Recollections of a Lifetime, by Samuel Griswold Goodrich (New York & Auburn: Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1856)
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LETTER XXXV.
Sketches of the "Hartford Wits"--Dr. Hopkins--Trumbull, author of McFingal--David Humphries--Dr. Strong--Theodore Dwight--Thomas H. Gallaudet--Daniel Wadsworth--Dr. Coggswell--Mrs. Sigourney.
My dear C******
In order to complete the panorama of my life at Hartford, I must give you a brief sketch, of some of the persons whom I knew there, and who had become conspicuous by their words or works. I have already said that Hopkins,* who in point of genius stood at the head of the noted literary fraternity of "Hartford Wits," was not living when I went to reside at that place. Trumbull, the author of McFingal, was still living, and I knew him well. He was at that time an old man, and--always small of stature--was now bent, emaciated, and tottering with a cane. His features were finely cut, and he must have been
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handsome in his younger days. His eye was keen and bright, his nose slightly aquiline, his mouth arching downward at the corners, expressive of sarcastic humor. There was something about him that at once bespoke the man of letters, the poet, and the satirist.*
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Dr. Strong was the minister of the Middle Brick Church--the principal Congregational church in the city. He was now near threescore and ten--large, infirm, and shuffling along as if afflicted with gout in the feet. His life and character had been marked with eccentricities--with worldliness, wit, and social aptitudes. Nevertheless, he was an eloquent and devout preacher; it was said of him that when in the pulpit, it seemed that he ought never to leave it, and when out of it, that he ought never to go into it. All his levity, however, had passed when I knew him. He was indeed fast approaching that bourne whence no traveler returns. With all his early
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faults, he had a very strong hold of the affections and confidence of his people. His face was remarkably expressive, his eye keen, his lips firm, his nose arched, and his long, thick, gray hair turned back and rolled in waves upon his shoulders. I am not sure that his reputation as a man of wit and worldly taste, now that these were cast aside, did not deepen the impression made by his preaching at this period. I am certain that I have never heard discourses more impressive, more calculated to subdue the pride of the heart, and turn it to religious submission, than these. He was considered a man of remarkable sagacity, especially in penetrating the motives of mankind, and he was at the same time esteemed by his clerical brethren as a very able divine. He published two volumes of sermons, but they furnish little evidence of the genius which was imputed to him. His reputation is now merely traditional, but it is impossible not to perceive that, with such eccentricities, he must have been a man of remarkable qualities, inasmuch as he gathered into his congregation the first minds in the city, and left a name which still seems a bond of union and strength to the church over which he presided.*
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Theodore Dwight, a younger brother of Dr. Dwight, was born at Northampton, in 1764. His early life was spent upon the farm, and at that period when the wolf, wild-cat, and Indian were occasionally seen in the forest--furnishing him with ample materials for interesting descriptions of adventure in after-
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time. When nearly twenty, he injured his wrist, and being disqualified for the labors of a farmer, he turned his attention to study, and finally selected the profession of the law. He established himself at Hartford,* and rose to eminence in his profession. He had, however, a strong bias toward literature, and
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wrote verses and political essays. Such was the reputation he soon acquired, that he was selected by Wolcott, Hamilton, and others, to preside over the Evening Post, established in 1801. This offer was declined, and William Coleman filled the place. Mr. Dwight was elected a member of the State Coun-
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cil, and in 1806, a member of Congress. Soon after he established the Connecticut Mirror, and from that time followed the career of an editor. He was secretary of the Hartford Convention in 1814. In 1815, he removed to Albany, and conducted the Albany Daily Advertiser: in 1817, he
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established the Daily Advertiser in New York, of which he was the chief editor till 1836, when he removed to Hartford. He afterward returned to New York, where he died, in 1846.
