Text: William Henry Gravely, Jr., “Chapter 02,” The Early Political and Literary Career of Thomas Dunn English Story, dissertation, 1953 (This material is protected by copyright)

[page 33:]

The circumstances surrounding English's withdrawal from the Friends’ School in Burlington, New Jersey, and his eventual matriculation in the Medical School of the University of Pennsylvania are not altogether clear. Nor are they further clarified by the one or two brief comments with which biographical sketches have hitherto dismissed this important period of English's life. According to one account, for example, English's father had planned a medical career for his son but had been forced to withdraw him from the Friends’ School because of “business reverses when his son was sixteen.”(1) Another account, although agreeing with the former in attributing the abandonment of English's academic education to his father's financial reverses, relates that the lad had been “destined from birth for the bar.”(2) Not only are these statements contradictory, but the assertion in the first-mentioned sketch that English was sixteen years old when he ceased attending the Friends’ School cannot be reconciled with George W. Taylor's observation that the school was closed at the beginning of April, 1834.(3) If Taylor's observation is accurate, English had not even reached the age of fifteen when his formal academic education ended. At any rate, [page 34:] regardless of the plans that his father had made for his future career prior to that time, English's more immediate concern, apparently, was to follow his literary inclinations. It is probable that in pursuit of these inclinations he had hoped to complete his academic education at the University of Pennsylvania and that the condition of his father's finances made the realization of his hopes impossible.(4)

Although English must have sorely regretted not being able to acquire the sort of education that he preferred, he did not allow his frustrated hopes to dampen his early literary enthusiasm. During the period that elapsed between his withdrawal from the Friends’ School and his enrollment as a medical student at the University of Pennsylvania he began writing occasional editorials for an old and respectable dally newspaper in Philadelphia, known at that time as Poulson's American Daily Advertiser.(5) English [page 35:] thus entered upon a long journalistic career which extended intermittently throughout a period of more than sixty years. He began writing editorials almost simultaneously with the advent of the Herald in New York and the Public Ledger in Philadelphia — papers which, though at first frowned upon by conservative journalists because of their crudeness and sensationalism, were destined within the next fifteen years to assume a leading rôle in revolutionizing the existing methods of journalism.(6) But Zachariah Poulson, for whose paper English wrote, was a journalist of the old school. It is natural, therefore, especially in view of English's later tendency to engage in coarse invective through the medium of less conservative journals, that when he afterwards recorded his memories of [page 36:] Philadelphia newspapers he referred to himself as “a sort of connecting link” between newspaper men of two distinctly different eras.(7)

English's literary activities, however, were not confined to the writing of editorials. About the same time that he became actively engaged in journalism he published his first poem. “I date my downfall,” English once said to G. W. Thorne, “from the time I sent out my first literary effort.”(8) Referring also in his reminiscences to this same fatal move, he wrote:

Thus, even before he began his formal medical training, English had evinced the sort of enthusiasm for appearing in print that has so often proved fatal to the professional aspirations of men who somehow have been led to divide their energies between letters on the one hand and either law or medicine on the other. Practical considerations could not be ignored, however, and when the opportunity to prepare himself for a medical career eventually came, he did not turn it down. After studying for a while under the direction of Dr. Paul Beck Goddard of Philadelphia,(10) English matriculated in the Medical School of the University of Pennsylvania on November 14, 1836.(11)

At the time that English began his medical training, the University of Pennsylvania had already entered upon an [page 38:] era of expansion.(12) Although the Medical School had long occupied a position of great eminence and prestige, accompanied by much material prosperity, the College had been less fortunate. Prior to 1829, the latter had been passing through a period of depression. In that year, however, were laid the corner stones of two new buildings — the Medical School and the College — which were destined to be the home of the University until its removal years later to West Philadelphia. The site of these two buildings was the same that the University had occupied since 1802 — a quadrangle on the west side of Ninth Street and between Market and Chestnut Streets. Here the famous “President's House” had been erected as a residence for President Washington after the removal of the Federal Government to Philadelphia. Although begun in 1792, the building was not completed until 1797, and consequently Washington was unable to benefit from it. This was the building which in 1802 became the home of the University.

Almost from the first, however, the “President's House” proved Inadequate to the needs of the University. The medical professors, in particular, found the physical accommodations to be incommensurate with the requirements of a growing and prosperous school of medicine. As early as 1801, certain rooms in the “President's House” had been [page 39:] allotted to these professors. But even though another building, attached to the “President's House,” was erected in 1807 for their benefit and though this structure was enlarged ten years later, the medical professors continued to operate under cramped conditions. At length, by exerting unrelenting pressure, they managed to secure from the trustees of the University the promise of another separate building that would meet their requirements. The upshot of this successful move was that the College benefitted, along with the Medical School. The trustees, having yielded to the pressure of the medical professors, determined also to provide new accommodations for the College. Hence, they elected to demolish the old “President's House,” together with the structures that had been adjoined to it, and to erect in its stead twin buildings that would be suitable to the needs of both the Medical School and the College. These were the buildings whose corner stones were laid in 1829.

Thus, When Thomas Dunn English matriculated in the autumn of 1836, he did so at an auspicious time in the history of the University. Since the physical expansion of the University was accompanied by an intellectual renaissance, one may assume that English profited from being in the midst of this awakening. To a medical student whose main interests continued to be literary and who was destined to write frequently for publication throughout the course of his medical training, the resurgent [page 40:] academic life of the University must have been both gratifying and inspirational. Gratifying, too, must have been the knowledge that probably nowhere else in America could he have received better medical instruction.(13)

As if these were not advantages enough, a huge new almshouse had been completed during the year 1834 in Blockley, Pennsylvania,(14) not far from English's own home. When English entered the Medical School, professors from both the University of Pennsylvania and the Jefferson Medical College were among a group giving a course of lectures at Blockley Almshouse. The clinical nature of these lectures afforded the young student an excellent opportunity to enlarge his practical knowledge of medicine. About a year before English's matriculation, a writer in Poulson's American Daily Advertiser commented enthusiastically on the course of lectures which were then shortly to be instituted at the new almshouse. At the disposal of the lecturers was an immense lecture room that would accommodate as many as twelve hundred persons. “Here then,” the writer further remarked, “in the midst of materials, at the fountain head of cases, from the slightly affected to the dead subject, and in an apartment so [page 41:] spacious, is a new and fertile field to be opened for the benefit of the young gentlemen who come to our city, (the fountain of medical science) to imbibe wisdom and collect stores of knowledge. I can fancy nothing more attractive. Hundreds of students will no doubt avail themselves of this new and interesting offer, and profit by it.”(15)

