up by informing us that he is restricted to writing only solemn lines. We can assure the reader that the restriction is not broken. The whole work is sicklied over with the snuffling cant of the conventicle, sometimes bordering on a sort of versified litany or Te Deum. The first Voice is a Hymn to the Night, consisting of six stanzas, set to some particular metre with which we happen not to be acquainted. As a specimen, we quote the three last, italicizing what we consider especially flat and puny : "From the cool cisterns of the midnight air, My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there— From those deep cisterns flows. holy Night! from thee I learn to bear "Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer: Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night!" Next in succession comes a Psalm of Lifedull and common-place enough—which reminds us, as to measure, of the mystic chant of Meg Merrilies, beginning "Twist ye, twine ye, even so," &c. &c. But the half-demented old gipsy indulges a strain at once wild, striking, and rhythmical; whereas, the Psalm is deficient in every respect, and we cite a stanza in proof:— "Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; The first line is as bad as it can be-not only bad taste, but bad grammar; for we have two nouns nominative most unmusically and incorrectly qualified with a negative each, and then connected by a conjunction. Poetry is not passable when, by disjointing the rhythm, it will not make good prose; and this being so, we cannot see how Mr. Longfellow will ever reconcile his two negatives. We cannot pause to find fault with each |