Page images
PDF
EPUB
[merged small][merged small][merged small][graphic]

JOHN

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

OHN GODFREY SAXE was born at Highgate, Franklin County, Vermont, on the second day of June, 1816. From nine to seventeen he worked on his father's farm and went to school. Wishing then to study one of the liberal professions, he entered the grammar-school of St. Albans, and, after the usual preparatory studies, the college at Middletown, Conn., where he graduated Bachelor of Arts in the summer of 1839.

He had no reputation while at college either as a writer or speaker, but was considered a fine scholar, especially in the languages, a very pleasant fellow, and the best talker in the place. Good talkers are seldom anything else, or seldom succeed as well in anything else-so much and so inVOL. II, No. 5.-CC

stantaneously are they appreciated by society, and so easy does talking at last become to them. Many a fine writer, like Coleridge, has eventually subsided into a merely good conversationalist. With Saxe it has happily proved otherwise. What is rather odd, though, considering the immemorial custom of all collegians, and the literary aspirations of most young men, he wrote nothing at college, nor until several years after he had graduated, when he was in apparently unpropitious circumstances, viz., in the holy bonds of matrimony, and the tedious study of the law. Among his college friends was Thos. B. Thorpe, now of New-Orleans, the author of many admirable western stories. To him Saxe has addressed a rhyming epistle full of college reminiscences:

"Ah those were memorable times,
And worth embalming in my rhymes,
When at the summons

Of chapel-bell, we left our sport,
For lessons most uncommon short,
Or shorter commons."

After alluding to Thorpe's talent for drawing and painting, whereby

"People very thin and flat,

Like aldermen, grew round and fat
On canvas-backs,"

he says:

"Ah, we were jolly youngsters then ; But now we're sober-sided men,

Half through life's journey: And you 've turn'd author too, I hear, And I, you 'll think it very queer,

Have turn'd attorney."

Saxe's first movement toward the "turning" alluded to was to read law at Lockport, in the State of New-York, and afterward at St. Albans, his old schoolplace. In 1843 Saxe was admitted to the bar at St. Albans, and commenced practice as an attorney. When he was twenty-five he began to write verses, and his first published piece-(it was published in "The Knickerbocker Magazine," then, as now, under the management of our good friend, Lewis Gaylord Clarke)-his first piece, we say, not only related the story of his life at that time, as is the case with the poems of all true poets, if the world has the art to read them aright; but demonstrated that a new poet had appeared, and indicated the school of verse in which he was to be most successful. The reader will bear in mind the law-studies of Saxe; imagine, if he pleases, his want of practice; and then proceed to read and enjoy "The Briefless Barrister."

"THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER. "An attorney was taking a turn,

In shabby habiliments dress'd; His coat it was shockingly worn,

And the rust had invested his vest.

"His breeches had suffer'd a breach,

His linen and worsted were worse; He had scarce a whole crown in his hat, And not half-a-crown in his purse.

"And thus as he wander'd along,

A cheerless and comfortless elf,
He sought for relief in a song,
Or complainingly talk'd to himself.

"Unfortunate man that I am!
I've never a client but grief;
The case is I've no case at all,

And, in brief, I've ne'er had a brief!

""Tis not that I'm wanting in law,

Or lack an intelligent face, That others have cases to plead,

While I have to plead for a case.

"O, how can a modest young man E'er hope for the smallest progression, The profession's already so full

Of lawyers so full of profession.' "While thus he was strolling around,

His eye accidentally fell

On a very deep hole in the ground, And he sigh'd to himself, 'It is well!' "To curb his emotions he sat

On the curb-stone the space of a minute; Then cried,Here's an opening at last!" And in less than a jiffy was in it! "Next morning twelve citizens came,

('T was the coroner bade them attend,) To the end that it might be determined How the man had determined his end! "This man was a lawyer, I hear,'

[ocr errors]

Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse; A lawyer? alas!' said another, Undoubtedly died of remorse!"

[ocr errors]

"A third said, 'He knew the deceased,
An attorney well-versed in the laws,
And, as to the cause of his death,-
"T was

no doubt from the want of a

cause.

"The jury decided at length,

[ocr errors]

After solemnly weighing the matter,
That the lawyer was drown'd because
He could not keep his head above water!"