While English was a student at the University of Pennsylvania, the Medical Faculty remained unchanged.(16) There were seven professorships in all, each chair being filled by a man of eminent qualifications insofar as his knowledge of medicine was concerned. Nathaniel Chapman held the chair of the Theory and Practice of Medicine and Clinical Medicine. Robert Hare, William Gibson, and William E. Horner, occupied, respectively, the chairs of Chemistry, Surgery, and Anatomy. Samuel Jackson held the chair of Institutes of Medicine, and George B. Wood, that of Materia Medica and Pharmacy. Hugh L. Hodge was Professor of Obstetrics and Diseases of Women and Children.(17) Although there is ample testimony, including English's, to support the conclusion that certain of these men varied considerably in their ability to teach, all of them came to be recognized as men of distinction in their special fields of medicine.(18) [page 42:]

Unfortunately, there are no extant contemporary records or letters that throw light upon English's accomplishments as a student or upon his relations with his teachers. Only the barest details relating to his matriculation and graduation are a matter of record, and these can be disposed of briefly.(19) The records show that when he enrolled as a student on November 14, 1836, he was a resident of Philadelphia. They show further that he was a candidate for the degree of Doctor of Medicine in March, 1839; that “Phrenology” was the subject of his thesis; and that Dr. Horner was his thesis examiner.(20) According to the records, also, he passed his examination on March 30th, having no later than that date paid the regular fee of forty dollars required of all students receiving their degrees.(21) Although his residence at the time of his graduation is recorded as Philadelphia, his specific address in Philadelphia is listed as Blockley. The inference is therefore sound that he was almost certainly living in Blockley when he matriculated in 1836, even though no specific address in Philadelphia is given for that year. On April 5, 1839, English was among a group of 146 graduates receiving their degrees at a Public Commencement held in the Musical Fund Hall on Locust Street. After the conferring [page 43:] of degrees, Professor Nathaniel Chapman delivered the Commencement address.(22)

In spite of the sparsity of authentic data concerning English's career as a medical student, it is possible to supplement this meagre information with his own recollections of three of his professors. Inasmuch as these reminiscences are anecdotal, however, and were apparently written in part to emphasize the cleverness and adroitness whereby he had successfully survived the ordeal of his final oral examinations, one may be excused for suspecting that they contain too much imaginative coloring to represent the unalloyed truth. But even though they tend to place English himself in a somewhat glorified light, they are noteworthy both because they reveal that English had the very human tendency of most raconteurs to exalt themselves and because they furnish amusing and apparently accurate glimpses into the personalities of three of his distinguished teachers.

Nathaniel Chapman was the teacher who seems to have left the deepest impression upon English. A native Virginian, Chapman had moved in 1797 to Philadelphia, where he began studying medicine privately under the celebrated Dr. Benjamin Rush.(23) A few years afterwards he was graduated [page 44:] with high honors from the Medical School of the University of Pennsylvania, and still later he studied abroad in London and in Edinburgh. At length, Chapman became a professor at his Alma Mater and by the time of his resignation in 1850 had attained to an eminent position among the distinguished practitioners of his profession. In the opinion of a noted colleague, Dr. Samuel Jackson, Chapman's The Elements of Therapeutics and Materia Medica “was the best treatise in the English language” on those branches of medicine with which it dealt.(24) But Chapman was a man of catholic tastes, who wrote upon literary, as well as upon medical, topics. Aside from being learned, he was socially charming, had a keen sense of humor, and was a brilliant lecturer and conversationalist. Naturally he was idolized by his students and much sought after by his friends and acquaintances. “Nature had cast him in so plastic a mould,” said Dr. Jackson, “that he would have been distinguished in any position of life.”(25)

English remembered Chapman as the professor who for a long while was “most identified with the Medical Department of the University of Pennsylvania”(26) and as a humorist whose specialty was punning — a form of humor not frowned upon at [page 45:] that time by cultivated people in Philadelphia. “In his lectures,” English recalled, “he had a standard stock of jokes that were fired off every season, and duly applauded by the students. One of these I remember, quite good in its way, though when heard several seasons in succession, it lost the main merit — unexpectedness. You will observe, gentlemen,’ said the Professor, ‘one fatal sign in this disease, when forming your prognosis — a relaxation of the upper part of the mouth. A man to recover in typhus fever must keep & stiff upper lip!’”(27)

English's account of his final oral examination under Professor Chapman is entertaining:

Another professor under whom English had to undergo the ordeal of a final oral examination was the famous chemist, Robert Hare. This great scientist, who early became internationally famous through his invention of the oxyhydrogen blowpipe, was probably the greatest chemist of his time in America and one of the greatest that this country has produced.(29) In spite of his profound chemical knowledge, however, there is evidence to support English's observation that Hare was a poor lecturer, who was unable to communicate his knowledge to his students.(30) English, found his lectures “dry, tedious, and dull,”(31) but [page 47:] remembered him as a brilliant experimenter whose able demonstrations atoned somewhat for the tedium of his lectures. Nonetheless, English admitted that instead of attending Hare's class he generally went to the private room of one of his other professors and spent an hour there. Consequently, as the time for his oral examination in chemistry drew near, he was caught somewhat unprepared. Knowing, however, that he had a satisfactory basic knowledge of chemistry and that he would probably have an opportunity to ride a hobby of Hare's — a peculiar kind of nomenclature which the professor employed — , he felt reasonably confident that he could successfully pass the examination. At length the fateful day arrived and brought the following consequences as English has described them:

During the entire period of English's enrollment at the University, Dr. William E. Horner not only, occupied the chair of Anatomy but was Dean of the Medical School. Like Chapman, a native Virginian, Homer was also a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and early became identified with the life of his adopted State. Samuel D. Gross regarded him as “the most accomplished anatomist that our country has produced,” and, as evidence of his preeminence in his field, pointed “to the beautiful preparations, many exclusively the work of his hands, contained in the Horner and Wistar Museum of the University of Pennsylvania.”(33) His dissections, according to Gross, “were models of neatness, evincing unusual patience and dexterity.”(34)

According to English's recollections,(35) Horner was a dry but at the same time, paradoxically, a rather pleasing lecturer. He was “very exact, very precise, very methodical” and had “a dried-up look, as though he were one of his own skeletons that had borrowed a skin too small for it.”(36) [page 49:] Anticipating a difficult examination from Horner, English had prepared himself exceptionally well in anatomy. He was much chagrined, however, when he learned that Horner was to examine him on his thesis. English had chosen “Phrenology” as his subject and had reached conclusions generally sympathetic toward the opinions of Gall and Spurzheim.(37) Therein lay the cause of his chagrin, for Horner had small regard for these opinions. Consequently, when the time of examination arrived, English felt considerable uneasiness. Nor did this uneasiness abate in the least when he discovered that those who had preceded him to the lion's den were not emerging unscathed. But English summoned courage to enter and face his examiner, as he relates in the following account:

