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FLACCUS. — THOMAS WARD
THE poet now
comprehended in
the cognomen Flaccus, is by no means our ancient friend Quintus
Horatius, nor even his ghost, but merely a Mr. —— Ward, of Gotham, once
a contributor to the New York "American," and to the New York
"Knickerbocker"
Magazine. He is characterized by Mr. Griswold, in his "Poets and Poetry
of America," as a gentleman of elegant leisure.
What there is in "elegant leisure" so
much at war
with the divine afflatus, it is not very difficult, but quite
unnecessary,
to say. The fact has been long apparent. Never sing the Nine so
well as when penniless. The mens divinior is one thing, and the
otium cum dignitate quite another. [page 158:]
Of course Mr. Ward is not, as a poet,
altogether
destitute of merit. If so, the public had been spared these paragraphs.
But the sum of his deserts has been footed up by a clique who
are
in the habit of reckoning units as tens in all cases where champagne
and
"elegant leisure" are concerned. We do not consider him, at all points,
a Pop Emmons, but, with deference to the more matured opinions of the
"Knickerbocker,"
we may be permitted to entertain a doubt whether he is either Jupiter
Tonans
or Phœbus Apollo.
Justice is not, at all times, to all
persons, the
most desirable thing in the world, but then there is the old adage
about
the tumbling of the heavens, and simple justice is all that we
propose
in the case of Mr. Ward. We have no design to be bitter. We
notice
his book at all, only because it is an unusually large one of its kind,
because it is here lying upon our table, and because, whether justly or
unjustly, whether for good reason or for none, it has attracted some
portion
of the attention of the public.
The volume is entitled, somewhat
affectedly, "Passaic,
a Group of Poems touching that river: with Other Musings, by Flaccus,"
and embodies, we believe, all the previously published effusions of its
author. It commences with a very pretty "Sonnet to Passaic," and from
the
second poem, "Introductory Musings on Rivers," we are happy in being
able
to quote an entire page of even remarkable beauty.
Beautiful Rivers! that adown the
vale
With graceful passage journey to the deep,
Let me along your grassy marge recline
At ease, and, musing, meditate the strange
Bright history of your life; yes, from your birth
Has beauty's shadow chased your every step:
The blue sea was your mother, and the sun
Your glorious sire, clouds your voluptuous cradle,
Roofed with o'erarching rainbows; and your fall
To earth was cheered with shouts of happy birds,
With brightened faces of reviving flowers,
And meadows, while the sympathizing west
Took holiday and donn'd her richest robes.
From deep mysterious wanderings your springs
Break bubbling into beauty; where they lie
In infant helplessness awhile, but soon
Gathering in tiny brooks, they gambol down
The steep sides of the mountain, laughing, shouting,
Teasing the wild flowers, and at every turn [page 159:]
Meeting new playmates still to swell their ranks;
Which, with the rich increase resistless grown,
Shed foam and thunder, that the echoing wood
Rings with the boisterous glee; while, o'er their heads,
Catching their spirit blithe, young rainbows sport,
The frolic children of the wanton sun.
Nor is your swelling prime, or green old age,
Though calm, unlovely; still, where'er ye move,
Your train is beauty; trees stand grouping by,
To mark your graceful progress; giddy flowers
And vain, as beauties wont, stoop o'er the verge
To greet their faces in your flattering glass;
The thirsty herd are following at your side;
And water-birds in clustering fleets convoy
Your sea-bound tides; and jaded man, released
From worldly thraldom, here his dwelling plants —
Here pauses in your pleasant neighborhood,
Sure of repose along your tranquil shores;
And, when your end approaches, and ye blend
With the eternal ocean, ye shall fade
As placidly as when an infant dies,
And the Death-Angel shall your powers withdraw
Gently as twilight takes the parting day,
And, with a soft and gradual decline
That cheats the senses, lets it down to night. |
There is nothing very original in all this;
the
general idea is, perhaps, the most absolutely trite in poetical
literature;
but the theme is not the less just on this account, while we must
confess
that it is admirably handled. The picture embodied in the whole of the
concluding paragraph is perfect. The seven final lines convey not only
a novel but a highly appropriate and beautiful image.
What follows, of this poem, however,
is by no means
worthy so fine a beginning. Instead of confining himself to the true
poetical
thesis, the Beauty or the Sublimity of river scenery, he descends into
mere meteorology — into the uses and general philosophy of rain,
&c.
— matters which should be left to Mr. Espy, who knows something about
them,
as we are sorry to say Mr. Flaccus does not.
