Text: Thomas Cottrell Clark, “The N. P. Willis, and Literary Men Forty Years Ago,” Northern Monthly (New York), vol. 2, no. 3, January 1868, pp. 234-244

[page 234:]

THE LATE N. P. WILLIS, AND LITERARY MEN FORTY YEARS AGO.

THE death of Nathaniel P. Willis awakens reminiscences of his early days, and of the young writers who commenced their literary career with him, or within a few years earlier or later. His themes from Scripture, suggested probably by a religious training in the parental school from which issued “the first religious newspaper in the United States,” had gained for Mr. Willis a distinction which, no doubt, lightened his collegiate labors. This distinction was increased by an event which, at that period, gave to the student of Yale College still greater encouragement in the career which he had marked out. This was the public announcement of a poetical triumph — a prize, in the shape of a gold medal, awarded to “Roy,” at the time when he was closing his student life. As this incident was over-looked altogether, in the newspaper mention of Mr. Willis's life and writings, I will give the facts. The matter may not be of any further interest than showing a powerful stimulus which may have decided the youthful student upon his after career.

Forty years since, the writer of this notice, then engaged in pub- lishing a literary paper, offered a gold medal as a prize for the best poem. The announcement was made August 30th, 1826. The judges were James N. Barker, Richard Penn Smith, and George M. Dallas, our late Minister to Great Britain. They awarded the gold medal to N. P. Willis of Yale College, for the poem entitled, Confessions of a Student. As the two first-named gentlemen were, at that time, well and favorably known in the literary world, and as Mr. Dallas was an eminent lawyer, their names carried influence irrespective of the particular merit of the piece itself. I have this poem now before me, and should your readers feel disposed to judge of its merits, I shall be glad to furnish a copy. On turning over my pages, I find several other “original “poems from Mr. Willis, “The Serenade,” “The Earl's Minstrel,” etc., neither of which appear in the recent issue of his volume of poetry

Turning further on, I notice the occurrence of Mr. Willis's name, in a connection deserving explanation. In 1828, appeared a review upon The Token, an annual edited by N. P. Willis.

“We would extract copiously from The Legendary for the benefit of our readers did we not consider such a course unjustifiable. The contents of the work are rich and various. It is in itself a credit to the country, and we wish to use every means possible for its encouragement. Many of the pieces, taken separately, are worth the price [page 235:] of the volume; and we doubt not but many of the Legendary articles have gained subscribers to papers which have unjustly withheld the due credit. “Readiness to give credit is beginning to be fashionable nowadays Had it prevailed forty years ago, Mr. Willis might have been more successful in his attempts at journalism. Further on is a notice of a poem on Spring, full of pretty conceits, and some thoughts that are really beautiful — true pictures from nature — the poet believing that

February, 1829, I find mention of a “new monthly periodical to be commenced in May next, under the editorial guidance of our valued correspondent, N. P. Willis, Esq. It is to be called the American Monthly Magazine, and is to be conducted on the plan of Campbell's London New Monthly. Such a work has long been desired. The lovers of sterling literature may expect something of a new and high order,” etc.

But, alas for all the glowing pictures, the praises, promises, and hopes — how evanescent all! Did not our young student commence too soon? Had he waited until his mind became enriched by his later “foreign travel,” and his judgment matured, Mr. Willis might, with such talent as he could have secured among the leading literary men of the country, have made a national magazine that should have lived to this day. But his life and his genius were frittered away upon “political dailies,” unsuited to his character and tastes; or, upon literary periodicals immaturely considered, and therefore evanescent, transient as a poet's dream.

The cynic might call for “more ballast,” or “a steadier hand at the helm.” The world is full of fault-finders, the envious or conceited; and how much unmerited severity followed in his path, even when it was most thickly strewn with flowers! But one fine trait in the character of Mr. Willis has never once been assailed — that innate purity of mind which has ever marked all his writings. There has been no word, no unchaste or vulgar line which, “dying, he would wish to blot. “However his muse may at times have toyed with trifles, he was never voluptuous or sensual. It was, at one time, a cause of censure with some, that the “Bard of Scripture “descended to light and undignified trifling; they entirely overlooking the popular maxim that

and besides, this same class of critics, who would appear themselves so immaculate, were the admirers of that school of free lovers whose high-priest had taught them the creed that

But these are trifles, mere ripples on the deep, pure lake. What I desire especially to remark, are the manly qualities, the frank and noble nature of the gifted author; especially as indicated in a few brief passages which I will now quote. It is in reference to and in vindication of one who has been more shamefully maligned and slandered than any other writer that can be named. I say this from personal knowledge of Mr. Poe, who was associated with myself in the editorial conduct of my own paper before his introduction into the office of Messrs. Morris and Willis. For Mr. Willis's manly vindication of the unfortunate I honor him.

