University of Virginia Library

Henry B. Hirst is a lawyer in decent practice,—so his literary vagaries may not be seriously detrimental to his purse; he is counted a “dead shot” in the sporting line, is a bird-fancier, amateur florist, and might be famous as a politician; dabbles in metaphysics, sometimes spoils canvas, and has modelled some exquisite lay-figures in poetry; thinks himself remarkably like Shakspeare, and is—for aught I know to the contrary. If I style him “Zincalo,” my sense is “Pickwickian,” and not personal.

A grammatic expression peculiar to the author of “Endymion.” As one illustration out of many, see a Poem of Mr. Hirst's entitled “Valley of Repose,” in which occurs the following line:

Prophetic line! Alexander (the Great) Smith has since loomed upon the world.

If Servetus, Seneca, or any of the martyrs to an idea, could have been consoled by the certainty that their thoughts would survive them, the bed of torture might have seemed a couch of roses. While Hope sustains Genius, she is invulnerable: Despair is her agony and death-travail.

This is a portion of a lampoon which some Michael Steno, who had not the fear of greatness before his eyes, wrote on the doors of the Senate-chamber, at Washington, on a certain occasion when Congress had adjourned to attend the races.

An expletive unfortunately too familiar in congressional debate.

The “Life” of this wretched woman is one of the least objectionable of the class of books alluded to; the life of a courtezan murdered by a libertine. A sad comment upon public taste, that such works should command extensive sale!

Charles Fenno Hoffman, the “Echo” poet.—

Epes Sargent, the “Transcript” poet.—

Park Benjamin, the sonnetteer.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, the Sage.—

Rufus Dawes, the Clergyman.—

George Lunt, author of “The Age of Gold.”—

R. H. Stoddard, youngest of the American Lake School.

The Cambridge poets, and their imitators, are ineffably Tennysonian.

The initials of Read's name, “T. B. R.” have been laid hold of by classic wags, and the joke contributes not a little to the poet's reputation.

I have distinguished this last word by quotation-marks, inasmuch as it has been so often used by Read, in his poems, that I conceive he has earned a pre-emption right to it.

If the Sybarite was incommoded by a rose-leaf placed under his couch, I fear my young friend “Tibia” will hardly relish the levity with which the satirist alludes to his mimosa-like genius.

The “American Review” criticised Read with great acrimony—and injustice.

The “Empire Club,” a political organization of New York, was long swayed by a notorious bar-room politician, called Captain Rynders.

William Cullen Bryant, the poet of nature, is likewise editor of the “New York Evening Post,” a staunch partizan journal, devoted to the democratic side of politics.

The coolness with which the old robber lopped or stretched his hapless guests, to proportion them to the dimensions of his iron-bedstead, was not a bad ante-type of that modern sang-froid which would reduce all orders of genius to a standard medium. When will the world come to Mrs. Malaprop's conclusion respecting “comparisons?”

The classic giant's name affords me a good rhyme.

Fitz Greene Halleck, a fine lyrist, and a satirist, of some pretensions, (as his poem entitled “Fanny” evinces,) was during twenty years a confidential clerk of the millionaire, J. J. Astor, who, at his death, bequeathed the poet an annuity. For some unexplained reason, Halleck long ago abandoned the harp which he often struck with true bardic fury.

Afreets (according to Eastern superstition) are evil spirits haunting desert places; once angels, but condemned to suffer for their neglect of high duties.

R. H. Stoddard, like many a young author, has allowed himself to be “coddled” too much, by the literary old women who delight in poetic bantlings. He may yet, however, have nerve enough to follow my advice; though I doubt if Orpheus himself ever attempted so deep or so infernal a descent as the gulf of American criticism; but our young poet is said to be writing a Plutonian epic, and may possibly acclimate himself to caloric before that is finished.

The brothers Duyckinck (two young men of classic attainments) edited for several years a journal called the “Literary World,” a sort of Areopagus, which determined on the claims of sophomoric and blue-stocking authors.