Aside from the light thrown upon English's personality by the amusing egotism of this reminiscence, we are provided here with additional information concerning his activities as a medical student. Sometime in 1838, apparently, English dissected in the private rooms of Professor Joseph Pancoast. In 1828 Pancoast had completed his medical course at the University of Pennsylvania, where he was highly regarded by Horner because of his combined talent for anatomy and surgery.(39) Not long after taking [page 51:] his degree, according to Samuel D. Gross, Pancoast hired certain rooms on Chant Street where he successfully instituted a course of lectures designed to stress the practical side of anatomy.(40) English was doubtless one of the many students who were induced to study under Pancoast because of the practical benefits to be derived from his lectures. Pancoast, in the words of Gross, “knew how to infuse life into the cadaver; how to wake up the bones and muscles and nerves and viscera, and make them respond to the diagnosis and treatment of disease and accident.”(41) During the same year in which English received this valuable practical training, Pancoast was rewarded for his abilities. Dr. George McClellan, the founder of the Jefferson Medical College in Philadelphia, gave up his chair of Surgery in that institution, and Pan coast was appointed in his stead.(42)

The story of English's life as a medical student must not be concluded without some mention of Professor George McClellan. Generally unpopular with the medical professors of the University of Pennsylvania — partly, no doubt, because he had founded a rival institution and partly, perhaps, because of his aggressive and unorthodox practices(43) — [page 52:] McClellan seems, nonetheless, to have left an imprint on English. In fact, English's memories of the eccentric professor went back to early childhood when McClellan paid a professional visit to some member of the English household. “My father's ‘secretary* was locked Up,” English recalled, “and in it pens, ink and paper, so there was nothing at hand with which to prepare a prescription. But the servant maid was tacking down a piece of oilcloth in the vestibule. Beside her was a box, containing odds and ends. From this the doctor took a gimlet, and seizing a piece of pasteboard, wrote his prescription on that by indentation. The prescription went to the apothecary's and was filled, while the prescription Itself hung in the shop for a long while as a curiosity.”(44)

As an operator, McClellan gained fame because of his remarkable success in removing the parotid gland at a time when many distinguished physicians denied that the operation could be successfully accomplished. He is said to have removed the gland successfully in ten out of eleven attempts.(45) It is no wonder, then, that the eccentric professor stoutly defended himself in the war that developed between him and Professor Gibson of the University of Pennsylvania, who was opposed in principle to the [page 53:] operation.(46) English recalled with evident relish and a keen sense of humor the emphatic manner in which McClellan stated his case:

English further points out that in the war which developed between McClellan and Gibson, together with their partisans, McClellan eventually won vindication, for other distinguished surgeons also successfully removed the gland.(48)

Let us now turn to English's literary activities during his student days, as well as during the period immediately thereafter when he was seeking to establish himself in one way or another. If there is little beyond English's own reminiscences to throw light upon his progress [page 54:] as a medical student, the magazines and newspapers of the period provide authoritative proof that he was prolific as a young writer and that he attained very early to what he afterwards called “the fatal gift of acceptance.”(49) During the period from 1837 to l840, inclusive, English was a frequent contributor to no less than four Philadelphia periodicals: The Gasket, The Gentleman's Magazine, the Saturday Evening Post, and the Saturday Courier. Although most of his contributions were poems, he occasionally gave indication of the diversity of his interests by publishing brief prose articles on topics so far apart as African termites and Polish poetry.(50)

An examination of the fugitive verse which English contributed to the abovementioned periodicals during his student days and shortly thereafter will bear out the truth of his own admission that he was responsible for “some pretty poor stuff.”(51) Consequently, it is not surprising to find him, as a man of eighty, urging young prospective writers to avoid rushing into print and to refrain from signing their own names to their youthful compositions. “I do not know how early I began to write doggerel,” he remarked in an article addressed to youthful would-be authors, “but at fifteen years I wrote a love [page 55:] poem. It appeared in print over my initials through the grace of a good-natured editor. A musical composer of the town saw the lines, married them to a melody and published them. This put into my head that I was a poet, and

I proceeded forthwith to continually inflict on the public a number of verses to which I was incautious enough to affix my name. Fortunately these were either published in journals, now dead, or were overlooked by the public in general. Occasionally, however, I meet with some venerable gentlewoman who says to me: ‘Doctor, I have such a charming poem of yours in my scrap book.1 Then I feel a creeping sensation up my backbone, for I know what is coming. She produces one of these early efforts, and on looking at it I feel very much like the pious deacon who exclaimed, when viewing the skeleton of a donkey: ‘How fearfully and wonderfully we are made.’”(52)

In view of English's confident expectation that most of these relics of his youthful indiscretion would never rise up to plague him, it is ironical that his biographer must assume the responsibility of resurrecting even the least insignificant of them. Nonetheless, some acquaintance with English's early fugitive verse is essential if one is either to arrive at an adequate understanding of his later poetic achievement or to determine, with even a [page 56:] tolerable degree of critical accuracy, the literary forces which contributed to his poetic development and the extent to which his poetry reflects the literary trends of the

times.

Unfortunately, one can find little in this youthful fugitive verse to justify its being evaluated much above the general run of mediocre, and even worse then mediocre, poetry which filled the newspapers and magazines of the period and which seems to have satisfied the demands of a none too discriminating reading public. Nor can one find that stamp of individuality which is generally present even in the early immature and imitative verse of poets of genius. On the other hand, the mere fact that as youth of English's years could write publishable poetry that appealed widely even to the not-overcritical reader indicates that he possessed considerable cleverness and skill in versification. One must admit, however, that English's early verse contains most of the faults common to juvenile poetry, in addition to some less common and certainly less excusable.

The period in which English began to write was a sentimental one.(53) It was an age of much insipid and mawkish [page 57:] love poetry, as well as of much moralizing verse of a sentimentally tearful sort. Reform was rife, and those real or alleged vices that fell under its crusading spirit were duly and harshly dealt with in verses whose sentimental emotionalism can only provoke laughter in a tougher and less gullible age. Maiden virtue was ever in danger of being rudely strumpeted, and the mere thought that childhood innocence and happiness must give way to sin and pain was excuse enough for many a mournful poem. The simple, domestic virtues were continually extolled, and these were shielded in righteously indignant and sentimental verse against any social vice or other force from without that threatened to corrupt them.