The second and chief poem in
the volume, is
entitled "The Great Descender." We emphasize the "poem" merely by way
of
suggesting that the "Great Descender" is anything else. We never could
understand what pleasure men of talent can take in concocting elaborate
doggerel of this order. Least of all can we comprehend why, having
perpetrated
the atrocity, they should [page 160:] place it at
the
door of the Muse. We are at a loss to know by what right, human or
divine,
twattle of this character is intruded into a collection of what
professes
to be Poetry. We put it to Mr. Ward, in all earnestness, if the
"Great Descender," which is a history of Sam Patch, has a single
attribute,
beyond that of mere versification, in common with what even Sam Patch
himself
would have had the hardihood to denominate a poem.
Let us call this thing a rhymed jeu
d'esprit,
a burlesque, or what not? — and, even so called, and judged by its new
name, we must still regard it as a failure. Even in the loosest
compositions
we demand a certain degree of keeping. But in the "Great
Descender"
none is apparent. The tone is unsteady — fluctuating between
the
grave
and the gay — and never being precisely either. Thus there is a failure
in both. The intention being never rightly taken, we are, of
course,
never exactly in condition either to weep or to laugh.
We do not pretend to be the Oracles
of Dodona, but
it does really appear to us that Mr. Flaccus intended the whole matter,
in the first instance, as a solemnly serious thing; and that, having
composed
it in a grave vein, he became apprehensive of its exciting derision,
and
so interwove sundry touches of the burlesque, behind whose equivocal
aspect,
he might shelter himself at need. In no other supposition can we
reconcile
the spotty appearance of the whole with a belief in the sanity
of
the author. It is difficult, also, in any other view of the case, to
appreciate
the air of positive gravity with which he descants upon the advantages
to Science which have accrued from a man's making a frog of
himself.
Mr. Ward is frequently pleased to denominate Mr. Patch "a martyr of
science,"
and appears very doggedly in earnest in all passages such as the
following:
Through the glad Heavens, which
tempests now
conceal,
Deep thunder-guns in quick succession peal,
As if salutes were firing from the sky,
To hail the triumph and the victory.
Shout! trump of Fame, till thy brass lungs burst out!
Shout! mortal tongues! deep-throated thunders, shout!
For lo! electric genius, downward hurled,
Has startled Science, and illumed the world! |
That Mr. Patch was a genius we do not doubt;
so is Mr. Ward; [page 161:] but the science
displayed in jumping down the Falls, is a point above us. There might
have
been some science in jumping up.
"The Worth of Beauty: or a Lover's
Journal;" is the
title of the poem next in place and importance. Of this composition Mr.
W. thus speaks in a Note: "The individual to whom the present poem
relates,
and who had suffered severely all the pains and penalties which arise
from
the want of those personal charms so much admired by him in others,
gave
the author, many years since, some fragments of a journal kept in his
early
days, in which he had bared his heart, and set down all his thoughts
and
feelings. This prose journal has here been transplanted into the richer
soil of verse."
The narrative of the friend of Mr.
Flaccus must,
originally, have been a very good thing. By "originally," we mean
before
it had the misfortune to be "transplanted in the richer soil of
verse"
— which has by no means agreed with its constitution. But, even through
the dense fog of our author's rhythm, we can get an occasional glimpse
of its merit. It must have been the work of a heart on fire with
passion,
and the utter abandon of the details, reminds us even of Jean
Jacques.
But alas for this "richer soil!" Can we venture to present our
readers
with a specimen?
Now roses blush, and violets' eyes,
And seas reflect the glance of skies;
And now that frolic pencil streaks
With quaintest tints the tulips' cheeks;
Now jewels bloom in secret worth,
Like blossoms of the inner earth;
Now painted birds are pouring round
The beauty and the wealth of sound;
Now sea-shells glance with quivering ray,
Too rare to seize, too fleet to stay,
And hues out-dazzling all the rest
Are dashed profusely on the west,
While rainbows seem to palettes changed,
Whereon the motley tints are ranged.
But soft the moon that pencil tipped,
As though, in liquid radiance dipped,
A likeness of the sun it drew,
But flattered him with pearlier hue;
Which haply spilling runs astray,
And blots with light the milky way;
While stars besprinkle all the air.
Like spatterings of that pencil there. [page 162:]
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All this by way of exalting the subject. The
moon is made a painter, and the rainbow a palette. And the moon has a
pencil
(that pencil!) which she dips, by way of a brush, in the liquid
radiance, (the colors on a palette are not liquid,) and then draws
(not paints) a likeness of the sun; but, in the attempt, plasters him
too "pearly," puts it on too thick; the consequence of which is that
some
of the paint is spilt, and "runs astray" and besmears the milky way,
and
"spatters" the rest of the sky with stars! We can only say that a very
singular picture was spoilt in the making.
The versification of the
"Worth of Beauty"
proceeds much after this fashion; we select a fair example of the whole
from page 43.