Among the Hartford notables was Daniel Wadsworth, son of Col. Jeremiah Wadsworth, who had
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been a distinguished member of Congress. He had traveled in Europe, and was not only a man of large wealth, but he had a taste for literature and art. His wife was daughter of the second Governor Trumbull, and a very excellent example of the refined and dignified lady of the olden time. She had been at Phil-
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adelphia when her father was member of Congress, and recited many interesting anecdotes of Washington and Hamilton, and other great men, whom she had there seen. I was often at the house, and here frequently saw her brother, Col. Trumbull, the artist, with his European wife, about whom there was an impenetrable mystery. She was a beautiful woman, and of elegant manners: her features are well preserved in her husband's portrait of her, in the Trumbull Gallery, at Yale College. It was rumored that she was the daughter of an English earl, but her name and lineage were never divulged.*
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It was, I believe, through Mr. Wadsworth's influence that Miss Huntly, now Mrs. Sigourney, was induced to leave her home in Norwich, and make Hartford her residence. This occurred about the year 1814. Noiselessly and gracefully she glided into our young social circle, and ere long was its presiding genius. I shall not write her history, nor dilate upon her literary career--for who does not know them both by heart? Yet I may note her influence in this new relation--a part of which fell upon myself. Mingling in the gayeties of our social gatherings, and in no respect clouding their festivity, she led us all toward intellectual pursuits and amusements. We had even a literary cotery under her inspiration, its first meetings being held at Mr. Wadsworth's. I believe one of my earliest attempts at composition was made here. The ripples thus begun, extended, over the whole surface of our young society, producing a lasting and refining effect. It could not but be beneficial thus to mingle in intercourse with one who has the angelic faculty of seeing poetry in all things, and good everywhere. Few persons living have exercised a wider influence than Mrs. Sigourney; no one that I now know, can look back upon a long and earnest career of such unblemished beneficence.
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In the immediate vicinity of Mr. Wadsworth, lived Dr. Coggeswell, a renowned surgeon and excellent physician. He was, withal, a man of refined tastes, and exceedingly easy and gracious address. In early life he had been associated with the "Hartford wits" and occasionally wrote verses, though more frequently of the sentimental than the satirical kind. His daughter, Alice, was deaf and dumb, if we speak of the ear and the lip; yet her soul heard and spoke in her eyes and her countenance. She excited universal interest by her sweetness of character, manners, and appearance; she was, in truth, an eloquent and persuasive lecturer upon the language, and beauty, and immortality of the soul--that lives above and beyond the senses.
Mr. Gallaudet, the founder of the Deaf and Dumb Asylum at Hartford, was a person of very diminutive stature, with a smooth, placid physiognomy--irradiated, however, by a remarkably large, expressive eye, rolling at you over his spectacles. Of a frail and feeble constitution, and a mind of no great compass, he still possessed two faculties which rendered his career glorious. He had a clearness and precision in his perceptions, which rendered his mental operations almost as exact and certain as the movements of mechanism. It was this which enabled him to master the elements of the art of teaching the deaf and dumb, and to carry that art--in its uses as well as its philosophy--greatly beyond its condition when
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he entered upon it. This principle in the head was impelled to action by another in the heart--a deep conviction that it was his duty to be useful to his fellow-men. It is pleasing to observe how wide and ample a field may be harvested by a good man, even though he may not be a giant or a genius!
I must here tell you an anecdote still fresh in my recollection. When President Monroe made his tour through the New-England States, in the summer of 1817, the asylum was a novelty, and naturally enough was the pride of the good citizens of Hartford. Of course, the President was invited to see the performances of the new institution. He was scarcely out of his carriage, and delivered from the noise and confusion of his reception--for all the world turned out to see him--before he was hurried down to the place where the school was then kept.
A high central platform was prepared, like a throne, for the great man, and here he took his seat. Around were the spectators; on one side was Mr. Gallaudet, and Mr. Clerc, the well-known deaf and dumb professor from the school of the Abbé Sicard, in Paris. Mr. Gallaudet was a man of admirable address, and all being ready, he said to the President, in his smooth, seductive way--
"If your Excellency will be so kind as to ask some question, I will repeat it to Mr. Clerc on my fingers, and he will write an answer on the slate, to show the manner and facility of conversation by signs."