An article, charging Hoffman with plagiarism, imitation of Moore, &c., appeared in an English magazine, whereupon our author printed a collection of his poems, calling it “The Echo”; decidedly a too suggestive title, as it turned out.

An “opinion as is an opinion,” by the author of “Griswold's Poets and Poetry of America.” See art. “Hoffman.”

A “proctor” is a college officer. I make this explanation, that no malicious reader may seek to discover any sinister allusion to the bard of that name. Hoffman is at least not Barry Cornwall's “Echo”—and never will be.

James G. Percival gave promise of much greatness; but his muse was evidently too classic for our work-a-day world, and so subsided into common-place.

Why these names are juxta-posed is immaterial. W. W. Fosdick is a humorous, pathetic, and bathotic Western writer, who strings his harp with pearls and onions, and mixes metaphysics and metaphor, science and seiolism, into divers palatable dishes of rhyme. George W. Bethune is a clever clergyman, with a talent at making verses.

John Pierpont is extensively known as a prose and poetic champion of cold water. He was at one time engaged in a fierce controversy with his parishioners, many of whom, being interested in the very profitable business of distilling, naturally took umbrage at their pastor's zeal in the cause of temperance. Many futile efforts were made to oust the reverend poet from his pulpit, which I think he held by a life-tenure. I forget how the matter ended, but recollect the steeple of Pierpont's church was twice struck by lightning during the division of his flock.

A volume of Cold Water Melodies, written by William Ross Wallace, was printed at Boston in 1840, or earlier. It is a pity that the poet did not continue in the faith of cold water; but, alas! in years past, Gotham has beheld many fine geniuses go down to the grave, victims to their self-indulgence, in spite of every effort put forth to save them.

In allusion to a stirring lyric, written by Geo. W. Cutter, a Western poet.

John Neal. of Portland, Me., a bard of acknowledged genius, and much eccentricity.

Coe is not selected personally as an aqualacteal specimen, but rises to the dignity of a type of his class; i. e. the tuneful choir who contribute to the classic pages of Peterson's and Godey's magazines, and occasionally minister to the necessities of needy printers, by publishing “collections” of their “poems.”

Time was when Graham, of magazine memory, was quite a Mæcenas of youthful scribblers; but, alas! his glory has departed. The triangular duel between himself and Griswold, and the ghost of poor Poe, was the last exploit of Graham.

We doubt if any Thuggist, expert though he might be, could ever have strangled an English nabob with more adroitness than Willis exhibits in his constant attacks on the English language.

Was it “Jottings down in London,” or some other of Willis's gossip, that rehearsed the dinner-talk of English nobility!

The prophet's coffin is said to be suspended by powerful loadstones at some height from the earth.

De Trobriand was a Frenchman, who conducted with much ability the “Revue du Nouveau Monde”—rendered into copious English through the Home Journal; in spite of which it—deceased.

I admire the beauty of this classic myth. It is a blessed thing that Nature works out her own beautiful results, through the most unshapely means. Who knows but that the spectacle of a talented man, making a show of himself, may be ordained on the principle which led the ancient Lacedemonians to exhibit an inebriated slave to their children—to disgust them with the sin of drunkenness.

For the benefit of the ignorant reader, I will state that Mr. Freeman Scott is a poetic Curtius, who threw himself into the gulf of nullification, and (in a Pickwickian sense) saved the country. He wrote a “Song for the Union,” and offered a prize of $50 for appropriate music, to which it was in fact sung, at the great Union meeting of 15,000 unterrified patriots in the Chinese Museum, Philadelphia. He deserves immortality—and shall have it.

Albert Pike is one of the Western poets who has some claim to merit, though not to the extent claimed by a few of his admirers.

William Gilmore Simms has written some passable novels, but is not a poet, and his epic of “Florida” will not live as long as Paradise Lost. However, as very little is known of the work, (which is the case with most lengthy American poems,) perhaps Ponce de Leon's draught may be mixed up with it: so I shall not be positively negative concerning Simms's prospect of immortality.