After the "Briefless Barrister," and one or two smaller poems, came 66 Progress," a satire, which was spoken before the associated alumni of Middlebury College in 1846, creating a decided sensation. It was published in New-York shortly after its delivery, and immediately became popular. It has been more quoted than any satire printed in the last twenty years. "In skillful felicities of language and rhythm," says Dr. Griswold, "general clear and sharp expression, and alternating touches of playful wit and sharp sense, there is nothing so long that is so well sustained in the one hundred and one books of American satire." In 1847 he wrote "The New Rape of the Lock," and in 1848 "The Proud Miss M'Bride." For the last seven or eight years he has been practicing in the courts, writing verses occasionally, attending to the interests of his party in that part of the world-for Saxe is something of a politician-editing "The Burlington Sentinel," running for the office of district attorney, which he was talented and popular enough to gain, and writing and delivering college

and anniversary poems. In this last item sity, the enthusiasm of poetry, and are not of business he has done more service than impelled by their nature into musical utany other man, reciting more verses and terance. They may call in the aid of oftener, than all our lecturers together, verse to sharpen their effect, but it will Park Benjamin, perhaps, excepted. If never be of any high or inspired order. he has won applause by his lectures, It will be pipe and tabor music, and not and he certainly has, something is due that of the organ or the orchestra. Juveto his nice adaptation of them, and to nal sometimes gives us stately hexamehis voice and manner of speaking. Few ters; but then he was a very serious satirpoets can read well, either their own ist, and worked himself up into a very verses, or those of other people; hence lofty indignation." And yet wit and hutheir want of success in the lecture-room. mor possess one of the great requisites of But both Saxe and Park Benjamin are poetry-fancy: without that vague somefine readers, and, by their reading alone, thing which we call the fanciful, there can can make bad poems seem good ones. In be nothing truly comic. That which leads 1849 Saxe read another satire, entitled the poet to compare, which links together "The Times," before the Boston Mercan- opposites, and creates harmony from seemtile Library Association; in 1850“ Carmen | ing discord, is that which makes the wit Lætum," an after-dinner poem, before the and humorist in whatever manner he manalumni of Middlebury College; and in 1851, | ifests himself. Dickens, in the matter of before the New-York University, a poem comparison, is as fine a poet as Longfelcalled "New-England." This last re- low, only that his comparisons are differmains unprinted, and will for some time to ent, and witty instead of poetical. “Wit," come, the poet being still engaged in re- says Hunt again, "may be defined to be citing it in different parts of the country. the arbitrary juxtaposition of dissimilar Saxe's present residence is at Burlington, ideas, for some lively purpose of assimiVermont. For his personal appearance lation or contrast, or both. It is fancy in we refer to the portrait prefixed to our its most willful, and, strictly speaking, its article: we can vouch for its thorough least poetical state; that is to say, wit correctness; but it gives no idea of one does not contemplate its ideas for their peculiarity of Saxe-how indeed could own sakes in any light apart from their it?—of his height and robust build. In ordinary prosaical one, but solely for the his epistle to the editor of "The Knick- purpose of producing an effect by their erbocker," he thus describes himself:- combination. Poetry may take up the combination, and improve it; but then it divests it of its arbitrary character, and converts it into something better." Humor and fun are more poetical than wit and satire, because there is more breadth and depth about them. They spring from, and affect the heart and soul of man, that part of him which is inherent and everlasting, not the work of colleges and schools, with a due infusion of tailors and perfumers, while satire and wit are in most cases the result of education, and chiefly affect educated minds. The wit of Sheridan and Congreve would be lost upon many a man who would split his sides with laughter at the buffoonery of a mere circusclown.

"I am a man, you must learn,

Less famous for beauty than strength;
And for aught I could ever discern,
Of rather superfluous length.
In truth 't is but seldom one meets
Such a Titan in human abodes,
And when I stalk over the streets

I'm a perfect Colossus of roads!"

The ancestors of Saxe were, we believe, originally Germans, the name “Saxe" being the English of " Sachs," Hans Sachs, the old ballad-writer of Nuremberg.

With the exception of Holmes, and perhaps Lowell, Saxe is the only one of our writers who has cultivated comic poetry with any degree of success. Indeed, they all steer clear of it, and the only thing comic about many of them is their most serious verse. How far the comic element, how far wit and humor in the abstract, can be considered poetry in the abstract, is a matter of endless dispute. "Wit and satire," says Hunt," and the observation of common life, want, of neces

Judging them by their ideals, and by their effect upon ourselves, Saxe's truest poems are "The Old Chapel Bell" and "The Lady Ann." In the first, the bell speaks to a little boy who sits beside it in a half-dream, relating the incidents which have passed around it in other years, its

388

[merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors]

"Years roll'd away-and I beheld
The child to woman grown;
Her cheek was fairer, and her eye
With brighter luster shone;
But childhood's truth and innocence
Were still the maiden's own.