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The President, who was exceedingly jaded by his journey, looked obfuscated; but he changed the position of his legs, showing a consciousness of the question, and then fell into a very brown study. Everybody expected something profound--equal to the occasion, and worthy of the chief magistrate of the greatest nation, on the face of the globe. We waited a long time, every minute seeming an hour, through our impatience. At last it became awkward, and Mr. Gallaudet insinuated--
"If your Excellency will be so kind as to ask some question, I will repeat it on my fingers to Mr. Clerc, and he will write an answer on the slate, to show the manner and facility of conversing by signs."
The President again changed the position of his legs, and again meditated. We all supposed he was at the very bottom of the abyss of philosophy, hunting up some most profound and startling interrogation. Expectation was on tiptoe; every eye was leveled at the oracular lips, about to utter the amazing proposition. Still, he only meditated. A long time passed, and the impatience became agonizing. Again Mr. Gallaudet, seeming to fear that the great man was going to sleep, roused him by repeating his request. The President at last seemed conscious; his eye twinkled, his lips moved, sounds issued from his mouth--
"Ask him--how old he is!"--was the profound suggestion.
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LETTER XXXVI.
Dr. Percival--His early Life--His Father's attempt to cure his Shyness--College Life--His First Love--His Medical Experience--His Poetical Career--An awkward Position--The Saddle on his own Back--Cooper and Percival at the City Hotel--Publication of his Poems at New York--The Edition in England-- Other Literary Avocations--His Station at West Point--His great Learning--Assistance of Dr. Webster in his Dictionary--State Geologist in Connecticut--In Wisconsin--His Death--Estimate of his Character.
My dear C******
I am glad to find, by your recent letter, that you approve of my hasty sketches of the men I have seen and known--even though they are not all of that general celebrity which creates, in advance, an interest in their behalf. No doubt the portrait of a man, whose renown has filled our ears, is more gratifying than one which merely presents the lineaments of an unknown, unheard-of individual. Yet every picture which is life-like--which possesses an obvious verisimilitude--is pleasing, especially if it seems to represent a type of some class of men, which we have seen in life. It is mainly upon this principle that the fictitious heroes and heroines of romance, interest us as deeply as even the celebrities of history. As I describe things I have seen, 1 hope my delineations may have so much seeming truth as to amuse you, even though they possess only that interest which attaches to all true pictures of humanity. I say this, not as an in-
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troduction, especially suited to this chapter, for I am now going to speak of names that are familiar to you: I make these reflections upon your letter, only as a precaution against any criticisms you may offer upon the less pretentious miniatures scattered through these pages.
The news comes, even while I write, that Percival, the poet, is dead! Yes--one by one, those I have known and cherished, are falling around me. Few of my early acquaintances are left, and I am but a lingerer among the graves of early friendship and love!
James Grates Percival was a native of Berlin,* the residence of my family, and I knew him well. His father was a physician--a man of ability, and of resolute and energetic character. His mother was by nature of a susceptible and delicate organization, and she seems to have imparted to her son these qualities, with a tendency to excessive mental development. He early manifested a morbid shyness and shrinking sensitiveness, which his father sought to cure by harsh measures. On one occasion he put the child behind him on horseback, and rode into the thickest of a sham fight, during a regimental muster. The result was, that the boy was almost thrown into convulsions.
Dr. Percival died when James was still young, and
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after a time his mother married a respectable farmer of the village by the name of Porter. The young Percival made extraordinary progress in his studies, but was little understood by those around him. He entered college at the age of sixteen, and speedily attracted attention by his acquisitions and his compositions. At this period he was often at my father's house, in Berlin, and being subject to paroxysms of great depression of spirits, he deeply excited the interest of my mother. Although, on the whole, he pursued his education with avidity and ambition, yet he often wandered forth in lonesome places, nursing a moody melancholy, and at one period, he actually contemplated suicide. From this he was diverted--mainly, I believe, by my mother's timely counsel and other kindly offices.