Unquestionably, English was responsible for a plentiful number of callow poems made of this sentimental stuff. Yet it is not altogether certain whether these poems are a fair indication of his own subjective feelings It is clear that English early acquired the journalist's habit of feeling the literary pulse of his public and of catering to that public's needs and desires. Furthermore,

he had a keen sense of humor which often found expression in ironical or satirical verse that is anything but sentimental in quality. Bearing directly on this point is English's own reply to a critical comment made a number of years later by Rufus Griswold after the latter had finally allotted English a page in the sixteenth edition of The Poets and Poetry of America. In a brief biographical [page 58:] sketch, Griswold made the following pronouncement: “Dr. English is of that large and busy class known as ‘reformers ,’ and seldom writes without some other purpose than the making of verses.”(54) Taking exception to this comment, English later said: “A great mistake all this. I am not one of the ‘reformers’ at all; but am conservative in almost all things. I write verses because publishers pay me well; publishers pay me well because the public seem to like my themes, and the manner in which they are handled; and so long as I am paid, and no longer, I shall continue to write. So the Rev. Mr G. is partly right and partly wrong.”(55) Of course, this answer to Griswold's observation doubtless contains English's maturer and more callous judgment, and it is quite possible, therefore, that the sentiments expressed in it are not applicable to the first fruits of his poetic impulses. It is more than likely that the sentimental and crusading tendencies prevalent in much of his early poetry are, in the main, a true index of his youthful feelings and attitudes.

Love is a likely theme of most very young poets, and English's early verse was no exception to this general tendency. While he was still only seventeen years old he contributed to the Philadelphia Saturday Courier a light [page 59:] lyric poem entitled “The Farewell,”(56) which, though sentimental and trivial in substance is at any rate euphonically, more pleasing than some of his more ambitious attempts where the sentimentality is heavy-handed and less pardonable:

But there are mawkish love poems enough to incriminate the young poet. In “Stanzas”(57) the poet compares the “dear eyes” of the beloved to the brilliant “gems from Golconda's [page 60:] deep mine” and to the sparkling “wave of the sea.” Her “dear fairy form” is lighter than “the foam of the sea, or the snow of the storm,” and her lips are redder than “the hues of the west.” His final tribute is to her purity of minds”

In “To a White Rose”(58) the rose is the emblem of the poet's dead love. The contemplation of it brings dark forebodings to the lover. Sad disease had transformed into agony the bliss of those who loved the young girl. The poet will remember his beloved as beautiful in death and as one whose soul Heaven took away because it was “too pure for earth.” In “To the Lady of My Heart”(59) the lover proclaims his own unworthiness and asks nothing from his sweetheart save one pitying sigh:

A similar tearful vein runs through many other love poems.

Early death, youthful innocence, and nostalgia for times gone by are the themes of much sentimentalizing by English. “The Dying Girl”(60) is an exceptionally mournful poem. A father who has traveled far and wide and who left his young daughter when she was in the full bloom of health [page 61:] returns to find his beloved child wasted with disease. She is dying, but implores her parents not to grieve. She longs for the breast of Jesus and knows that she is going

to a sun-bright clime, away from sin and woe. Death comes, and the father drops a tear on the dead girl's cheek, whereupon weeping breaks forth as all take a farewell look at the departed one.(61) “Infancy” is a poem in blank verse praising the guilelessness of babyhood. The poet would not trust the man of mature powers who would scorn the innocence of infancy. As a ruler, such a man would be fit only for war and strife. In “The Peasant Boy”(62) the poet wishes that he himself were a happy, carefree lad like the subject of his poem. Eventually, when the young peasant boy comes in contact with the sordidness of the world, he will long for his carefree state. A nostalgic desire for the past is present in this poem, as it is also in “Stanzas, (On Beholding Some School-Toys).”(63) The toys of his childhood recall to the poet those happy days when there was no sadness or sin in him. Let the world scoff at such simple things! He could well answer the world, but “the best answer’1 is his “tear-filled eye”!

As a youthful poet of reform, English early turned his attention toward the real or imaginary evils of drink. [page 62:] Nor was he alone. The “bowl” was anathema to countless poetasters of the times, and they wrote many an excruciatingly bad poem condemning it and all that it symbolized to them. In Philadelphia, newspapers like the Saturday Courier and the Saturday Evening Post, as well as magazines like The Casket, were essentially “family” publications

which gave considerable space to didactic literature having to do with social reform, including many temperance poems. In these periodicals, English found a suitable repository for much of his early moralizing verse.

“The Rise and Fall”(64) has to do with a man who, being the only child of his parents, was once their main hope. They looked forward to the day when he would accomplish great things. But he was, alas, the victim of a fall which English describes in an ill-advised attempt at Miltonic grandeur, not offset by his use of the Spenserian stanza:

In “Touch Not the Bowl”(65) English abandons the half narrative, half descriptive style of the foregoing stanza and adopts that of earnest exhortation: [page 63:]

But the young reformer is not always so painfully serious. In “Temperance Song”(66) he adopts the zestful mood and rhythm of a rollicking drinking song. He praises the bowl as a source of life and health — not the wine bowl, but the bowl filled to the brim with water, which leaves “no sting when ‘tis quaffed”:

Although the sentimental and zealous poems thus far cited represent an important segment of English's early verse, they are hardly a fair cross section of it. Bad as most of his early poetry is, it is not quite so reprehensible as these samples would seem to indicate. English undoubtedly wrote better poetry when he abandoned the stuff and manner of such drivel and modeled his work more closely upon that of some great poet. True, this more commendable work exemplifies the weaknesses of most imitative verse, but there have been few great poets who did not follow in their youth some master of their art. If they managed to [page 64:] come under the master's spell without becoming slaves to his technique, they have often been the better poets for the experience.

Since English early became addicted to the use of rhetoric in poetry, and apparently took delight in the grand style and the purple passage, it is fortunate that he did have some contact with rhetoric at its best. “The Genius of Revenge”(67) is clearly influenced by Paradise Lost. Through a magic process, a fiend is summoned who turns out to be the “genius of revenge.” English's description of this “fiend of the swarthy brow” strongly suggests Milton's famous picture of Satan in the first book of Paradise Lost:

Like many other young writers of his day, English came early under the influence of Byron. The extent to which this influence was direct or Indirect, however, is not easy to determine, for when English first began to compose verses, the vogue of Byron had already become

widespread and his imitators in America, numerous. Nonetheless, there is evidence enough in English's early poetry to warrant the conclusion that his direct indebtedness [page 65:] to Byron was considerable. Furthermore, even though the evidence of primary indebtedness were less obvious, the presumption is that an aspiring young poet would be much more likely to emulate the literary idol of the hour than one or more of that Idol's numerous satellites.