"I never rang a merrier peal,

Than when, a joyous bride,
She stood beneath the sacred porch
A noble youth beside,

And plighted him her maiden troth
In maiden love and pride.

"I never toll'd a deeper knell,

Than when, in after years,

They laid her in the church-yard here

Where this low mound appears(The very grave, my boy, that you Are watering now with tears!)

"It is thy mother! gentle boy,

That claims this tale of mine;
Thou art a flower whose fatal birth
Destroy'd the parent vine!

A precious flower art thou, my child-
Two lives were given for thine!

"One was thy sainted mother's, when
She gave thee mortal birth;
And one thy Saviour's, when in death
He shook the solid earth:
Go, boy, and live as may befit

Thy life's exceeding worth!
"The boy awoke as from a dream,
And, thoughtful, look'd around,
And nothing saw save at his feet
His mother's lowly mound,
And by its side that ancient bell

Half-hidden in the ground!"

Totally dissimilar, yet creating the same emotions of quaint melancholy and pathos, is "The Lady Ann." There is an indescribable sweetness about the story of her misfortune, and its effects upon her wandering wits. So would Ophelia, "that royal flower," have mourned for the death of Hamlet, had not the willow broke, and precipitated her into the brook with her chaplet of wild flowers. And yet there is an air of bonhomie and good-humor about it, which perpetually remind us of Goldsmith. It does not read like a poem of this century at all.

"THE LADY ANN.

"She'll soon be here, the Lady Ann,' The children cried in glee; 'She always comes at four o'clock, And now it's striking three.'

"At stroke of four the lady came,
A lady young and fair;
And she sat and gazed adown the road
With a long and eager stare.

"The mail! the mail!' the idlers cried,
At sight of a coach-and-four;

The mail! the mail!' and at the word
The coach was at the door.

"Up sprang in haste the Lady Ann,
And mark'd with anxious eye
The travelers, who, one by one,
Were slowly passing by.
"Alack! alack!' the lady cried,
'He surely named to-day;

He'll come to-morrow, then,' she sigh'd,
And turning, stroll'd away.

"'Tis passing odd, upon my word,'
The landlord now began;

A strange romance!-that woman, sirs,
Is called the Lady Ann.

"She dwells hard by, upon the hill,
The widow of Sir John,

Who died abroad, come August next,
Just twenty years agone.

"A hearty neighbor, sirs, was he,
A bold, true-hearted man;

And a fonder pair were seldom seen
Than he and Lady Ann.

"They scarce had been a twelve-month
wed,

When, ill betide the day!
Sir John was call'd to go in haste

Some hundred miles away.
"Ne'er lovers in the fairy tales

A truer love could boast,
And many were the gentle words
That came and went by post.
"A month or more had pass'd away,

When by the post came down
The joyous news that such a day
Sir John would be in town.
"Full gleesome was the Lady Ann
To read the welcome word,
And promptly at the hour she came
To meet her wedded lord.
"Alas! alas! he came not back!

There only came instead
A mournful message by the post

That good Sir John was dead!
"One piercing shriek, and Lady Ann
Had swooned upon the floor;
Good sirs, it was a fearful grief
That gentle lady bore!

"We raised her up; her ebbing life
Began again to dawn;
She mutter'd wildly to herself-

"T was plain her wits were gone.
"A strange forgetfulness came o'er
Her sad bewilder'd mind,
And to the grief that drove her mad
Her memory was blind!

"Ah! since that hour she little wots
Full twenty years are fled!
She little wots, poor Lady Ann,
Her wedded lord is dead.

"But each returning day she deems

The hour he fix'd to come;
And ever at the wonted hour
She's here to greet him home.

"And when the coach is at the door,
She marks with eager eye
The travelers, as, one by one,
They're slowly passing by.

"Alack!' she cried, in plaintive tone,
'He surely named to-day!
He'll come to-morrow, then,' she sighs,
And turning, strolls away!"

