Text: Edgar Allan Poe, “Our Amateur Poets, No. I —Flaccus” [Text-02], Graham's Magazine, March 1843, pp. 195-198

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THE poet now comprehended in the cognomen Flaccus, is by no means our ancient friend Quintus Horatius, nor even his ghost, but merely a Mr. Ward, of Gotham, once a contributor to the New York “American,” and to the New York “Knickerbocker” Magazine. He is characterized by Mr. Griswold, in his “Poets and Poetry of America,” as a gentleman of elegant leisure.

What there is in “elegant leisure” so much at war with the divine afflatus, it is not very difficult, but quite unnecessary, to say. The fact has been long apparent. Never sing the Nine so well as when penniless. The mens divinior is one thing, and theotium cum dignitate quite another.

Of course Mr. Ward is not, as a poet, altogether destitute of merit. If so, the public had been spared these paragraphs. But the sum of his deserts has been footed up by a clique who are in the habit of reckoning units as tens in all cases where champagne and “elegant leisure” are concerned. We do not consider him, at all points, a Pop Emmons, but, with deference to the more matured opinions of the “Knickerbocker,” we may be permitted to entertain a doubt whether he is either Jupiter Tonans or Phœbus Apollo.

Justice is not, at all times, to all persons, the most desirable thing in the world, but then there is the old adage about the tumbling of the heavens, and simple justice is all that we propose in the case of Mr. Ward. We have no design to be bitter. We notice his book at all, only because it is an unusually large one of its kind, because it is here lying upon our table, and because, whether justly or unjustly, whether for good reason or for none, it has attracted some portion of the attention of the public.

The volume is entitled, somewhat affectedly, “Passaic, a Group of Poems touching that river: with Other Musings, by Flaccus,” and embodies, we believe, all the previously published effusions of its author. It commences with a very pretty “Sonnet to Passaic,” and from the second poem, “Introductory Musings on Rivers,” we are happy in being able to quote an entire page of even remarkable beauty.

There is nothing very original in all this; the general idea is, perhaps, the most absolutely trite in poetical literature; but the theme is not the less just on this account, while we must confess that it is admirably handled. The picture embodied in the whole of the concluding paragraph is perfect. The seven final lines convey not only a novel but a highly appropriate and beautiful image.

What follows, of this poem, however, is by no means worthy so fine a beginning. Instead of confining himself to the true poetical thesis, the Beauty or the Sublimity of river scenery, he descends into mere meteorology — into the uses and general philosophy of rain, &c. — matters which should be left to Mr. Espy, who knows something about them, as we are sorry to say Mr. Flaccus does not.

The second and chief poem in the volume, is entitled “The Great Descender.” We emphasize the “poem” merely by way of suggesting that the “Great Descender” is any thing else. We never could understand what pleasure men of talent can take in concocting elaborate doggerel of this order. Least of all can we comprehend why, having perpetrated the atrocity, they should place it at the door of the Muse. We are at a loss to know by what right, human or divine, twattle of this character is intruded into a [page 196:] collection of what professes to be Poetry. We put it to Mr. Ward, in all earnestness, if the “Great Descender,” which is a history of Sam Patch, has a single attribute, beyond that of mere versification, in common with what even Sam Patch himself would have had the hardihood to denominate a poem.

Let us call this thing a rhymed jeu d’esprit, a burlesque, or what not? — and, even so called, and judged by its new name, we must still regard it as a failure. Even in the loosest compositions we demand a certain degree of keeping. But in the “Great Descender” none is apparent. The tone is unsteady fluctuating between the grave and the gay — and never being precisely either. Thus there is a failure in both. The intention being never rightly taken, we are, of course, never exactly in condition either to weep or to laugh.

We do not pretend to be the Oracles of Dodona, but it does really appear to us that Mr. Flaccus intended the whole matter, in the first instance, as a solemnly serious thing; and that, having composed it in a grave vein, he became apprehensive of its exciting derision, and so interwove sundry touches of the burlesque, behind whose equivocal aspect he might shelter himself at need. In no other supposition can we reconcile thespotty appearance of the whole with a belief in the sanity of the author. It is difficult, also, in any other view of the case, to appreciate the air of positive gravity with which he descants upon the advantages toScience which have accrued from a man's making a frog of himself. Mr. Ward is frequently pleased to denominate Mr. Patch “a martyr of science,” and appears very doggedly in earnest in all passages such as the following:

That Mr. Patch was a genius we do not doubt; so is Mr. Ward; but the science displayed in jumping down the Falls, is a point above us. There might have been some science in jumpingup.

“The Worth of Beauty: or a Lover's Journal,” is the title of the poem next in place and importance. Of this composition Mr. W. thus speaks in a Note: “The individual to whom the present poem relates, and who had suffered severely all the pains and penalties which arise from the want of those personal charms so much admired by him in others, gave the author, many years since, some fragments of a journal kept in his early days, in which he had bared his heart and set down all his thoughts and feelings. This prose journal has here been transplanted into the richer soil of verse.”

The narrative of the friend of Mr. Flaccus must, originally, have been a very good thing. By “originally,” we mean before it had the misfortune to be “transplanted into the richer soil of verse” — which has by no means agreed with its constitution. But, even through the dense fog of our author's rhythm, [column 2:] we can get an occasional glimpse of its merit. It must have been the work of a heart on fire with passion, and the utter abandon of the details, reminds us even of Jean Jacques. But alas for this “richer soil!” Can we venture to present our readers with a specimen?