About this time he was frequently in the society of a beautiful and accomplished young lady of the neighborhood; he botanized with her in the fields, and poetized with her in the library, and at last he thought himself in love. Months thus ran pleasantly on, when one day he made up his mind to give her a delicate hint of his condition. He did so, I believe, in verse. The young lady replied in plain prose, that she was engaged, and was speedily to be married! The poet came to the conclusion that this was a deceitful world, and wrote Byronic verses. In 1820 he published a volume of poems, including the first part of his Prometheus.
Having studied medicine, he went to South Caro-
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lina the same year, and established himself at Charleston, as a physician. He told me afterward, that, at the end of some months, he had one patient, afflicted with sore lips. He prescribed a dose of salts, gratis, and this was a pretty fair example of his practice.
"I had got my name up for writing verses," said he, "and found myself ruined."
"How so?" said I.
"When a person is really ill, he will not send for a poet to cure him," was his answer.
Having little else before him, he directed his attention to literature, and published the first number of his Clio, 1822. Soon after, he returned to the North, and produced some miscellanies in prose and verse. At this period, he had excited a deep interest in the public mind, as well by his writings as his somewhat eccentric life and manners. The melancholy which pervaded his poetry, with fugitive pieces of great feeling and tenderness, together with a certain wildness in his air and manner, rendered him an object of general curiosity, and in many cases of deep sympathy. Of all this he seemed unconscious, and walked the world like one who neither accepted nor desired its friendship.
In the spring of 1823, I was walking up Broadway in New York, and met him. I had been intimate with him for several previous years, having often seen him at my father's house; but I now observed, that on seeing me, he turned aside, and evidently
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sought to avoid me. This was what I expected for such was his habit of shrinking shyness, that it embarrassed him to meet even an old friend. I put myself in his way, and, after a few words of recognition perceiving something more than usually downcast in his appearance, I asked him what was the occasion of it. At first he denied that any thing had happened, but at length, with some reluctance, he told me he had been making a tour to the North, and was out of money. His trunk was consequently detained on board the packet in which he had come down from Albany!
Percival had some patrimony, and though his means were narrow, they might have been sufficient for his comfort, with good management. But common sense--in the economy of life--was, unhappily, not one of his endowments. When he was about fifteen years old, his friends gave him fifty dollars, mounted him on a horse, and told him to ride till he had spent half his money, and then turn about and come home--thinking him competent to fulfill this simple programme. He rode on for two or three days, when he found that the horse's back was sadly galled. Shocked at what seemed an inhumanity--for his feelings were exquisitely tender--he resolved immediately to return. He would not mount the animal, for this would but aggravate its misery; so he set out on foot, and led the creature behind him. The saddle, however, still irritated the wound, and Percival, taking it from the
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animal's back, threw it over his own shoulder, and thus trudged home. I was familiar with this and other similar anecdotes. Thus knowing his imbecility in the common affairs of life, it did not surprise me to find him now without money, and in a state of complete bewilderment as to what should be done.
I gave him ten dollars, which he received and put into his pocket, making no reply--for such was his undemonstrative habit and manner. I asked him to dine with me the next day at the City Hotel, to which he agreed. I invited Mr. Cooper--the novelist--to meet him, and he came. It is not easy to conceive of two persons more strongly contrasting with each other. As they sat side by side at the table, I noted the difference. Mr. Cooper was in person solid, robust, athletic: in voice, manly; in manner, earnest, emphatic, almost dictatorial--with something of self-assertion, bordering on egotism. The first effect was unpleasant, indeed repulsive, but there shone through all this a heartiness, a frankness, which excited confidence, respect, and at last affection.
