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expand1997 (1)
1Author:  Clark Willis Gaylord 1808-1841Add
 Title:  The literary remains of the late Willis Gaylord Clark  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: `I have not sooner replied to your letter of the eighteenth of June, communicating the intelligence of the untimely death of your brother, because in fact I was at a loss how to reply. It is one of those cases in which all ordinary attempts at consolation are apt to appear trite and cold, and can never reach the deep-seated affliction. In such cases, it always appears to me better to leave the heart to struggle with its own sorrows, and medicine its own ills; and indeed, in healthful minds, as in healthful bodies, Providence has beneficently implanted self-healing qualities, that in time close up and almost obliterate the deepest wounds. `Of the several excellent writers whose names we have placed upon our catalogue as worthy of the honor we intend to do them (a series of portraits of popular Philadelphia authors, accompanied by suitable notices of their lives and works,) the first we select is that of Willis Gaylord Clark, whose rare abilities as a poet, and whose qualities as a man, justify this distinction. The life of a student is usually, almost necessarily, indeed, uneventful. Disinclined by habit and association, and generally unfitted by temperament, to mingle in the ruder scenes, the shocks and conflicts that mark the periods of sterner existence, his biography furnishes but few salient points upon which an inquirer can take hold. In the little circle which his affections have gathered around him, he finds abundant sources of enjoyment and interest; and though the world without may ring with his name, he pursues his quiet and peaceful way, undisturbed by, if not insensible to, its praises. Such has been eminently the case with the subject of this notice. With feelings peculiarly fitted for social and domestic intercourse, and a heart overflowing with the warmest and most generous impulses; and a shrinking sensitiveness to obtrusive public regard, Mr. Clark has always sought those scenes in which, while his talents found free scope, his native modesty was unwounded, and he could exercise without restraint the Joftier charities of his nature. `With the exception of a small volume published some years since, we believe that Mr. Clark's effusions have not been collected. They have appeared at irregular and often remote intervals; and though their beauty and pathos have won the applause of the first writers of this country and England, they have not made that impression which if united they could not fail to produce. Mr. Clark's distinguishing traits are tenderness, pathos, and melody. In style and sentiment he is wholly original, but if he resemble any writer, it is Mr. Bryant. The same lofty tone of sentiment, the same touches of melting pathos, the same refined sympathies with the beauties and harmonies of nature, and the same melody of style, characterise, in an almost equal degree, these delightful poets. The ordinary tone of Mr. Clark's poetry is gentle, solemn, and tender. Ilis effusions flow in melody from a heart full of the sweetest affections, and upon their surface is mirrored all that is gentle and beautiful in nature, rendered more beautiful by the light of a lofty and religious imagination. He is one of the few writers who have succeeded in making the poetry of religion attractive. Young is sad, and austere, Cowper is at times constrained, and Wordsworth is much too dreamy for the mass; but with Clark religion is unaffectedly blended with the simplest and sweetest affections of the heart. His poetry glitters with the dew, not of Castaly, but of heaven. No man, however cold, can resist the winning and natural sweetness and melody of the tone of piety that pervades his poems. All the voices of nature speak to him of religion; he `Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.' There is not an effusion, and scarce a line in his poetical writings that is not replete with this spirit. The entire absence of affectation or artifice in Mr. Clark's poetry also deserves the highest commendation. Though always poetical he is always natural; he sacrifices nothing for effect, and does not seek his subjects or his figures from the startling or the extravagant. There is an uniform and uninterrupted propriety in his writings. His taste is not merely cultivated and refined, but sensitively fastidious, and shrinks, with instinctive delicacy, from anything that could distort the tranquil and tender beauty of his lines. His diction is neither quaint nor common-place, bloated nor tame, but is natural, classic, and expressive. In the art of versification, he appears to be nearly perfect; we know no poet in the language who is more regular, animated, and euphonious. `Our brother is no more!' Death, the pale messenger, has beckoned him silently away; and the spirit which kindled with so many elevated thoughts; which explored the chambers of human affection, and awakened so many warm