With the exception of some of the smaller poems, which, not being long, are more easily quotable, "Progress" is the most popular poem that Saxe has yet written, and the one by which he is best known to the mass of readers. Of the

sages.

Among other things satirized is Socialism,

"That matchless scheme, ingeniously design'd From half their miseries to free mankind;" and it affords Saxe the opportunity to let off the following good-natured squib :

"Association' is the magic word

[ocr errors]

From many a social 'priest and prophet' heard;
Attractive Labor' is the angel given

To render earth a sublunary heaven!
'Attractive Labor!' ring the changes round,
And labor grows attractive in the sound;
And many a youthful mind, where haply lurk
Sees pleasant pastime in its longing view,
Unwelcome fancies at the name of work,'
of toil made easy' and 'attractive' too,
And fancy-rapt, with joyful ardor, turns
Delightful grindstones and seductive churns!
'Men are not bad'-these social sages preach,
'Men are not what their actions seem
teach;

'No moral ill is natural or fix'd

Which of all choice ingredients partook,
And then was ruin'd by a blundering cook!"

to

A passage from "The Times," and we have done with our extracts from Saxe's

satires. From what we have seen of the class of ladies he alludes to, the satire seems to us just and fair :

"What hinders then, when every youth may

entire poem, consisting of four hundred and eighty verses, more than four hundred different lines have been quoted, with expressions of approbation in specimen pas-Men only err by being badly mix'd!' To them the world a huge plum-pudding seems, Six or seven years have passed Made up of richest viands, fruits, and creams, since its first appearance, but it is still going the rounds of the papers and magazines. We cannot at present follow the poet over the whole field of modern "progress," for in this marvelous age of spiritual rappings and mesmeric revelations, some new science and wonder may arise before we can finish the paper. They come like shadows; may they so depart! The following hits at our boy-philosophers and our smart young ladies are well-deserved : "Room for the sages!-hither comes a throng Of blooming Platos trippingly along, In dress how fitted to beguile the fair! What intellectual, stately heads—of hair! Hark to the oracle-to wisdom's tone Breathed in a fragrant zephyr of Cologne. That boy in gloves, the leader of the van, Talks of the outer' and the inner man," And knits his girlish brow in stout resolve Some mountain-sized idea' to 'evolve.' Delusive toil-thus in their infant days, When children mimic manly deeds in plays, Long will they sit, and, eager, bob for whale,' Within the ocean of a water-pail!

[ocr errors][ocr errors]
[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

Nor less, O Progress, are thy newest rules
Enforced and honor'd in the 'Ladies' Schools ;'
Where education, in its nobler sense,
Gives place to learning's shallowest pretense;
Where hapless maids, in spite of wish or taste,
On vain accomplishments' their moments
waste;

By cruel parents here condemn'd to wrench
Their tender throats in mispronouncing French;
Here doom'd to force, by unrelenting knocks,
Reluctant music from a tortured box;
Here taught, in inky shades and rigid lines,
To perpetrate equivocal designs;'
'Drawings' that prove their title plainly true,
By showing nature 'drawn' and 'quartered' too!"

choose

As fancy bids, a musket or a muse,

And shows his head among his fellow-men,
From the dark muzzle of a gun or pen;
When blooming school-girls who absurdly think
That naught but drapery can be spoil'd with
ink,

Ply ceaseless quills that, true to ready use,
Keep the old habit of the pristine goose,
While each a special Sappho in her teens,
Shines forth a goddess in the magazines;
When waning spinsters, happy to rehearse
Their maiden griefs in doubly grievous verse,
Write doleful ditties, or distressful strains
To wicked rivals or unfaithful swains,
Or serenade, at night's bewitching noon,
The mythic man whose home is in the moon;
When pattern wives no thrifty arts possess,
Save that of weaving-fustian for the press;
Write lyrics, heedless of their scorching buns,
Dress up their sonnets, but neglect their sons,
Make dainty doughnuts from Parnassian wheat,
And fancy-stockings for poetic feet;
While husbands-those who love their coffee hot,
And like no fire that does n't boil the pot-
Wish old Apollo, just to plague his life,
Had, for his own, a literary wife!
What hinders, then, that I, a sober elf,
Who, like the others, keep a muse myself,
Should venture here, as kind occasion lends,
A fitting time to please those urgent friends,
To waive at once my modest muse's doubt,
And, jockey-like, to trot the lady out?"

« PreviousContinue »