| | 1 | Author: | Clark
Willis Gaylord
1808-1841 | Requires cookie* | | | 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 | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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