In a letter from Idlewild, October 17th, 1858, Mr. Willis says to his copartner, Mr. Morris, “In our harassing and exhausting days of ‘ daily’ editorship, Poe for a long time was our assistant — the constant and industrious occupant of a desk in our office. The light shining from this (Poe's) volume — genius of a diamond lustre which I think wholly unsurpassed — fully justifies to me now the estimate I then formed of the man from the presence of the man. It is of the unce living man that I wish to make a remark or two, which shall stand for YOUR VOICE AND MINE. Poe came to us quite incidentally, neither of us having been personally acquainted with him till that time; and his position toward us, and connection with us, of course unaffected by claims of previous friendship, were a fair average of his general intercourse and impressions. As he was a man who never smiled, and never said a propitiatory or deprecating word, we were not likely to have been seized with any sudden partiality or way- ward caprice in his favor.

“I should preface my avowal of an almost reverence for the man, as I knew him, by reminding the reader of the strange double, common to the presence and magnetism of a man of genius, the mysterious electricity of mind. . . . . [page 237:]

“It was rather a step downward, after being the chief editor of several monthlies, as Poe had been, to come into the office of a daily journal as a mechanical paragraphist. It was his business to sit at a desk, in a corner of the editorial room, ready to be called upon for any of the miscellaneous work of the day; yet you remember how absolutely and how good-humoredly ready he was for any suggestion; how punctually and industriously reliable in the following out of the wish once expressed; how cheerful and present-minded his work when he might excusably have been so listless and abstracted. WE LOVED THE MAN for the entireness of fidelity with which he served us. When he left us, we were very reluctant to part with him; but we could not object — he was to take the lead in another periodical.”

On another occasion, Mr. Willis writes thus, “Our first knowledge of Mr. Poe's removal to this city was by a call which we received from a lady who introduced herself to us as the mother of his wife. She was in search of employment for him, and she excused her errand, by mentioning that he was ill, that her daughter was a con- firmed invalid, and that their circumstances were such as compelled her taking it upon herself. The countenance of this lady, made beautiful and saintly, giving up her life to privation and sorrowful tenderness, her gentle and mournful voice urging its plea, disclosed the presence of one of those angels upon earth that women in adversity can be. It was a hard fate that she was watching over. Mr. Poe wrote with fastidious difficulty, and in a style too much above the popular level to be well paid. He was always in pecuniary difficulty, and, with his sick wife, frequently in want of the merest necessaries of life. “

There is much more in this strain, showing how justly and kindly Mr. Willis appreciated Mr. Poe and the wife he so tenderly loved, both of whom were shortly thereafter at rest in their graves. Mr. Willis's generous testimony is freely confirmed by other publishers. On this subject I have some singular revelations which throw a strong light on the causes that darkened the life, and made most unhappy the death, of one of the most remarkable of all our literary men — as an English Reviewer once said, “the most brilliant genius of his country.” During his engagement in my office, I published a life of Mr. Poe, with a portrait from a daguerreotype. Both the life and the portrait are as utterly unlike the gross caricatures, manufactured since his death, as is the portrait prefixed to a recent volume of Poe's Poems, and which bears no more resemblance to the fine, intellectual head of Poe, than it does to that of Louis Napoleon or Garibaldi. Why are such wrongs perpetrated on the dead? Why are they permitted? How much more generous and gentlemanly is the testimony of Mr. Willis, [page 238:] indorsed by the assent of his partner, General Morris — “which shall stand for your voice and mine.”

