Exhilarat vinum; nutrit quoque; viscera firmat; C. ART. IV.-American Poetry.1-The Poems, Odes, Songs, and other Metrical Effusions of Samuel Woodworth. Author of 'The Champions of Freedom,' &c. New York, 1818. THE HE literary productions of our country, seem at last to have taken a start; and we may now venture to hope, that the charge of barrenness which has been brought against the American mind, will be disproved. Poetry, in particular, which has heretofore been treated as an exotic, and bore evident marks of its foreign extraction, has of late been discovered in various quarters of the union, and cultivated with considerable success. It is true, that of the many poetical works which now issue from the press, there are few which will bear a comparison with the effusions of our trans-atlantic brethren: yet an impetus being once given, we have no doubt, that in a comparatively short time, poets equal to those of other nations will spring up. In the mean time, however, there will be numerous failures; and hundreds on whom the true inspiration hath not descended, will light their farthing candles at the eternal lamp of some great master, and successively disappear. Of the works before us, we think that of Mr. Woodworth entitled to the preference: both from the marks of genius visible in it, and the situation and life of the author. From the memoirs which the publishers have prefixed to this volume, it appears that Mr. Woodworth was born at Scituate, in the state of Massachusetts, on the 18th of January, 1785, and was the youngest of four children. His father was a soldier in the revolutionary army; it need scarcely be added that he was poor, and therefore unable to give his children a sufficient education. 'At the age of fourteen, the extent of our author's acquirements was a partial knowledge of reading, writing, and arithmetic. No school was taught in the village, except during the three winter months; and as a mistaken idea of economy always governed the selection of a teacher, he was generally as ignorant as his pupils. During the above period, however, the subject of this short biographical sketch, had produced several trifling effusions in verse, in which his schoolmaster and the clergyman of the parish thought they discovered traits of genius which deserved encouragement and cultivation. He was therefore, with the approbation of his parents, placed under the care of this clergyman (the Rev. Nehemiah Thomas) for whom our autor always professes the greatest respect, esteem, and gratitude. In the amiable family of this excellent man, master Woodworth remained one winter, during which time he was taught the English and Latin grammars, and made some proficiency in the study of the classics; but the unprofitable employment of writing verses, considerably retarded his more useful pursuits. He preferred a puff of present praise, to a real future good; and his advancement in life has ever since been opposed by the same unpropitious attachment to an art, which "Found him poor at first, and keeps him so." 'The reverend preceptor was so highly pleased with his pupil's docility, quickness of apprehension and strength of memory, that he began to contrive ways and means for giving him a liberal education. It is true that his own salary was very limited; yet, after consulting with several of his more wealthy parishioners, he found so much reason to anticipate success, that he imparted the project to the enraptured boy, who could hardly contain his joy at the prospect of his most ardent wish being at length gratified. But the good clergyman and his unfortunate pupil were both destined to be disappointed. No one came forward to aid in the benevolent design-time rolled on-and his friends began to remind him that it would be necessary to learn some trade by which he might procure a livelihood. His feelings, at this time, could not have been pleasant, if we may be allowed to judge from the following extract from his poem of NEW HAVEN, published several years afterward, in which he alludes to the disappointment of his hopes of obtaining a collegiate education. And here the muse bewails her hapless bard, And all its treasures promised ripening age; Illusive all!-the phantom all believe, Though still we know her promises deceive; He was at length bound apprentice to a printer in Boston, with whom he continued until the year 1806, occasionally indulging in his favourite pursuit, and contributing to the periodical publications under the signature of Selim. After failing in a plan which he meditated, of taking a tour of the United States, for the purpose of writing a description of his travels, he was compelled by the fear of a jail, to direct his views to the south. Accordingly having been furnished by a friend with sufficient fund to commence his tour, he set out with the expectation of finding employment in the way of his business, at the towns through which he was to pass, to enable him to reach New York. After repeated disappointments, he found himself at New Haven, with an empty purse, and fortunately procured a situation in the office of a printer. Here he again gave loose to his natural disposition, by scrib 、 bling verses, falling in love, and forming acquaintances;' and having continued in the office about nine months, he resolved to undertake a literary publication of his own. Having procured a press and types, he commenced the hazardous enterprize, with the sanguine hopes of a young author.. 'We now behold him the editor, publisher, printer, and (more than once) carrier, of a weekly paper, entitled the Belles-Lettres Repository, dedicated to the ladies, and comprising eight pages, medium quartosubscription price, two dollars per year, payable quarterly in advance. 'As might have been expected, the cash received in advance was insufficient to support the expenses of the establishment for two months; when our young editor awoke from his dream of love, fame, and fortune, to a feeling sense of his real unfortunate situation. The publication of the Repository was, of course, immediately suspended, the printing materials returned to their original proprietor, and the inconsiderate adventurer found himself burdened with debts which he had no means of discharging. No time was to be lost; and, after compromising with some, submitting to the curses of others, lavishing fair promises on all, and venting his feelings in a poem of more than 600 lines, he left the city. By a few weeks' employment in Hartford, he was enabled to return to Boston, after an absence of about twelve months, and from thence to his paternal home "The pale, dejected picture of despair." After spending a few days in Scituate, he again set out on foot, in search of fame and fortune; assuring his friends, in the most solemn manner, that he would never again revisit the spot of his birth, unless he was accompanied or preceded by one or both of