All this by way of exalting the subject. The moon is made a painter and the rainbow a palette. And the moon has a pencil (that pencil!) which she dips, by way of a brush, in the liquid radiance, (the colors on a palette are not liquid,) and then draws (not paints) a likeness of the sun; but, in the at tempt, plasters him too “pearly,” puts it on too thick; the consequence of which is that some of the paint is spilt, and “runs astray” and besmears the milky way, and “spatters” the rest of the sky with stars! We can only say that a very singular picture was spoilt in the making.

The versification of the “Worth of Beauty” proceeds much after this fashion: we select a fair example of the whole from page 43.

Nor do we regard any portion of it (so far as rhythm is concerned) as at all comparable to some of the better ditties of William Slater. Here, for example, from his Psalms, published in 1642:

And here, again, are lines from the edition of the same Psalms, by Archbishop Parker, which we most decidedly prefer:

“The Martyr” and the “Retreat of Seventy-Six” are merely Revolutionary incidents “done into verse,” and spoilt in the doing. “The Retreat” begins with the remarkable line,

which is elsewhere introduced into the poem. We look in vain, here, for any thing worth even qualified commendation. [page 197:]

“The Diary” is a record of events occurring to the author during a voyage from New York to Havre. Of these events a fit of sea-sickness is the chief. Mr. Ward, we believe, is the first of the genus irritabile who has ventured to treat so delicate a subject with that grave dignity which is its due:

But the “horror,” and indeed all that ensues, we must leave to the fancy of the poetical.

Some pieces entitled “Humorous” next succeed, and one or two of them (for example, “The Graham System” and “The Bachelor's Lament”) are not so very contemptible in their way, but the way itself is beneath even contempt.

“To an Infant in Heaven” embodies some striking thoughts, and, although feeble as a whole, and terminating lamely, may be cited as the best composition in the volume. We quote two or three of the opening stanzas:

There are several other pieces in the book — but it is needless to speak of them in detail. Among them we note one or two political effusions, and one or two which are (satirically?) termed satirical. All are worthless.

Mr. Ward's imagery, at detached points, has occasional vigor and appropriateness; we may go so far as to say that, at times, it is strikingly beautiful — by accident of course. Let us cite a few instances. At page 53 we read —

At page 91 —

At page 92 —

And again, at page 234, speaking of a slight shock of an earthquake, the earth is said to tremble

This latter passage, however, is, perhaps, not altogether original with Mr. Ward. In a poem now lying before us, entitled “Al Aaraaf,” the composition of a gentleman of Philadelphia, we find what follows:

But if Mr. Ward's imagery is, indeed, at rare intervals, good, it must be granted, on the other hand, that, in general, it is atrociously inappropriate, or low. For example:

Here the mind wavers between gems, and stars, and taffety — between footmen and flowers. Again, at page 46 —

The idea of “thornless flowers,” etc. leaping “ready-armed “ could have entered few brains except those of Mr. Ward.

Of the most ineffable bad taste we have instances without number. For example — page 183 —

And here, very gravely, at page 25,

Here again, at page 33,

But we doubt if the whole world of literature, poetical or prosaic, can afford a picture more utterly disgusting than the following, which we quote from page 177:

This passage alone should damn the book — aye, damn a dozen such. [page 198:]

Of what may be termed the niaiseries — the sillinesses — of the volume, there is no end. Under this head we might quote two thirds of the work. For example:

All seriously urged, at different points of page 66. Again, on the very next page —

And here, at page 129 —

And here, page 109 —

And here, page 111 —

And here, page 170 —

And here, page 214 —

Mr. Ward, also, is constantly talking about “thunder-guns,” “thunder-trumpets,” and “thunder-shrieks.” He has a bad habit, too, of styling an eye “a weeper,” as for example, at page 208 —

Somewhere else he calls two tears “two sparklers” — very much in the style of Mr. Richard Swiveller, who was fond of denominating Madeira “the rosy.” “In the nick,” meaning in the height, or fulness, is likewise a pet expression of the author of “The Great Descender.” Speaking of American [column 2:] forests, at page 286, for instance, he says, “let the doubter walk through them in the nick of their glory.” A phrase which may be considered as in the very nick of good taste.

We cannot pause to comment upon Mr. Ward's most extraordinary system of versification. Is it his own? He has quite an original way of conglomerating consonants, and seems to have been experimenting whether it were not possible to do altogether without vowels. Sometimes he strings together quite a chain of impossibilities. The line, for example, at page 51,

puts us much in mind of the schoolboy stumbling-block, beginning, “The cat ran up the ladder with a lump of raw liver in her mouth,” and we defy Sam Patch himself to pronounce it twice in succession without tumbling into a blunder.

But we are fairly wearied with this absurd theme. Who calls Mr. Ward a poet? He is a second-rate, or a third-rate, or perhaps a ninety-ninth-rate poetaster. He is a gentleman of “elegant leisure,” and gentlemen of elegant leisure are, for the most part, neither men, women, nor Harriet Martineaus. Similar opinions, we believe, were expressed by somebody else — was it Mr. Benjamin? — no very long while ago. But neither Mr. Ward nor “The Knickerbocker” would be convinced. The latter, by way of defence, went into a treatise upon Sam Patch, and Mr. Ward, “in the nick of his glory,” wrote another poem against criticism in general, in which he called Mr. Benjamin “a wasp” and “an owl,” and endeavored to prove him an ass. An owl is a wise bird — especially in spectacles — still, we do not look upon Mr. Benjamin as an owl. If all are owls who disbelieve in this book (which we now throw to the pigs) then the world at large cuts a pretty figure, indeed, and should be burnt up in April, as Mr. Miller desires — for it is only one immense aviary of owls.