sympathies; which rejoiced with the glad, and grieved with the sorrowing, has ascended to mansions of eternal repose. And there is one, reader, who above all others feels how much gentleness of soul, how much fraternal affection and sincere friendship; how much joyous bilarity, goodness, poetry, have gone out of the world; and he will be pardoned for dwelling in these pages, so often enriched by the genius of the Departed, upon the closing scenes of his earthly career. Since nearly a twelve-month the deceased has `died daily' in the eyes of the writer of this feeble tribute. He saw that Disease sat at his heart, and was gnawing at its cruel leisure; that in the maturity of every power, in the earthly perfection of every faculty; `when experience had given facility to action and success to endeavor,' he was fast going down to darkness and the worm. Thenceforth were treasured up every soul-fraught epistle and the recollection of each recurring interview, growing more and more frequent, until at length Life like a spent steed `panted to its goal,' and Death sealed up the glazing eye and stilled the faltering tongue. Leaving these, however, with many other treasured remains and biographical facts for future reference and preservation in this Magazine, we pass to the following passages of a letter recently received from a late but true friend of the lamented deceased, Rev. Dr. Ducachet, Rector of St. Stephen's Church, Philadelphia; premising merely, that the reverend gentleman had previously called upon him at his special instance, in the last note he ever penned; that `his religious faith was manifested in a manner so solemn, so frank, and so cordial,' as to convince the affectionate pastor that the failing invalid, aware that he must die of the illness under which he was suffering, had long been seeking divine assistance to prepare him for the issue so near at hand: `He was, so far as his character revealed itself to me, a man of a most noble, frank, and generous nature. He was as humble as a little child. He exhibited throughout most remarkable patience. He never complained. But once, while I was on bended knees, praying with him for patience to be given him, and acknowledging that all he had suffered was for the best, he clasped his hands together, and exclaimed, `Yes! right, right—all right!' ... He was one of the most affectionate-hearted men I ever saw. Every moment I spent with him, he was doing or saying something to express to me his attachment. He would take my hand, or put his arm around my neck, or say something tender, to tell me that he loved me. He showed the same kind feeling to his attendants, his faithful nurse, Rebecca, and to the humblest of the servants.... He was of course, with such a heart, grateful for the smallest attentions. He received the most trifling office with thanks. I observed this most remarkably on the evening of his death. I had taken my son with me, that he might sit up with him on Saturday night, if occasion should require. When I mentioned that the youth was in the room, he called for him; welcomed him most kindly, thanked him over and over for his friendly intentions; and in fact, broke out into the warmest expressions of gratitude for what his sensitive and generous heart took to be a high act of favor. All this was within an hour and a half of his death.... Finally, I believe he was a truly religious man. I have no doubt that he was fully prepared for his end; and that through the sacrifice of the cross, and the Saviour who died there for sinners, he was pardoned and accepted. He has gone, I feel persuaded, to the abodes of peace, where the souls of those who sleep in the Lord Jesus enjoy perpetual felicity and rest.' Good Reader, let us have a talk together. Sit you down with benevolent optics, and a kindly heart, and I doubt not that we shall pass an hour right pleasantly, one with another. Pleasantly, in part, but in part it may be, sadly; for you know it is with conversation, as with life; it taketh various colors, and is changing evermore. So we will expect these changes, and meet them as they come. Sometimes we shall be in the cheerful vein, and at others, in that subjunctive mood which conquers the jest on the lip, and holds Humor in bonds. But for `gude or ill,' I shall desire you to sit with me. In the voices of Mirth, there may be excitement, but in the tones of Mourning there is consolation. Congregere in Pons Cayuguum, Februarius Sexdecim, nox media, pro jocus et exercitatio, et animi relaxatio. `Sithence that love, which is the lightest bird in the world, hath nestled in my bosom, it hath proved so full of egg, that I have been forced to suffer him to lay there. But sithence he hath laid it, he hath sate upon it a long tyme, and at length hath hatched this little pullet which I now send you. The breeding of it will cost you little; all the food it will require will be caresses and kisses. And withal, it is so well taught that it speaks better than a paraqueto, and so will tell you my sufferings for you. It hath in charge to inquire of you whether or no you are yet displeased