Percival, on the contrary, was tall and thin, his chest sunken, his limbs long and feeble, his hair silken and sandy, his complexion light and feminine, his eye large and spectral, his whole air startled, his attitudes shy and shrinking, his voice abashed and whispering. Mr. Cooper ate like a man of excellent appetite and vigorous digestion: Percival scarce seemed to know that he was at the table. Cooper took his
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wine as if his lip appreciated it: Percival swallowed his, evidently without knowing or caring whether it was wine or water. Yet these two men conversed pleasantly together. After a time Percival was drawn out, and the stores of his mind were poured forth as from a cornucopia. I could see Cooper's gray eye dilate with delight and surprise.
I had a design in bringing these two men together, and this was to have a handsome edition of Percival's poems published for his benefit, and under such influences as to make it profitable to him. The matter was talked over between us, and before we parted, it was all arranged. I at once drew up a prospectus, and had it printed. I wrote a contract between Percival and the publisher, Charles Wiley, and had it duly signed. Mr. Cooper took the prospectus in hand, and aided by the powerful assistance of Mr. Bronson, Percival's college classmate, the subscription was actively pushed. The fairest ladies of New York gave a helping hand, and before I left the city, three hundred subscribers were secured. Provision had also been made for Percival's immediate comfort; lodgings were furnished, and he was forthwith to prepare the copy for the promised volume. I returned to Hartford, but in a fortnight, got a letter asking me if I knew what had become of our poet? Some weeks passed, during which time he was among the missing. At last it was discovered that he had been annoyed by a fiddling Frenchman, near his
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room, and had fled to New Haven. There he had entered into another contract for the publication of his poems!
It required some weeks to disentangle the affair from all these difficulties. At last, however, after many delays and annoyances, the copy was furnished, and the book printed. At that time I was on the point of going to Europe. I delayed a fortnight to get a perfect copy, so that I might take it with me--in order to secure its publication in England, for Percival's benefit. At last I departed, having obtained the unbound sheets of a single copy. I sailed from New York in the packet ship Canada--Percival accompanying me in the steamboat Nautilus, from Whitehall, to the vessel, which lay out in the stream. I believe he regarded me as one of his best friends, but as we shook hands, and I bade him farewell, he said coldly, "Good-by"--his pale and spectral countenance showing not a ray of emotion.
Soon after reaching London, however, I received a copy of the New York Commercial Advertiser, dated Nov. 17, 1823, in which I read the following--there being a small "P." in ink, at the bottom. I copy it from the file of the New York Spectator of Nov. 17, 1823--then edited by W. L. Stone.
The Canada.--We never saw a ship spread her broad wings to the breeze and go out to sea in finer style than did the ship Canada yesterday. We received this morning the following effusion from a gentleman who accompanied a friend on board,
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and had watched the vessel from the steamboat till she was lost in the blue distance, and have no doubt that our friends will recognize the author.
TO THE CANADA ON GOING TO SEA.
The gallant ship is out at sea,
Proudly o'er the water going;
Along her sides the billows flee,
Back in her wake a river flowing.
She dips her stem to meet the wave,
And high the toss'd foam curls before it:
As if she felt the cheer we gave,
She takes her flight,
Where the sea looks bright,
And the sun in sparkles flashes o'er it.
Gallantly as she cuts her way--
And now in distance far is fleeting,
There are some on board whose hearts are gay,
And some whose hearts are wildly beating.
Loud was the cheer her seamen gave,
As back they sent our welcome cheering--
Many a hand was seen to wave,
And some did weep
And fondly keep
Their gaze intent, when out of hearing.
They have parted, and now are far at sea--
Heaven send them fine and gentle weather!
They parted not for eternity--
Our hands shall soon be link'd together!
The sea was smooth and the sky was blue,
And the tops of the ruffled waves were glowing--
As proudly on the vessel flew
Like the feather'd king
On his balanced wing,
To a distant land o'er the ocean going.