Yes! pangs have cut my soul with
grief
So keen that gashes were relief,
And racks have rung my spirit-frame
To which the strain of joints were tame
And battle strife itself were nought
Beside the inner fight I've fought. etc., etc. |
Nor do we regard any portion of it (so far as rhythm
is concerned) as at all comparable to some of the better ditties of
William
Slater. Here, for example, from his Psalms, published in 1642:
The righteous shall his sorrow scan
And laugh at him, and say "behold
What hath become of this here man
That on his riches was so bold." |
And here, again, are lines from the edition of the
same
Psalms, by Archbishop Parker, which we most decidedly prefer:
Who sticketh to God in stable trust
As Sion's mount he stands full just,
Which moveth no whit nor yet can reel,
But standeth forever as stiff as steel. |
"The Martyr" and the "Retreat of Seventy-Six" are
merely
Revolutionary incidents "done into verse," and spoilt in the doing.
"The
Retreat" begins with the remarkable line,
| Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! |
which is elsewhere introduced into the poem. We look in vain, here, for
anything worth even qualified commendation.
"The Diary" is a record of events
occurring to the
author during a voyage from New York to Havre. Of these events a fit of
sea-sickness is the chief. Mr. Ward, we believe, is the first [page
163:] of the genus irritabile who has ventured to
treat
so delicate a subject with that grave dignity which is its due:
Rejoice! rejoice! already on my
sight
Bright shores, gray towers, and coming wonders reel;
My brain grows giddy — is it with delight?
A swimming faintness, such as one might feel
When stabbed and dying, gathers on my sense —
It weighs me down — and now — help! — horror! — |
But the "horror," and indeed all that ensues, we
must
leave to the fancy of the poetical.
Some pieces entitled "Humorous" next succeed, and
one or
two of them
(for example, "The Graham System" and "The Bachelor's Lament") are not
so very contemptible in their way, but the way itself is
beneath
even contempt.
"To an Infant in Heaven" embodies some striking
thoughts, and, although
feeble as a whole, and terminating lamely, may be cited as the best
composition
in the volume. We quote two or three of the opening stanzas:
Thou bright and star-like spirit!
That in my visions wild
I see 'mid heaven's seraphic host —
Oh! canst thou be my child?
My grief is quenched in wonder,
And pride arrests my sighs;
A branch from this unworthy stock
Now blossoms in the skies.
Our hopes of thee were lofty,
But have we cause to grieve?
Oh! could our fondest, proudest wish
A nobler fate conceive?
The little weeper tearless!
The sinner snatched from sin!
The babe to more than manhood grown,
Ere childhood did begin!
And I, thy earthly teacher,
Would blush thy powers to see!
Thou art to me a parent now,
And I a child to thee! |
There are several other pieces in the book — but it
is needless to speak of them in detail. Among them we note one or two
political
effusions, and one or two which are (satirically?) termed satirical.
All
are worthless.
Mr. Ward's imagery, at
detached points, has
occasional vigor and appropriateness; we may go so far as to say that,
at times, [page 164:] it is strikingly beautiful —
by accident of course. Let us cite a few instances. At page 53 we read
—
O! happy day! — earth, sky is fair,
And fragrance floats along the air;
For all the bloomy orchards glow
As with a fall of rosy snow. |
At page 91 —
How flashed the overloaded flowers
With gems, a present from the showers! |
At page 92 —
No! there is danger; all the night
I saw her like a starry light
More lovely in my visions lone
Than in my day-dreams truth she shone.
'T is naught when on the sun we gaze
If only dazzled by his rays,
But when our eyes his form retain
Some wound to vision must remain. |
And again, at page 234, speaking of a slight shock
of
an earthquake, the earth is said to tremble
As if some wing of passing angel,
bound
From sphere to sphere, had brushed the golden chain
That hangs our planet to the throne of God. |
This latter passage, however, is, perhaps, not
altogether
original with Mr. Ward. In a poem now lying before us, entitled "Al
Aaraaf,"
the composition of a gentleman of Philadelphia, we find what follows:
A dome by link'd light from heaven
let
down
Sat gently on these columns as a crown;
A window of one circular diamond there
Looked out above into the purple air,
And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit flapped his dusky wing. |
But if Mr. Ward's imagery is, indeed, at rare
intervals,
good, it must be granted, on the other hand, that, in general, it is
atrociously
inappropriate, or low. For example:
Thou gaping chasm! whose wide
devouring throat
Swallows a river, while the gulping note
Of monstrous deglutition gurgles loud,
etc. Page
24.
Bright Beauty! child of starry birth,
The grace, the gem, the flower of earth,
The damask livery of Heaven! Page 44. |
Here the mind wavers between gems, and stars, and
taffety
— between footmen and flowers. Again, at page 46 —[page 165:]
All thornless flowers of wit, all
chaste
And delicate essays of taste,
All playful fancies, winged wiles,
That from their pinions scatter smiles,
All prompt resource in stress or pain,
Leap ready-armed from woman's brain. |
The idea of
"thornless flowers," etc., leaping "ready-armed"
could have entered few brains except those of Mr. Ward.