with me, and to let me know your mind, not by a pullet so big as this, but by the least chicken you please, if I may have your favor; with this promise, that if you have laid aside your rigor, I shall send you no more pullets, but present you with full-grown birds, full of valor and affection. Will you allow me to correct a slight statement in your last, with reference to my death? I am grateful for the compliments to my character in your obituary notice, and I believe them deserved. That I tried to do the handsome thing while I lived, is most true; true, too, is it, that I never backed out of a fight, and never saw the man that could whip me, when alive; and I say the same yet, `being dead,' according to your story. But when you state, that I left my affairs unsettled, and my widow and those eleven children unprovided for, I have only to state, that you lie in your throat! I mean no offence in what I say; I speak in the aggregate sense of the term. Being a dead man, and printed down as such in your columns, I am incapable of mortal resentments; but I leave as my avengers, Cain, Abel, and Simpkins, printers and publishers of the Occidental Trumpet and Mississippi Battle-Axe. To the editor of that paper, I submit my fame. To his indomitable coolness, never yet ruffled by repeated contumely, and invulnerable to contempt, I confide my reputation: feeling certain that one who has never found satisfaction for an insult, (nor sought it indeed,) can fail to be a champion in my cause. That he may be in peril in my advocacy, is possible; but he knows how to shun it. He is independent, for he is unknown; he is fearless, for no man will touch a hair of his head. To that important Gulliven, in whatsoever cave or fastness he may dwell, I surrender my fame. I have had an interview with Mr. Biddle, and truly lament my inability to communicate satisfactory results. I fear that until the resolution of the Senator from Ohio, in regard to the repeal of the Treasury order, is finally disposed of, the trading interests will materially suffer. `I have seen a piece which you made and put into a perryoge published down into the city of New York, to which I am a-going to indict a reply. My indictment will be short, as some of the parties is not present to which you have been allusive. But with respect of that there diwine person you spoke of, I am sorry to remark, that he is uncommonly dead, and wont never give no more lectures. He was so onfortnight as to bu'st a blood-vessel at a pertracted meeting; and I han't hearn nothing onto him sence. His motives was probable good; but in delivering on 'em, it struck me forcibly that he proximoted to the sassy. However, I never reserves ill will, not ag'inst nobody; and I authorize you to put this into printing, ef'so be that you deem it useful. That's what Smith used to say, when he published his self-nominations in the newspapers, that a man with a horn (they tell me that he has a very large circle of kindred) used to ride post about and distribit. `I have taken your new hat, but I leave you my eternal gratitude. `It becomes our painful but imperative and extraordinary duty, to promulgate the facts of a disaster which reached us to-day, by the mail from Thebes, via the perpendicular railroad. As a party were ascending, with the locomotive playing a lively tune, assisted on the piana-forte by another locomotive, that had been hired by Signor Goitini, preparatory to his first concert in New-Babylon, some religious persons of the `United States' Established Mormon Church,' insisted that the tune, being irreverent, should be changed. This offensive tune was no less than the well known and popular song, (supposed to have been written in England, previous to the subjugation of that place by the Russians,) entitled `Proceed it, ye Crippled Ones, Babylon's Nigh.' This complimentary course on the part of the locomotive, and the gentlemanly engineer with whom it associates, was hissed by the Mormons, until they were overcome by the encores of the majority. The locomotive was of course embarrassed, but we understand, continued to play. One of the Mormons, enraged beyond measure at this circumstance, rushed forward through the door-ways of the train, and wantonly turned the stop-cock of `What's become of Good Old Daniel?' one of the slowest tunes of the day. The consequence was, that the train proceeded with the greatest discord, because the latter tune was for the backtrack, in descending the mountain. The result was, the cars were thrown off the rails, down a precipice of nearly three hundred feet; but owing to the exertions of Mr. Inclination Plain, first engineer, they were got back by his Upward Impulse Screw, which has thus far answered admirably, stopping cars in mid-air, if they run off a precipice, and returning them safely, by means of the patent steam wind-bags, which extend beneath the trains, and destroy their gravity. I met with a good article the other day in a native magazine, on the subject of whiskers—a pilosus and prolific theme. Talking of whiskers reminds me of cats. The transition is