I knew Percival too well to feel hurt at his cool good-by--nevertheless, it was a pleasure to have this evidence of his feeling and his friendship. On reaching London, I made a contract with John Miller for
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the publication of the poems in two volumes 12mo--half the profits to go to the author. I also wrote for it a brief biographical notice. A very handsome edition soon appeared, and attracted some attention, but excited no enthusiasm in London. On the whole, the publication was a failure. The edition, of one thousand copies was not sold, but I subsequently induced Miller to send to Percival one hundred copies, as his share of the proceeds. This was all he ever received from the English edition.
After my return to America, I frequently met Percival, but never under circumstances which renewed our intimacy. Indeed, by this time he had become confirmed in his habits of abstraction in life and manner, which rendered it difficult to enter into his thoughts or feelings. He even seemed misanthropical, and repelled, as an offense, every thing that jealousy could suspect to be either interested or intended as a gratuity or a favor. There were many persons ready--nay desirous--to render him efficient service, but they did not know how to approach him.
In 1824 he was appointed assistant surgeon in the United States army, and professor of chemistry in the Military Academy at West Point. This station he soon abandoned, being disgusted, as he told me, with one part of his duty--which was to examine recruits, by inspection of their persons, and ascertaining their weight, height, &c. About this time he was employed and liberally paid by Mr. Samuel Walker,
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of Boston, in editing an extensive edition of "Elegant Extracts," both in verse and in prose; and afterward in editing Malte Brun's large Geography, adding thereto numerous useful notes. About this period he was also engaged in assisting Dr. Webster, in preparing his quarto dictionary. In 1836, he received from Connecticut a government appointment to assist in a geological survey of the State. He entered upon this duty, and his report was published in 1842. In 1852, he received a similar appointment for the State of Wisconsin, and made his first report in 1855. He was still engaged in this duty, when his career was suddenly terminated by death, which took place at Hazelgreen, in the State of Wisconsin, May, 1856.
With all the knowledge I possess of Dr. Percival's life and character, he is still, to me, somewhat of an enigma. That he was a man of powerful imagination and an intellect of great capacity, is manifest: his poems prove the one--his amazing acquisitions, the other. That his understanding was even of larger scope and measure than his fancy, is, I think, apparent, for he not only had a vast range of knowledge--precise and reliable obedient to recollection as the stores of a cyclopedia--yet his powers of combination, his judgment, were of the very first order. This was evinced, not only in his connection with Dr. Webster's Dictionary, already alluded to, by the nice discrimination he displayed in philological inquiries, and the exactitude with which he rendered
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the shadings of sense and meaning, in giving the definitions of words, but in the larger and grander surreys of geology--the largest and grandest of practical sciences. Such compass and such precision of knowledge--such power of exact as well as vast combination--are indeed marvelous. When we consider him in this aspect, and at the same time remember that thirty years ago he was captivating the world with his imaginative effusions, we have indeed a character of remarkable and almost contradictory elements.
Yet it must be added that, on the whole, his life was a complete shipwreck. He lived to excite admiration and wonder; yet in poverty, in isolation, in a complete solitude of the heart. He had not, I think, a single vice; his life was pure, just, upright. How then did he fail? The truth seems to be, that he was deficient in that sympathy which binds man to man, and hence he was an anomaly in the society among which he dwelt--a note out of tune with the great harmony of life around him. He was a grand intellect, a grand imagination, but without a heart. That he was born with a bosom full of all love and all kindness, we can not doubt; but the golden bowl seems to have been broken, almost at the fountain. By the time he was twenty, he began to stand aloof from his fellow-man. I think he had been deeply injured--nay ruined--by the reading of Byron's works, at that precise age when his soul was in all
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the sensitive bloom of spring, and its killing frost of atheism, of misanthropy, of pride, and scorn, fell upon it, and converted it into a scene of desolation. The want of a genial circle of appreciation, of love and friendship, around his early life, left this malign influence to deepen his natural shyness into a positive and habitual self-banishment from his fellow-man. Such is the sad interpretation I put upon his career.*
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LETTER XXXVII.