Of the most ineffable bad taste
we have instances
without number. For example — page 183 —
And, straining, fastens on her lips
a kiss
That seemed to suck the life-blood from her heart! |
And here, very gravely, at page 25 —
Again he's rous'd, first
cramming in his
cheek
The weed, though vile, that props the nerves when
weak. |
Here again, at page 33 —
Full well he knew where food does
not refresh,
The shrivel'd soul sinks inward with the flesh —
That he's best armed for danger's rash career,
Who's crammed so full there is no room for fear.
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But we doubt if the whole world of literature,
poetical
or prosaic, can afford a picture more utterly disgusting than
the
following, which we quote from page 177:
But most of all good eating cheers
the brain,
Where other joys are rarely met — at sea —
Unless, indeed, we lose as soon as gain —
Ay, there's the rub so baffling oft to me.
Boiled, roast, and baked — what precious choice of dishes
My generous throat has shared
among
the fishes!
'T is sweet to leave, in each forsaken spot,
Our foot-prints there — if only in the sand;
'T is sweet to feel we are not all forgot,
That some will weep our flight from every land;
And sweet the knowledge, when the seas I cross,
My briny messmates! ye will
mourn
my loss. |
This passage alone should damn the book — ay, damn
a dozen such.
Of what may be termed the niaiseries
— the
sillinesses — of the volume, there is no end. Under this head we might
quote two thirds of the work. For example:
Now lightning, with convulsive spasm
Splits heaven in many a fearful chasm. . . . .
It takes the high trees by the hair
And, as with besoms, sweeps the air. . . . . [page
166:]
Now breaks the gloom and through the chinks
The moon, in search of opening, winks — |
All seriously urged, at different points of page 66. Again, on the very
next page —
Bees buzzed and wrens that throng'd
the rushes
Poured round incessant twittering gushes. |
And here, at page 129 —
And now he leads her to the slippery
brink
Where ponderous tides headlong plunge down the horrid chink. |
And here, page 109 —
And, like a ravenous vulture, peck
The smoothness of that cheek and neck. |
And here, page 111 —
| While through the skin worms wriggling
broke. |
And here, page 170 —
| And ride the skittish backs
of untamed
waves. |
And here, page 214 —
Now clasps its mate in holy prayer
Or twangs a harp of gold. |
Mr. Ward, also, is constantly talking about
"thunder-guns,"
"thunder-trumpets," and "thunder-shrieks." He has a bad habit, too, of
styling an eye "a weeper," as for example, at page 208 —
Oh, curl in smiles that mouth again
And wipe that weeper dry. |
Somewhere else he calls two tears "two sparklers" —
very much in the style of Mr. Richard Swiveller, who was fond of
denominating
Madeira "the rosy." "In the nick," meaning in the height, or fulness,
is
likewise a pet expression of the author of "The Great Descender."
Speaking
of American forests, at page 286, for instance, he says, "let the
doubter
walk through them in the nick of their glory." A phrase which may be
considered
as in the very nick of good taste.
We cannot pause to comment upon Mr.
Ward's most extraordinary
system of versification. Is it his own? He has quite an
original
way of conglomerating consonants, and seems to have been experimenting
whether it were not possible to do altogether without vowels. Sometimes
he strings together quite a chain of impossibilities. The line, for
example,
at page 51,
| Or, only such as sea-shells flash, |
puts us much in mind of the schoolboy stumbling-block, beginning, [page
167:] "The cat ran up the ladder with a lump of raw liver
in
her mouth," and we defy Sam Patch himself to pronounce it twice in
succession
without tumbling into a blunder.
But we are fairly wearied with this
absurd theme. Who calls Mr. Ward a poet? He is a second-rate,
or a
third-rate,
or perhaps a ninety-ninth-rate poetaster. He is a gentleman of "elegant
leisure," and gentlemen of elegant leisure are, for the most part,
neither
men, women, nor Harriet Martineaus. Similar opinions, we believe, were
expressed by somebody else — was it Mr. Benjamin? — no very long while
ago. But neither Mr. Ward nor "The Knickerbocker" would be convinced.
The
latter, by way of defence, went into a treatise upon Sam Patch, and Mr.
Ward, "in the nick of his glory," wrote another poem against criticism
in general, in which he called Mr. Benjamin "a wasp" and "an owl," and
endeavored to prove him an ass. An owl is a wise bird — especially in
spectacles
— still, we do not look upon Mr. Benjamin as an owl. If all are owls
who
disbelieve in this book, (which we now throw to the pigs) then the
world
at large cuts a pretty figure, indeed, and should be burnt up in April,
as Mr. Miller desires — for it is only one immense aviary of owls. |
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