Alfred B. Street: who writes up Indian loves and sorrows into metrical tales.

W. H. Hosmer—ditto

Sir Walter's celebrated couplet, and Queen Elizabeth's rejoinder, are so well known that their repetition here is hardly worth the space occupied—nevertheless, it may be as well to say that, on one occasion, the maiden queen observed young Raleigh write with a diamond upon a pane of glass—

“Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall;” whereupon, (when he had departed,) she wrote beneath—

“If thy heart fail thee, do not climb at all.”

The “Blacksmith's Night,” is one of Hoyt's best poems.

Rev. Thos. L. Harris: quite a noted “medium” among the Spiritualists, who asserts that spirits of departed poets speak through him, (while entranced.) He has already produced two epics, and, as they sell rapidly, I doubt not the afflatus will continue. As fanciful improvisations, Harris's poems might be curious; but as emanations from Dante, Tasso, Milton, (and others of equal pretensions,) they are unworthy of criticism.

Phalaris was a Grecian tyrant, who caused a bull to be made of hollow brass, into which he thrust a victim, and then heated red-hot, till the sufferer's groans made the bull seem to roar.

Harris gives elaborate descriptions of all the appearances of the planets—their mountains, valleys, etc.

Mackellar is a poet of modest pretensions but of much real merit, residing in Philadelphia.

“Caleb Lyon of Lyonsdale” is a modern troubadour; penning at San Francisco a lyric for the “Eureka State”—chanting semi-Spanish ballads through South America—apostrophizing Jenny Lind in Gotham, and “stumping” himself into Congress by poetic speech-making in general.

Among Lyon's achievements must not be forgotten the design of the California State Seal—for which he received $1000 and a place in the “golden archives.” This is even better than being “sung in all the churches,” like General George P. Morris.

A “grizzly bear” formed part of the seal-design mentioned above. The Mexicans in California were first defeated by the Americans, under a flag with this device.

The bard of Lyonsdale is noted for his translations from Hafiz, the Persian, and Souchong-Bohea, (if we quote right,) the Shanghai bard.

In his “travels,” while traversing Mexico, Taylor was tied to a tree, and robbed by Mexican footpads. We cannot think that our young Bayard emulated the chevalier “sans peur et sans reproche,” in his Mexican adventure. But all our poets are not expected to be Kœrners; or, perhaps, Taylor's fame (unlike that of Ariosto) had not preceded him among the “moon's minions.”

The son of Judge Story; (said to be a miracle of Boston learning.)

A new edition of Richard Dana's poems has lately appeared, including “The Buccaneer,” with its “spirit corse,” familiar as of old.

Charles Sprague, a Boston banker, who, many years ago, wrote a poem, called “Curiosity,” and has ever since been one of Boston's poetic fossils.

Sam. G. Goodrich, the worthy concoctor of children's books, is also addicted to rhyme.

James G. Fields is one of the partners in the publishing house of Ticknor, Reed and Fields, at Boston. Fields is piquant, quite lakish, and passably clever.

The Cochituate water (as any Bostonian will assure you) is a perfectly innocent beverage.

O. W. Holmes has written some very humorous poetry, and is a genial and versatile writer; but he makes execrable puns.

For the perpetration of these enormities, I plead in excuse my desire to present the reader with a sample of the doctor's own assortment.

Holmes's “Last Leaf” is a poem of decided merit.

John G. Saxe, editor of a paper in Burlington, Vt., has acquired quite a reputation for humour, but is inferior to Holmes as a poet.

W. E. Burton, a theatrical manager and comedian; a graceful writer, but exceedingly coarse in much of his dramatic delineation.

Gaylord Clark, of the Knickerbocker Magazine, (though doubtless a very good fellow,) is a most unmitigated eleemosynary object in the way of gratis-contributions, out of which, and Joe Miller, he serves up a monthly olla-podrida of pathos and bathos. He has lately published a volume called the “Knickerbocker Gallery,” made up of articles furnished by authors ambitious of having their interesting faces exhibited to the public in a sort of Valhalla of American genius.