the objects of his pursuit. This was the commencement of another painful separation, which has not yet terminated.' In the summer of 1808 we find him in Baltimore, writing as usual for the newspapers; and in the succeeding spring at New York, where he has since continued to reside. At the latter place he published during the recent hostilities, a weekly paper called 'The War;' and at the same time, a monthly Magazine called The Halcyon Luminary and Theological Repository,' devoted to the promulgation of the tenets of the New Jerusalem church, of which it seems he is a sincere professor. Neither his military nor religious controversies appear, however, to have relieved that consumption of the purse' under which he had so long laboured. After being compelled to sell his office without defraying all the expenses of his establishment, he was applied to it seems by some sagacious bookseller, to write a history of the late war, in the style of a romance, to be entitled the Champions of Freedom.'The res angusta domi compelled him to undertake this singular task, from which, fettered as he was by his Mæcenas, he could expect to gain little credit. In writing the Champions of Freedom, the author was confined, by the conditions of his engagement with the publisher, within a compass circumscribed by the latter. By these conditions he was compelled to connect fiction with truth; and, at all events, to give a complete and correct account of the late war, however much the history of his hero and heroine might suffer in consequence. But this is not all; it is a fact, which we advance on the testimony of persons concerned, that the work was put to press as soon as two sheets were written; and that the author was often compelled to deliver his unrevised manuscript to the waiting compositor a dozen lines at a time! This work was commenced in March, and ready for delivery in the October following; during the most of which period, the author faithfully discharged the duties of foreman in the office where it was printed.' The book was accordingly very absurd, and suited we presume the taste of the publisher. After this we do not find that he appeared again as an author for some time. His pecuniary embarrassments have now led, it seems, to the publication of the volume before us. The poetry of Mr. Woodworth although containing nothing very striking, is still we think entitled to no small share of praise. The language is almost uniformly harmonious, and we often see traits of nature and simplicity; and what we cannot help liking, Americanisms and American allusions. At all events, he is no copier of foreign poets and foreign ideas. We see no reason why, with so much to delight and interest around us, we should resort to the 'crambe bis cocta' of the British poets. We love to find our own scenery and manners in verse, and not those of any other country; and have no doubt that the Delaware, the Missouri, or the Ohio would flow as harmoniously through American lyrics, as the Tweed, the Thames, or the Avon. The longest poem in the book, is a kind of half satire, half eulogy on New Haven and the manners and customs of our New England brethren. It is written in many parts with considerable force and spirit, although on the whole not entitled to great praise. Another entitled Quarter Day, or the Horrors of the First of May,' is founded on a custom prevalent among the good people of New York of changing their places of abode on that day. It displays in strong, and in many instances pathetic language; the oppressions of landlords and the sufferings of tenants; and the cruelty as well as impolicy of the system of imprisonment in that state. We extract from the notes one of the many instances which he gives of the horrors of a jail. 'Some years since (says Howard) a young man by the name of Brown was cast into the prison of this city for debt. His manners were very interesting. His fine dark eyes beamed so much intelligence, his lively countenance expressed so much ingenuousness, that I was induced, contrary to my usual rule, to seek his acquaintance.-Companions in misery soon become attached to each. 'Brown was informed that one of his creditors would not consent to his discharge, that he had abused him very much, (as is usual in such cases) and made a solemn oath before his God to keep him in jail" till he rotted!" I watched Brown's countenance when he received this information, and whether it was fancy or not, I cannot say, but I thought I saw the cheering spirit of hope, in that moment, desert him for ever. Nothing gave Brown pleasure, but the daily visits of his amiable wife. By the help of a kind relation, she was able to give Brown, some times, soup, wine, and fruit, and every day, whether clear or stormy, she visited the prison to cheer the drooping spirits of her husband. She was uncommonly pretty. She seemed an angel, administering consolation to a man about to converse with angels. One day passed the hour of one o'clock, and she came not. Brown was uneasy. Two, three, and four o'clock passed, and she did not appear. Brown was distracted. A messenger arrived. Mrs. Brown was very dangerously ill, and supposed to be dying in a convulsive fit. As soon as Brown received this information he darted to the door with the rapidity of lightning. The inner door was open-and the jailer, who had just let some one in, was closing it as Brown passed violently through it. The jailer knocked him down with a massy iron key which he held in his hand, and Brown was carried lifeless and covered with blood, to his cell. 'Mrs. Brown died-and her husband was denied even the sad privilege of closing her eyes. He lingered for some time, till at last, he called me one day, and, gazing on me while a faint smile played upon his lips -he said," he believed death was more kind than his creditors."-After a few convulsive struggles he expired! "Legislators and sages of America! permit me to ask you-how much benefit has that creditor derived from the imprisonment and consequent death of an amiable man, in the bloom of youth-who, without this cruelty, might have flourished, even now, an ornament and a glory to the nation?" The smaller pieces in this volume are chiefly patriotic songs on the naval victories, written in a popular style, but rather overdoing the matter. We have no objection to seeing them, however, as they contribute to the support of a national feeling, that great desideratum of the republic. We extract the following little piece as creditable to the author's taste and feelings. EVENING. 'Tis pleasant, when the world is still, To hear the pensive whip-poor-will While through the self-taught rustic's flute With various notes assist the glee, Nor once through all the night are mute. The streamlet murmurs o'er its bed, Bid the green buìrush bend its head, And sigh through groves in foliage dress'd; Throws magic shades o'er EVENING'S vest; |