A few Wayside Notes--The Poet Brainard---His first Introduction--Ripley's Tavern--Aunt Lucy--The little back-parlor--Brainard's Office--Anecdote--The Devil's Dun--The Lines on Niagara--Other Poems--One that is on the Sea--The Sea-bird's Song--Publication of Brainard's Poems--General Remarks--His Death.
My dear C******
I have told you that in the autumn of 1823 I set out to visit Europe; but a few previous events are needful to bring my narrative to that epoch. In 1821, clouds and darkness began to gather around my path. By a fall from a horse, I was put upon crutches
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for more than a year, and a cane for the rest of my life. Ere long death entered my door, and my home was desolate. I was once more alone--save only that a child was left me, to grow to womanhood, and to die a youthful mother, loving and beloved*--leaving an infant soon to follow her to the tomb. My affairs became embarrassed, my health failed, and my only hope of renovation was in a change of scene.
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But before I give you a sketch of my experience and observations abroad, I must present one portrait more--that of my friend Brainard.* He came to Hartford in February, 1822, to take the editorial charge of the Connecticut Mirror--Mr. Stone, as I have stated, having left it a short time before. He was now twenty-six years old, and had gained some reputation for wit and poetical talent. One day a young man, small in stature, with a curious mixture of ease and awkwardness, of humor and humility, came into my office, and introduced himself as Mr. Brainard. I gave him a hearty welcome, for I had heard very pleasant accounts of him. As was natural, I made a complimentary allusion to his poems,
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which I had seen and admired. A smile, yet shaded with something of melancholy, came over his face, as he replied--
"Don't expect too much of me; I never succeeded in any thing yet. I never could draw a mug of cider without spilling more than half of it!"
I afterward found that much truth was thus spoken in jest: this was, in point of fact, precisely Brainard's appreciation of himself. All his life, feeling that he could do something, he still entertained a mournful and disheartening conviction that, on the whole, he was doomed to failure and disappointment. There was sad prophecy in this presentiment--a prophecy which he at once made and fulfilled.
We soon became friends, and at last intimates. I was now boarding at "Ripley's"--a good old-fashioned tavern, over which presided Major Ripley, respected for revolutionary services, an amiable character, and a long Continental queue. In the administration of the establishment he was ably supported by his daughter, Aunt Lucy--the very genius of tavern courtesy, cookery, and comfort. Here Brainard joined me, and we took our rooms side by side. Thus for more than a year we were together, as intimate as brothers. He was of a childlike disposition, and craved constant sympathy. He soon got into the habit of depending upon me in many things, and at last--especially in dull weather, or when he was sad, or something went wrong with
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him--he crept into my bed, as if it was his right. At that period of gloom in my own fortunes, this was as well a solace to me as to him. After my return from Europe we resumed these relations, and for some months more we were thus together.
Brainard's life has been frequently written. The sketch of him in Kettell's "Specimens," I furnished, soon after his death. Mr. Robbins, of Berlin, wrote a beautiful biographical memoir of him for Hopkins' edition of his poems, published at Hartford, in 1842. A more elaborate notice of his life, character, and genius, had been given in Whittier's edition of his "Remains," 1832. To this just and feeling memoir, by a kindred spirit--one every way qualified to appreciate and to illustrate his subject--I have now nothing to add, except a few personal recollections--such as were derived from my long intercourse and intimacy with him.
Perhaps I cannot do better than to begin at once, and give you a sketch of a single incident, which will reflect light upon many others. The scene opens in Miss Lucy's little back-parlor--a small, cozy, carpeted room, with two cushioned rocking-chairs, and a bright hickory fire. It is a chill November night, about seven o'clock of a Friday evening. The Mirror--Brainard's paper--is to appear on the morning of the morrow, it being a weekly sheet, and Saturday its day of publication. The week has thus far passed, and he has not written for it a line. How the days
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have gone he can hardly tell. He has read a little--dipped into Byron, pored over the last Waverley novel, and been to see his friends; at all events, he had got rid of the time. He has not felt competent to bend down to his work, and has put it off till the last moment. To farther delay is possible. He is now not well; he has a cold, and this has taken the shape of a swelling of the tonsils, almost amounting to quinsy, as was usual with him in such attacks.