English's early attempts to write poetry that could be set to music were evidently inspired to some degree by one or more of the poems which Byron had originally published, with the music, under the title of Hebrew Melodies. There is little doubt, for example, that more than one of English's youthful lyrics was influenced by “The Destruction of Sennacherib.” Sometimes, as in English's “Lines for Music,”(69) written when he was nineteen, the fact of indebtedness is definitely established by verbal resemblance. The first stanza of English's poem is as follows:

Compare these lines with the first stanza of Byron's poem:

Despite the additional couplet in the first-quoted stanza, as well as the dissimilarity of the materials employed in the two poems, English's indebtedness to Byron is clear [page 66:] enough. The Assyrian's cohorts, which “were gleaming in purple and gold,” and their spears, which sparkled “like stars” on the sea of Galilee, strongly suggest, in English's poem, the eyes of the beloved, which are “beaming kindly and bright” and which resemble “two brilliant sapphires in oceans of light.” But the strongest evidence of indebtedness may be deduced from a comparison of Byron's line,

with English's line,

In addition to the foregoing similarities, it is interesting to note that English's manner of developing his theme resembles that employed by Byron. In “The Destruction of Sennacherib” Byron achieves a powerful emotional effect through the vivid use of contrast. When the mighty host approaches, it radiates youthful vitality and power. Suddenly, all of this vibrant strength is transformed into something cold, still, and lifeless. The angel of Death is the instrument of this transformation:

Just so, as may be seen in the second and final stanza of English's poem, Death, personified as “the skeleton wooer,” destroys the radiant beauty of the beloved:

But English wrote lyrics that are more akin in spirit to “The Destruction of Sennacherib” than the poem just discussed. These were published in Burton's Gentleman's Magazine during the period of Poe's editorship and less than a year after English had received his degree in medicine. Just as Byron had included in his Hebrew Melodies lyrics with such titles as “The Destruction of Sennacherib” and “On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem by Titus,” so English, in The Gentleman's Magazine for March and May, 1840, published under the general title, “Sacred Lyrics,” a series of four poems bearing the following subtitles: “The Death of Samson,”

“The Conquest of Gideon,” “The Death of Sisera,” and “The Coming of Jehovah.”(70) All of these poems contain four six-line stanzas having essentially the same rhythmical pattern as that intended in the halting “Lines for Music,” the basic meter being anapaestic tetatrameter. In addition, they have the militant tone of “The Destruction of Sennacherib,” as indeed their titles would suggest.

Byron's American imitators had already established a precedent for writing militant sacred lyrics. As William Ellery Leonard has observed, “The Hebrew Melodies set [page 68:] country parsons early at work on ‘The Destruction of Sodom,’ ‘Jael’ and the like.”(71) Certainly, in the dramatic Biblical account of the destruction of Sisera's hosts and the slaying of Sisera by Jael, the poetasters had a readymade subject for their mutilating hands. Such tampering was mere desecration, of course, for there is perhaps no finer specimen of Hebrew poetry translated into English than the Authorized rendering of the superb “Song of Deborah,” where the great victory over Sisera and his conquering army is celebrated.(72) At any rate, “The Death of Sisera” convicts English of being one of the tamperers, even though he was probably a better poet than most of those who were guilty of the sacrilege. The second stanza of English's poem, in spite of a flagrant grammatical error, preserves, in a series of rhetorical questions, something of the dramatic and emotional intensity of the Biblical poem at the point where Sisera's mother, not knowing that her son has been slain or his army destroyed, cannot understand why his triumphal return has been so long delayed:

Perhaps the most successful of English's four sacred [page 69:] lyrics and the one which most vividly suggests certain poems from the Hebrew Melodies — especially “The Destruction of Sennacherib — is “The Coming of Jehovah.” It is quoted below in its entirety both because it is relevant to the topic under discussion and because it is one of the more creditable examples of the youthful Byronic verse that English wrote before attaining his majority:

One scarcely need point out that the concluding line of each of these stanzas — especially that of the second stanza,

suggests Byron's concluding line in “The Destruction of Sennacherib,” [page 70:]

or that English's couplet,

suggests Byron's

More important than these verbal and metrical resemblances is the similarity of manner and tone in the two poems. English's use of highly figurative and rhetorical language, his handling of the theme of divine vengeance with its terrible consequences, and his fervent emotional appeal to the militant spirit — all establish pretty conclusively the source of his indebtedness.

In “The Coming of Jehovah” one will seek in vain for the strikingly original image or the subtle suggestiveness of the accomplished artist. The poem does reveal, however, that English could adapt himself successfully to an established rhythmical pattern and that he could compose rhythmical verse with facility. It reveals also that at an early age he was able to employ rhetoric effectively in poetry. Whatever dulling effect the exercise of this talent may have had upon his artistic sensibility, it enabled him to impart to his verse an undeniable masculine strength and intensity. These qualities reflect most clearly, perhaps, the influence that Byron exerted upon his poetry, whether for good or for ill. [page 71:]

But English's early Byronic verse was not confined to poems written in Byron's more romantic vein. Zephaniah Doolittle, which originally appeared in The Gentleman's Magazine for September, 1838,(73) and shortly thereafter was reprinted in the form of a pamphlet, is a palpable imitation of Byron's humorous and satirical manner as exemplified in Don Juan.(74) The meter and rhyme scheme are also patently Byronic despite the fact that a line from the poem itself contains the puzzling assertion that the measure was “modeled after Dorset.”(75) English departs from Byron's stanza only by adding to the ottava rima a ninth line having the same meter and rhyme as the two lines immediately preceding. The poem contains sixty-eight of these nine-line stanzas.

In both magazine and pamphlet versions of Zephaniah Doolittle English's name appears merely as editor, the poem being represented as having come from “the Manuscripts of Montmorency Sneerlip Snags, Esq.”(76) Preceding the text of each version is the following garbled quotation from Skelton's Colyn Clout: [page 72:]

Also preceding the text of the magazine version of the poem is a very brief summary of the content. “The said poem,” in the words of the self-styled editor, “containeth the Adventures of the Hero previous to his intended essay at Preaching; his race with Bumble's bull; the battle con-

sequent thereon; a soaring attempt at sublimity, which falleth into bombast; and divers other matters.”(78) The reprint omits this summary, but contains a foreword in which English announces that he has not felt free to tamper to any considerable extent with the text of the

original manuscript and that he is in no way “responsible for the language or sentiments of the poem.”(79) Here, too, by simulating a lack of agreement with the alleged author's sentiments, he pointedly hints that the clergy are to be satirized in the poem. “The late lamented Mr. Snags,”

says English, “had one peculiar fault, namely, an antipathy. to the clergy. With this I do not certainly agree. Had I written the work, I should have let them remain in obscurity.”(80) The basic narrative of the poem is extremely farcical and leaves little room for doubting that one of English's chief aims was to have some rollicking fun at [page 73:] the expense of the clergy. Zephaniah Doolittle, a would be preacher and the hero of the story, is introduced to the reader in the first three stanzas:

The underlying narrative from here on may be summarized briefly. In accordance with his wishes, it was arranged that on a certain day Zephaniah Doolittle would preach his projected sermon. Finally, the manuscript was completed, and we are told that “it had five headings,”(82)

each of which was anointed with “the bright dulness”(83) of Zephaniah's brain. On the appointed day all the village [page 74:] assembled at church to hear this eagerly anticipated sermon, but no Zephaniah Doolittle appeared. It develops that the blossoming preacher had made the mistake of taking a short cut to the church by way of Squire Bumble's orchard. Zephaniah had hardly scaled the orchard wall when he found himself in a race with Bumble's furious bull. As the chase grew hotter, Zephaniah was forced to drop in succession his sermon, his Bible, and his hat.

