University of Virginia Library

The coup d' état of Edward I. (so effectual that the Cambrian muse has remained tongue-tied ever since) might be imitated once a century with good results in every country. Though unmerciful, it would certainly be (poetically) just.

The reputation of Longfellow (to whom allusion is here made) will rest more upon the merits of his early and less pretending lyrics, than upon the “Golden Legend,” or even “Evangeline.”

It is currently reported that a question like this was propounded by a well-known travelling “litterateur,” after having been shown through the Vatican.

Rufus Wilmot Griswold, D.D. LL.D. The world is indebted to this distinguished bibliopole for the celebrated compendium of classic verse known as “Griswold's Poets and Poetry of America.” The work is, I am told, still extant.

Nathaniel Parker Willis will occupy no small space in the literary and social history of his time. He calls himself “the best abused man in the country,” and has managed to figure extensively in poetry, gossip, libel and divorce suits-at-law, journalism and—snobism. The printing (en masse) of his tradesmen's bills, (when accused of non-payment of them,) was a stroke of advertising which certainly merited a receipt in full. Beau Brummel could have run another score on the strength of it—but genius is sometimes unequal.

Willis published a daily paper, called, “The Mirror,” (in a street near Barnum's Museum and Drummond Light,) in which himself and partner (G. P. Morris) were affectedly distinguished as “mi-boy” and “brigadier.” The “Mirror” is still printed—but is now little read, and less esteemed.

J. Bayard Taylor is a noted traveller, poet, lecturer, and one of the editors of the N. Y. Tribune. His infant muse was dry-nursed by Willis, and cradled in “The Mirror,” after which he accomplished a pedestrian tour over Europe, and wrote a book called “Europe seen with Knapsack and Staff,” (rather singular mediums of vision.) George Washington Dixon, the literary-musical-pedestrian, has walked more miles than Taylor, but not with such profit to himself. Since printing his last batch of “Travels,” Taylor has subsided into a lecturer, retailing his dollar books in two-shilling readings—a plan shrewdly beneficial to public and author. As a lecturer, Bayard is as good as Greeley, and Greeley is the worst in the country.

Taylor was the winner of a prize of $200 offered by the noted P. T. Barnum (showman) for “the best” song to be sung by Jenny Lind.

Of Mr. Henry T. Tuckerman little is known save that he has travelled, and is a critic in matters of “awt.”

Brig. Gen. N. Y. State Militia, Resident-Editor “Home Journal,” Author of “Woodman! Spare that Tree.” Demi-civil and demi-martial, he blends delicately the strength of Catullus with the fire of Wordsworth.

Our American music-publishers are noted for printing the veriest trash in the shape of verse. They “never mind the words,” so that the requisite jingle be preserved—and the requisite economy; for more penurious fellows than are some of these might seldom be met. Many a dollar do they realize by the sale of poetry for which the poor author never received a penny. Let them “adapt” this verse, which is furnished gratis:

“Brutus, or The Fall of Tarquin” by John Howard Payne, the author of “Home, sweet Home,” is one of the very few plays by Americans that have become stock-pieces through their own merit. “Spartacus,” “Metamora,” and “Jack Cade” all owe their popularity to Edwin Forrest, the actor, for whom they were written.

Cornelius Mathews, nicknamed “Puffer Hopkins,” (from a novel with that title, of which he was the unhappy author,) wrote two plays, “Jacob Leisler” and “Witchcraft,” both produced by Murdoch, the tragedian, and both played with equal success, i. e. none at all. But Mathews has always shown himself a staunch advocate of the necessity of an “International Copyright Law,” and for this (if for no other merit,) deserves the good will of American authors.

It is told of a certain Philadelphia lessee, that he was used to offer to authors, for their plays, “half cash—half truck;” the latter euphonious word signifying merchandize, or “orders” for seats. Certes, one noted manager, who was engaged in the “patent-medicine line,” was in the habit of underlining his bills of the day with quack advertisements, (e.g.)

“Mr. BRUTUS KEAN COOKE, Tragedian, from the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, will appear on Thursday Evening.

Mdlle Rosaletta, the Celebrated Danseuse, on Wednesday Night.

N. B.—A new American Play in rehearsal.

N. B.—The celebrated Hydro-Telestic Pills and Vermifuge Balm, can be had at the Box Office by the dozen, single box, or package.”

Mr. Mayne Reid was much addicted to printing a poem called “The Broken-Hearted” in every unfortunate newspaper to which he had access. At last he flung his lost hopes (“Love's Martyr” included) into the Mexican War, from which he returned unharmed, and (perhaps to establish his reputation for boldness) applied for a sword bequeathed by General Jackson to the “bravest soldier of the next war.”

Dr. Thomas Dunn English (whom Poe so mercilessly noticed as “Dunn Brown”) is a most incongruous author; has written some of the best and worst things in the language. His touching ballad of “Ben Bolt” is a house-hold song. He was at one time principal writer for a “funny” periodical printed in Philadelphia, called “John Donkey”—the best attempt at a “Punch” that our dyspeptic jokers ever perpetrated.

Mr. Geo. H. Boker, (prænominated “Byron” by his friend Willis,) author of “Calaynos,” “Anne Boleyn,” “The Betrothal,” etc. “Calaynos” was acted at Sadler's Wells, a third-rate London playhouse, whereat our critics (as in duty bound) acknowledged its merits. Boker has genius, but inclines to the American “lake school” of Tennysonian imitators. Like Bayard Taylor, he cultivates liberally a delicate hirsute attraction—a high recommendation; for it is reported that when the last-mentioned “walking-gentleman” lectured at Kalamazoo, (Mich.,) a lady was asked her opinion of the performance; to which she replied naïvely, “Oh! it was excellent! he has such a sweet mustache!”