Geo. P. Putnam, I verily believe, has endeavoured to act manfully by native authors, and deserves their good-will. Though in speaking well of Putnam, (the man,) I am far from endorsing the vapidity of some later issues of the “Monthly,” since it lost its original editor. As for Harper and his coadjutors, they will, it is to be hoped, find their level before long.

This is Henry C. Carey, a New Jersey gentleman, who seems to be afflicted with the scribbling Quixotism to a degree which makes him hazard a literary tilt at every sort of windmill.

Henry J. Raymond, editor of the New York Times, and Lieutenant-Governor of that State; an uneasy little man, who is continually getting into hot-water. His opposition to copyright is, however, very explicable and excusable, as his partner in the “Times” is one of the “Harpers.”

Longfellow owes much to his familiarity with European literature—vide his translations and the general tone of his original matter.

James Russell Lowell has given more absolute promise, and less fulfilment, than any young bard of our country. A man of genius should be ever on the march, and Lowell loiters too much by the way-side. He should take a few hints from his own “Fable for Critics.”

John G. Whittier, despite the sameness of his muse, has won a reputation for strength and boldness which is noticeable enough in this age of puerility. He possesses great vigor of expression, but is often very prolix.

The “thirtieth dilution” is said to be the best proportion in homœopathy.

“Ichabod” was the caption of a poem which, in no half-way strain, arraigned a celebrated statesman for his reputed backslidings. I regretted this, because, while I hold poetry to be a fitting medium for the promulgation of great truth, defence of humanity, liberty, etc., I hardly esteem it the proper vehicle of equivocal personalities or abusive strictures. The true poet is of no ism nor creed, per se. Whittier is a true poet—but it is not in his negrophilism that this fact is most apparent. James Russell Lowell—ditto.

A political measure, brought before Congress, by a worthy Pennsylvanian named David Wilmot, who was at one time threatened with unpremeditated immortality, but is now totally out of danger.

Blackstone was the founder of the “Modern Athens.” The Kaaba is a “black stone” at Mecca, held in high veneration by all true Moslems, on whom a pilgrimage to Mecca confers the title of “hadgee,” and the distinction of wearing a green turban. The “blarney-stone” is familiar to the authors who deal much with publishers.

Peabody, a poor poet.—

Doane, a bishop, and ditto.—

McLellan, ibid.—

Everett, very classic, poet of Harvard, Secretary of State under Fillmore, and a poor poet; famous for a nauseous rhyme, viz:—

William J. Snelling, author of a pungent satire, entitled “Truth, a Gift for Scribblers,” in which the rhymers were handled without gloves.

“Pierpont's Readers” were school-books much in vogue in New England, and many an urchin have they assisted to his “nine parts of speech.”

Dawes is now a Swedenborgian clergyman at Washington, D. C.

Samuel Woodworth was the author of “The Old Oaken Bucket.”

This is a long-established Boston sheet, and, doubtless, well-conducted by the poet, who, however, has been sometimes accused of venial plagiarisms. Sargent is the author of “Velasco,” a tragedy, and at one time edited “The Standard Drama,” a catch-penny republication of English plays.

Edwin P. Whipple is a young man, who, by dint of industry and tolerable imitative powers, has become a sort of Boston Macaulay; writes essays, and lectures.

It was asserted by a British Review that Emerson was the only true American poet.

For a succinct account of this marvellous leap, vide Hirst's “Coming of the Mammoth.”

A Willis-ian license.

George D. Prentice, editor of the Louisville Journal, has written some fine fragmentary poems, which, as “specimen bricks,” make us mourn for the symmetric temple—to which they are not the index.

W. D. Gallagher is a Washington clerk now; when an editor, he wrote tolerable poetry.

Thos. H. Chivers, M. D., of Georgia, has written some good rhymes, but is haunted by dead poets, and passes his life in an insane attempt to prove that Poe gained his reputation by plagiarizing from Chivers. Let the doctor leave logic, and try to write poetry, which is more his forte than criticism.