Luckily, he managed to save himself just in time by climbing an apple tree. Since the bull refused to go away, Zephaniah had no choice but to remain ignominiously perched in the tree while the congregation awaited his momentous sermon. Eventually the assembled people disbanded, and Doolittle managed to hail a party coming across the field. Now, however, the bull turned upon the rescuers, who, unfortunately, were less successful in escaping the beast's fury than Doolittle had been. At length, another party came to the rescue, and the tide of battle turned. Through the combined efforts of both parties the bull was driven away after having been pelted with Mewtown pippins and other missiles. Frightened and pale, Zephaniah Doolittle came down from his place of refuge, but his ardor for preaching had cooled. In the future, whenever he felt an urge to preach, he was kept away from the pulpit by the memory of his experience.

The ingenuousness of this narrative may seem far removed from the sophistication of Don Juan. It does not, [page 75:] however, hide the source of English's indebtedness. Actually, one need look no farther than the first line of English's poem for irrefutable proof of verbal imitation. His

is clearly modeled upon Byron's introductory line in the third canto of Don Juan,

But in order to appreciate how thoroughgoing an imitation Zephaniah Doolittle is, one must familiarize himself with the technique of the poem. An examination of this technique will reveal that the more obvious characteristics of Byron's manner are unquestionably present even though the infinite variety of Don Juan is woefully lacking.

In no way does English's debt to Don Juan stand out more clearly than in his use of digressions. True, the digressions in Zephaniah Doolittle, unlike those in Don Juan, are often crudely integrated with the narrative. But this dissimilarity is due primarily to inferior artistry on English's part rather than to any intentional deviation in design. Interspersed throughout the narrative are various kinds of digressions — some humorous and satirical, and some serious in their attempts to reach the sublime. The announcement of Doolittle's desire to preach evokes an amusing digression on the theme of ambition,(84) and the account of his being chased up the tree leads to a [page 76:] mock-serious apostrophe to Hope.(85) In other digressions, English is the social satirist, caustically attacking quackery in medicine and animal magnetism.(86) Near the

end of the poem, he introduces — without the least justification from the standpoint of unity of design — a lengthy description of a shipwreck and a storm at sea.(87) This digression is clearly an attempt to reproduce Byronic poetry in the grand manner, depicting the majesty of Nature in her wild and tempestuous aspects. It calls to mind not’ only the famous shipwreck scene in the second canto of Don Juan,(88) but the equally famous description of the Alpine storm in the third canto of Childe Harold.(89) A few stanzas will suffice to show that English's “soaring attempt at sublimity” suggests each of these renowned passages. The approach of the storm is described thus:

Unable to cope with the fury of the storm, a stately ship bearing riches from the east meets her doom. The following stanzas describe the futile struggle — the destruction [page 77:] of the vessel and the helpless plight of the crew:

Other obvious Byronic devices present in Zephaniah Doolittle may be mentioned briefly. Especially noticeable is the intentional use of amusing rhyming combinations such as “pistons” and “distance”; “grind him” and “inclined him”; “ridiculous” and “tickle us”; “clergy” and “heard ye.” Noticeable, too, are the humorous use of parenthetical expressions and the studied juxtaposition of the sublime and the absurd. The latter device is well illustrated at the end of the poem. As soon as the author finishes his rhetorical flight describing the storm and the shipwreck, he announces that his “jingling poem”(92) is ended and that he will not often trouble his readers again But he warns them never to cross an orchard in which there is a bull. [page 78:]

If the publication of Zephaniah Doolittle in the form of a pamphlet indicates that either English or the publisher of The Gentleman's Magazine hoped thereby to create any sort of stir in the literary world, each must have been disappointed. What little comment the poem evoked seems to have been unfavorable. The editor of The Hesperian gave it the following brief and caustic notice, obviously not taking a charitable view of English's suggestion that the discerning reader would “find in it some pith”:

Evidently some critics, at least, were becoming surfeited with the large amount of inferior Byronic verse that for a number of years had been inflicted upon the public.

Another interesting and important segment of English's youthful verse is his work as a translator. At an early age he acquired a respectable knowledge of the Polish language and, while still only nineteen years old, contributed to The Gentleman's Magazine a brief article on

the poetry of Poland which was interspersed with passages translated by himself from distinguished Polish poets.(94) [page 79:] English's article was designed to give the general reader some idea of the whole range of Polish poetry from about 1600 to 1838. He mentions numerous writers, the periods in which they flourished, and something of their relative importance and significance. Inasmuch as more than half the article is given over to translated extracts from representative poems of certain of the authors treated, it is necessarily exceedingly sketchy. English makes little attempt, except in the most general way, to evaluate the poetry quoted.

In the course of his article, English tells about A. A. Iakubowski, a Pole who came to the United States when Poland failed to win her struggle for liberty and who, in addition to his poetry, wrote The Remembrances of a Polish Exile. According to English, Iakubowski was supposed to have died of a broken heart after he had gone to Mexico in search of a relative who was a general in the Mexican army. Having been haughtily received by his relative, the exile set out again for the United States. But he never recovered from the rebuff he had received and soon died, crushed in spirit. A celebrated Polish pianist of Philadelphia gave English an unpublished poem by Iakubowski — an ode to Napoleon. English translated it and included the translation in his article.(95)

The article ends with a fervently expressed wish for the eventual redemption of Poland. “The poetry of [page 80:] Sarmatia,” writes English, “is like the feelings of her own children, wild and chivalrous. It is found in the breasts of all her sons, it animates their souls, and diffuses rays of hope over the dark cloud of their sorrow. May the day come when the unhappy country shall be raised again to the rank of a nation.”(96)

Among the Polish poets discussed by English in his article are Ignatz Krasicki and Adam Mickiewicz. On Archbishop Krasicki's Monachomachia, a late-nineteenth-century satire on the kind of education in vogue at church colleges, English comments: “So pungent is its language,

that to it is ascribed the honor of changing the then existing system of instruction.”(97) From the Faris of Michiewicz, the great nineteenth-century Romantic poet, English reproduces a translated extract which is to a nineteen-year-old youth's credit, however much the rather free translation may depend upon the excellence of the original. Faris is a beautiful poem of a Bedouin horseman, saturated in the oriental imagery so prevalent at the time. English's translation successfully preserves much of this oriental flavor, as well as the rapid movement of the poem:

English's interest in the work of Krasicki induced him to begin a series of translations from that author's writings. In addition to five fables in prose from the tales of Krasicki, published by Burton's Gentleman's Magazine in 1839,(99) English translated no less than fourteen fables in rhyme from the work of the same author. All of these rhyming fables appeared during the year 1840 in three separate numbers of Burton's.(100) Although all of them are characterized by a monotonous sameness, they do display an ironical sense of humor and, whatever their lack of poetic merit, deliver themselves of their moral preachments with undeniable pungency and finality. Two of these fables will indicate adequately what the remainder are like:

THE RAM AND THE JACKASS

THE LAZY OXEN

The genuine sympathy which English felt so early in life for the downtrodden Polish nation and its literature is important, biographically, for two reasons. First, it helps to explain his later successive enthusiasms for Irish Repeal and for the cause of the South in the War of Secession. His youthful ardor for the political independence of a liberty-loving people made helpless by superior military and economic might suggests that his later enthusiasms cannot be entirely explained on grounds of political opportunism. Clearly, despite the hardening experience which was to come to him as the result of his close connection with practical politics and journalism, there always remained in the man much of that kind of romantic idealism which instinctively sympathizes with a people either striving to rid itself of foreign domination or determined to defend its homeland against invasion. Second, English's [page 83:] interest in Poland and her literature was a matter of more significance than he himself probably foresaw at the time. In 1881 an anthology of Polish poetry in translation appeared in Chicago under the editorship of Paul Sobolewski, a Polish exile and an important pioneer in the effort to acquaint the people of the United States with the literary attainments of the Polish people. Evidently having in mind the success of Rufus Griswold's numerous editions of The Poets and Poetry of America, he adopted for his collection the title of Poets and Poetry of Poland. In the Introduction to his work, Sobolewski states that he has made use of certain translations by Dr. Thomas Dunn English, whom he describes as “an American gentleman of eminent poetic talent.”(102) An examination of Sobolewski's anthology will reveal that his debt to English is heavy, for he drew copiously upon the identical translations which English had contributed many years earlier to The Gentleman's Magazine.(103) Thus, in any true history [page 84:] of the political and cultural forces which have contributed to the enrichment of Polish-American relations, the name of Thomas Dunn English must occupy a distinct and not unimportant niche.

For a number of years after receiving his degree in medicine English was too much preoccupied with other matters to be able to establish any medical practice worthy

of mention. Not only did he eagerly pursue his creative inclinations, but he soon renewed his interest in editorial work and shortly afterwards became seriously engrossed in politics. Not long after his graduation from the University, he was given editorial employment by Joseph Metcalfe, who at that time was publisher of the Philadelphia Star. Metcalfe already knew at first hand [page 85:] something about English's editorial abilities, for he had been employed as a printer for Poulson's American Daily Advertiser when English, as a boy in his middle teens was writing editorials for that paper.(104)

There is no way of ascertaining just how early English's association with the Star began. It can be definitely established, however, that he assumed his duties prior to the year 1841, and that also prior to that year he had become actively interested in politics. On December 24, 1840, English was present at a complimentary dinner given in conjunction with a meeting held in Philadelphia to celebrate the recent political victory of William Henry Harrison. J. Washington Tyson, a local Whig leader with whom English later formed political ties, was one of the distinguished guests. Toasts were offered to Harrison, Tyler, and Clay, and a communication from the latter was read expressing his regret at not being able to attend the meeting. A contemporary account of the festive gathering records that when the dinner committee toasted the Harrison Democratic Press as the “Palladium of the liberties of the people,” “Dr. English, of the Star, and Rufus W. Griswold, Esq. assistant editor of the Standard, replied severally [page 86:] in a few brief and eloquent remarks.”(105) Zachariah and John Poulson, referred to by one of the speakers as late publishers of the American Daily Advertiser, were toasted as “pioneers in the cause of Harrison and Reform.” In view of English's former connection with the Advertiser, it would seem logical to surmise that his early political thinking and consequently his subsequent support of Harrison may have been determined in part by the policies of this paper.

Near the beginning of 1841, Joseph Metcalfe decided to publish a monthly magazine in Philadelphia, in addition to his newspaper. Thereupon, he invited English to become editor of the new publication.(106) English accepted the offer, and on February 18, 1841, the March number of Metcalfe's Miscellany appeared. The following extract from the prospectus(107) throws light upon the type of magazine that Metcalfe planned to publish:

In order to give it an attraction possessed by no other magazine, we have made arrangements to procure portraits of ALL THE PHILADELPHIA EDITORS, illustrated by biographical sketches. These being engraved in outline on wood, are printed on fine India or plate paper, will have all the effect of steel etchings. They will be engraved by MINOT in his best style, from original sketches made by PARKER, a meritorious and talented artist of this city.

Having thus painted the attractions of the magazine, the prospectus again emphasizes the chief advertizing feature — the originality of the contents. Every contribution, Metcalfe promised, “will be obtained expressly for it; and will not be taken from any newspaper or any other magazine.” This fact, he argued, would make his magazine “the VERY CHEAPEST WORK ever attempted in this country.” For only a dollar per year “invariably in advance.” his subscribers would receive “12 numbers of 32 large octavo pages each making at the end of the year, a volume of nearly four hundred pages.”

There is no indication of the authorship of approximately one half of the articles included in the March number of Metcalfe's Miscellany.(108) More likely than not, however, a substantial number of these were from English's [page 88:] own pen. The poetry tends to be either oratorical in tone, like Andrew M’Makin's “Apostrophe to Death”(109) and the anonymous “Napoleon Reentering France,”(110) or sentimental and nostalgic, like English's “Musings at Evening.”(111) In the latter poem, a young man weaves successive pictures of his love, his sister, and his mother — all of whom have departed and left him with only sad and lovely memories of joys that once were his. The prose varies from the light and melodramatic “Blood for Blood,”(112) almost certainly by English, to the serious essay, “On the Study of International Law,”(113) by Samuel Hood. In the latter contribution, Hood argues for the popularizing of the subject of International Law and expresses the opinion that an easily understandable work on the subject by a qualified American jurist would prove to be exceedingly beneficial.

“Blood for Blood” — a tale of tears as well as of blood — calls for a more extended treatment than do most of the other contributions. It is the first of a series of articles that were to appear in successive numbers of the magazine under the general title of “Pages from the Note Book of a Physician.” Its absurdly wild and melodramatic plot is strongly suggestive of the technique that English was later to employ somewhat more ambitiously in two of his novels. [page 89:]

In this sentimental though graphically written story, the hero and narrator, George Hartley, first met the heroine, Kate Bellair, while he was a medical student at the University of Pennsylvania. The two were attracted to each other, but unfortunately Hartley had a rival in the person of a tall Italian, Count Pistrucci. One evening, while Hartley was making love to Kate, he espied Pistrucci peering through the window. All that night Hartley's sleep was disturbed by the sinister form of the tall Italian On the following morning Hartley suddenly had to take

leave of Kate and her father, Samuel Bellair, who looked with favor on the young man's suit. The news had just come to Hartley that his father had been shot and was about to die. When Hartley arrived at home, his father revealed that he had once slain an Italian in a duel, although provoked to this unfortunate action because he had been mistaken for someone else. Nonetheless, Hartley's father died without having rid himself of the sense of guilt or of the feeling that death would be a just punishment for his crime.