Before N. P. Willis had come fairly upon the stage, where he was to fill so conspicuous a place, I had been the fellow-clerk, or rather the successor in the clerkship, of a promising genius, JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. Whether he left merchandise from a distaste for the business, or simply from a preference for the study of medicine, I do not now remember. Indeed, it is so long since, that I remember but little more than his fine personal appearance, which made as strong an impression upon my mind, as his impaired and delicate health did upon my sympathies. He was a most genial and amiable gentleman; and I recollect the little concern which he manifested at the “premonitory symptoms,” saying, in reference to certain dietary restrictions, that, when he sat down to his breakfast or dinner, the doctor's directions were at once forgotten. A favorite dish, however hurtful in theory, could not be resisted. I once heard him say that his physician had recommended riding, even to the extent of making a horseback journey to New-Orleans; the ride being, as Mr. Drake remarked, “the final test — to kill or cure. “But he lived some years after this, enjoying the congenial fellowship, and sharing in the fame of his literary copartner, the now lamented Halleck, whose keen satire, with its good temper and cutting severity, has rarely been equaled. Of Dr. Drake's best known poem how singularly appropriate are its glowing figures and ardent patriotism, to some of the scenes ‘ mid which “Freedom “has since “unfurled her standard to the air. “We have few passages in any of our national poems that so thrill the soul of patriotism, or awaken more enthusiasm, than some of the lines in the popular address to “The American Flag.”

Though little else than this piece and the wild fancies of his Culprit Fay are left to keep his memory alive, there was a warmth in his heart, a social fascination in his daily life, which endeared him to his friends The names of the two literary brothers, Halleck and Drake, will ever remain associated while affection cherishes the sen- timent enshrined in the former's beautiful and touching tribute,

But if the thread of life snapped short to Drake, the purely literary career of his surviving friend was equally brief and unsatisfying. After a ripe old age, the “green turf” covers Halleck now; but years on years before, he had buried the genius of his younger days under an avalanche of financial rubbish.

That immolation of talent was certainly to be regretted. Halleck's satire would have done service in these latter times. Who does not recall the keen and rapier-like lines of his “Epistle to the Recorder”? Read the opening:

In 1829, on republishing “The Recorder, a Poetical Epistle by Thomas Castaly,” (the nom de guerre of the satirist,) I appended the observation which I now repeat, “It is a matter of surprise that one who appears to write with the ease and facility which always distinguish the productions of Halleck, and whose appearance is invariably greeted with admiration, should so seldom appear before the public whose favorite he unquestionably is. If, like the ‘stars’ in our theatrical horizon, whose ascendency is sometimes maintained by their few and far between visits, more than by their own intrinsic merit, he can imagine the lustre of his muse to be in danger of being diminished, or its peculiar charm lost, through too much familiarity with the public gaze, he is mistaken.”

Every one is at liberty to draw his own inferences in this matter, and some may be disposed to give the poet the credit of acting on the plain, matter of fact principle of business, adhering to that which would “pay” — not only pay best, but the surest and longest. Forty odd years have convinced me that the poet acted wisely; for in that length of time how many brilliant intellects have I seen flashing meteor-like, the “observed of all observers,” only to sink down, sooner or later, amid the dark waves of oblivion. A few, here and there, combining common sense and practical prudence with true genius, are exceptions; but, alas! what numbers have sunk, weary and exhausted, into premature graves. A solid base of coin is better than that unsubstantial dream which men call fame. The secret of the poet-banker rested with himself, and is probably hinted at in the close of the following extract, with which we will take leave of Drake, Halleck and “Croaker & Co.”

What has become of “the other thirty-four “bards? The “fourteen wards”of New-York have increased to — how many? Four-fold? If the “bards “and the “wards “have kept pace with each other, what a host there must be by this time! But where are the satirists? I hear nothing now of the keen and polished satire, doing its wholesome work, cutting down the noxious weeds, and giving the good and pure a clear breathing space. But am I wrong? Is there no need of satire and reforms now? Are we so much better than when Halleck poised his weapon, making the “Recorder “start and look grave? How vast the difference between this year and forty years ago! Then fashion and domestic quietude nestled about Bowling Green, and ponderous warehouses had not driven Broadway into Fifth Avenue. I rambled then among the marble blocks scattered about the Park, waiting to take their place upon the “new City Hall.” The pretty lake, where we boys sailed our tiny boats, and where Fitch floated his first steamboat, had not become disfigured with that odious prison, the “Tombs” — how ominous that sounds! — displacing the sylvan shades, where some of “the other thirty-four” might have sat and sang their soft and innocent lays, little dreaming of the “Tombs” in which some of their own “unfortunates” were destined to be immured. How many of them may have received their quietus there! I remember one — alas! poor “Mac!” — who, after reveling in a “mad poet's “fantastic dreams, found his way — why will Justice ever wear that hateful bandage upon her eyes? — into one of the cells of the “Tombs,” on a cold winter night, and setting the water free, dreaming, perhaps, of purling brooks and babbling waterfalls, in the midst of a warm summer's day, was found the next morning frozen to death, literally a human icicle, a reversed, pendent, conical mass of ice. Alas! poor poet!