natural. Feline quadrupeds are justly celebrated for their claims to admiration in respect of whiskers. In the conformation of his mandibular appendages, Nature has been generous with the cat. Not only do they stand out from his face like the elongated mustaches of old Shah Abbas of Persia, but there is within them a sleepless spirit, a shrewd and far reaching sense, which puts to shame the similar ornaments on the faces of bipeds of the genus homo. They, indeed, can make their whiskers look well, by baptizing them with eau de Cologne, and Rowland's Macassar Oil, or peradventure, the unctuous matter won from the `tried reins' of defunct bears; but where is the intelligence, the discernment, of their rivals? Then I release my dear soul from her promise about today. If you do not see that all which he can claim by gratitude, I doubly claim by love, I have done, forever. I would purchase my happiness at any price but at the expense of yours. Look over my letters, think over my conduct, consult your own heart, read these two long letters of your own writing, which I return you. Then tell me whether we love or not. And if we love (as witness both our hearts), shall gratitude, cold gratitude, bear away the prize that's due to love like ours? Shall my right be acknowledged, and he possess the casket? Shall I have your soul, and he your hand, your lips, your eyes? Your two letters of the day before yesterday, and what you said to me yesterday, have drove me mad. You know how such tenderness distracts me. As to marrying me, that you should not do upon any account. Shall the man I value, be pointed at and hooted for selling himself to a lord for a commission? * * * My soul is above my situation. Beside, I will not take advantage of what may be only, perhaps, (excuse me), a youthful passion. After a more intimate acquaintance of a week or ten days, your opinion of me might very much change. And yet you may love me as sincerely as I— My Life and Soul! But I will never more use any more preface of this sort, and I beg you will not. A correspondence begins with dear, then my dear, dearest, my dearest, and so on, till, at last, panting language toils after us in vain. Let me give you joy of having found such kind and agreeable friends in a strange land. The account you gave me of the lady quite charmed me. Neither am I without my friends. A lady from whom I have received particular favors, is uncommonly kind to me. For the credit of your side of the water, she is an Irish woman. Her agreeable husband, by his beauty and accomplishments, does credit to this country. He is remarkable also for his feelings. When this reaches you I shall be no more, but do not let my unhappy fate distress you too much. I strove against it as long as possible, but now it overpowers me. You know where my affections were placed; my having by some means or other lost hers, (an idea which I could not support,) has driven me to madness. God bless-you , my dear F—. Would I had a sum of money to leave you to convince you of my great regard! May Heaven protect my beloved woman, and forgive the act which alone could relieve me from a world of misery I have long endured! Oh! should it be in your power to do her any act of friendship, I am alive, and she is dead. I shot her and not myself. Some of her blood is still upon my clothes. I dont ask you to speak to me. I don't ask you to look at me. Only come hither, and bring me a little poison; such as is strong enough. Upon my knees I beg, if your friendship for me ever was sincere, do, do bring me some poison!' If the murderer of Miss—wishes to live, the man he has most injured will use all his interest to procure his life.' `The murderer of her whom he preferred, far preferred, to life, suspects the hand from which he has just received such an offer as he neither desires nor deserves. His wishes are for death, not for life. One wish he has: Could he be pardoned in this world by the man he has most injured! Oh my lord, when I meet her in another world, enable me to tell her, (if departed spirits are not ignorant of earthly things,) that you forgive us both, and that you will be a father to her dear infants! I am gone to spend a fortnight, in a Christmas festival, with some friends in Virginia. I enclose a regular division of our joint funds. I have spoken to my uncle about our hotel bills here, and he will fix them. It is all understood. You can stay a fortnight if you like; though how you'll get back to Philadelphia, after that, the Lord only knows. Perhaps you may accomplish the transit without trouble: if so, I shall be, (as I was last night, when I thought I knew you,) mistaken. We do not know each other well, for we have been thwarted by the presence of untoward circumstances; but surely, my dear, my only John, the language of my eyes must have convinced you that since we first met, my heart has been wholly yours. Come to-morrow evening at eight, and in a walk of a few moments, I will convince you, if words can do it, of the unalterable affection of your devoted
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