Now woe followed woe. The young hero received a heartrending letter from Kate's father saying that his daughter had eloped with Count Pistrucci. Hartley at once hurried to his former love's father, but his haste was of no avail insofar as the rescue of Kate was concerned. For several years no news of her was received, and Samuel Bellair grew weaker and weaker because of his sorrow. [page 90:] Eventually, Hartley heard a condemned murderer confess that he had been employed by an Italian to shoot Bellair.

At length, Hartley was summoned to the bedside of a very ill woman. This woman turned out to be Kate, but she did not recognize Hartley. The next day, still not knowing to whom she spoke, Kate related her story. She had loved George Hartley, but because of a strange power which Pistrucci exerted upon her, had yielded to his proposal that she elope with him. They had been married. At first, Pistrucci had been kind to her, but later he had given her cause to suspect him. By disguising herself, she had learned that he was seeing another. When she had broached the matter, Pistrucci deserted her after having announced, even though she was in labor at the time and had already given birth to a son, that their marriage had been illegal. For a while she had managed to get along, but at length had come to the end of her resources.

After this sad revelation, Hartley disclosed his identity and told Kate that he still loved her. He then summoned her father to her bedside, but she was too ill to be saved. After beseeching Hartley to care for her son, she expired, whereupon her father died immediately from shock.

Finally, after taking Kate's son to his home in Virginia, Hartley received a remorseful letter from Pistrucci, who was now dying. In this letter Pistrucci confessed that he had taken Kate away partly because of his passion for [page 91:] her and partly because he wanted to avenge himself on Hartley, as well as on Hartley's father, for the murder of his own father. Now that he was dying, he wished to make partial amends for his evil doings by admitting that he and Kate had been legally married after all and that their child was consequently his legal heir. He desired that Hartley attend to the unraveling of these matters for Kate's sake.

But the most melodramatic incident is reserved for the end. Immediately after the reception of this letter by Hartley, a search for Pistrucci was begun. The Italian was found at the grave of Hartley's father, where in death he gripped the marble tombstone which marked it. When Hartley unloosed Pistrucci's death-grip, he saw — inscribed on the marble — the almost illegible words, BLOOD FOR BLOOD.!

Thus ends a tale in which there is little worthy of commendation aside from the rather clever handling of incident. Almost totally devoid of either atmosphere or characterization, it was doubtless designed to appeal to the jaded appetite of a public that had become accustomed to extravagance, tawdriness, and sentimentality in fiction. Nonetheless, it is important as an early exemplification of English's narrative skill. Despite his lack of artistry, English demonstrated while still a youth that he could tell a story well. Absurd though his plots often were, the gift of narration remained with him to the end of his life. It [page 92:] was this gift which accounts, more than any other perhaps, for the ease with which he continued to find a steady market both for his prose and for his poetry.

Besides “Pages from the Note-Book of a Physician,” other series planned for Metcalfe's were “Sketches of Down-East”(114) and “Letters on Miscellaneous Subjects.”(115) “Sketches of Down-East” is represented in the March number by a light and trivial story entitled “Cupid and the Kitten,” in which a dapper little man of five feet, five Inches, in height, falls in love with a woman of Amazonian proportions, whose height is six feet, two and a half inches. They are finally married despite a temporary hitch when the unfortunate lover, in the act of proposing, kneels on the tail of his love's kitten. “Letters on Miscellaneous Subjects” is represented by “Human Miseries,” in which a middle-aged man named Tribulation Tandragon writes to the doctor-editor about his woes. Tribulation Tandragon selects from his troubles certain ones that are likely to attend various activities. If he goes to the country, he is troubled by the mere thought of “Fishing all day without a bite, though with fifty nibbles,” or “Walking out in the dim twilight, and smashing a poor toad to death.” A visit to the city is spoiled by “Reading newspaper poetry” or “Handing hot coffee to a lady, and under the false impression that she has grasped it, [page 93:] releasing your hold.”

The March number ends with two brief critical notices, and so also, in all probability, ended the ill fated magazine. Notwithstanding the optimistic tone of the prospectus, there is no evidence to prove that another number ever came from the press. The March issue received brief notices in several Philadelphia newspapers,(116) the reviewers apparently taking special Interest in the engraved portrait and biographical sketch of Peter Hay, editor of the American Sentinel. Hay was the first of the Philadelphia editors chosen to be so noticed, in accordance with the special attraction announced in the prospectus. The United States Gazette was mildly complimentary in noticing English's first venture as the editor of a magazine. “This first number “ the reviewer commented, “really promises well.”(117)

The foregoing account of English's developing and expanding interests should suffice to indicate that his nature was inherently lacking in those qualities which enable many gifted men to mark out well-defined paths for themselves and to follow these paths undeviatingly until they have achieved their long-cherished ambitions. His interests were many, and his youthful bent, unquestionably, was to sample the variety which he found in the life around him. Nonetheless, he had accomplished much for one so [page 94:] young. Still only twenty-one years old, he had received his degree in medicine from an outstanding university. He had become a regular contributor to several well-known periodicals and had established himself as a writer of talent, if not of unusual promise. He had demonstrated both scholarly and literary ability in acquiring a substantial knowledge of the Polish language and in bringing to the American reader, through the medium of his own translations, some understanding and appreciation of the accomplishments of Polish poets. He had been connected with the staffs of two newspapers and had edited a magazine. Moreover, by addressing a prominent political gathering held to celebrate the victory of Harrison over Van Buren, he had indicated that politics and oratory would in the future lie within his province. As if these activities were not enough, he had by this time apparently begun to study law, and within a relatively short time was admitted to the Philadelphia bar.(118) Thus, another accomplished [page 95:] was soon to be added to a rapidly growing list.

We have now arrived at the most important period of English's life — roughly, the decade of the 1840's. It is the period of greatest political interest, for it covers English's activities in behalf of two Presidents of the United States: John Tyler and James K. Polk. It is likewise by far the most interesting from the point of view of literary history, for it is the period not only of English's ill-starred association with Edgar Allan Poe but of the composition of “Ben Bolt.” However faulty and insignificant “Ben Bolt” may appear to the sophisticated reader, it continues to retain an amazing popularity among those who are more sentimentally than critically Inclined. Indeed, fate seems to have decreed irrevocably that it shall remain its author's sole hope of literary immortality.

Thus, when considered in the light of the general interest that it may be expected to evoke, English's life in the 1840's divides into two rather clearly marked paths. Let us now trace each of these paths in turn.

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54. Rufus W. Griswold, editor, The Poets and Poetry of America (16th ed.; Philadelphia, 1855), p. 576.

55. Memoranda for Sketch, n. d. Original Autograph MS. Duyckinck Papers, New York Public Library.

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