Miss Lucy, who takes a motherly interest in him, tells him not to go out, and his own inclinations suggest the charms of a quiet evening in the rocking-chair, by a good fire--especially in comparison with going to his comfortless office, and drudging for the inky devils of the press. He lingers till eight, and then suddenly rousing himself, by a desperate effort, throws on his cloak and sallies forth. As was not uncommon, I go with him. A dim fire is kindled in the small Franklin stove in his office, and we sit down. Brainard, as was his wont, especially when he was in trouble, falls into a curious train of reflections, half comic and half serious.
"Would to heaven," he says, "I were a slave. I think a slave, with a good master, has a good time of it. The responsibility of taking care of himself--the most terrible burden of life--is put on his master's shoulders. Madame Roland, with a slight alteration, would have uttered a profound truth. She should have said--'Oh, liberty, liberty, thou art a
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humbug!' After all, liberty is the greatest possible slavery, for it puts upon a man the responsibility of taking care of himself. If he goes wrong--why he's damned! If a slave sins, he's only flogged, and gets over it, and there's an end of it. Now, if I could only be flogged, and settle the matter that way, I should be perfectly happy. But here comes my tormentor."
The door is now opened, and a boy with a touseled head and inky countenance, enters, saying curtly--"Copy, Mr. Brainard!"
"Come in fifteen minutes!" says the editor, with a droll mixture of fun and despair.
Brainard makes a few observations, and sits down at his little narrow pine table--hacked along the edges with many a restless penknife. He seems to notice these marks, and pausing a moment, says--
"This table reminds me of one of my brother William's stories. There was an old man in Groton, who had but one child, and she was a daughter. When she was about eighteen, several young men came to see her. At last she picked out one of them, and desired to marry him. He seemed a fit match enough, but the father positively refused his consent. For a long time he persisted, and would give no reason for his conduct. At last, he took his daughter aside, and said--'Now, Sarah, I think pretty well of this young man in general, but I've observed that he's given to whittling. There's no harm in that, but the point
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is this: he whittles and whittles, and never makes nothing! Now I tell you, I'll never give my only daughter to such a feller as that!' Whenever Bill told this story, he used to insinuate that this whittling chap, who never made any thing, was me! At any rate, I think it would have suited me, exactly."
Some time passed in similar talk, when at last Brainard turned suddenly, took up his pen and began to write. I sat apart, and left him to his work. Some twenty minutes passed, when, with a radiant smile on his face, he got up, approached the fire, and taking the candle to light his paper, read as follows:
"THE FALL OF NIAGARA.
"The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,
While I look upward to thee. It would seem
As if God pour'd thee from his 'hollow hand,'
And hung his bow upon thy awful front;
And spoke in that loud voice that seem'd to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
'The sound of many waters;' and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,
And notch his cent'ries in the eternal rocks!"
He had hardly done reading, when the boy came. Brainard handed him the lines--on a small scrap of rather coarse paper--and told him to come again in half an hour. Before this time had elapsed, he had finished, and read me the following stanza:
"Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime?
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Brainard writing "The Fall of Niagara." Vol 2, p. 148.
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Oh! what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet by thy thundering side? Yea, what is all the riot man can make, In his short life, to thy unceasing roar? And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him Who drown'd a world, and heap'd the waters far Above its loftiest mountains? A light wave, That breathes and whispers of its Maker's might."
These lines having been furnished, Brainard left his office, and we returned to Miss Lucy's parlor. He seemed utterly unconscious of what he had done. I praised the verses, but he thought I only spoke warmly from friendly interest. The lines went forth, and produced a sensation of delight over the whole country. Almost every exchange paper that came to the office had extracted them: even then he would scarce believe that he had done any thing very clever. And thus, under these precise circumstances, were composed the most suggestive and sublime stanzas upon Niagara, that were ever penned. Brainard had never, as he told me, been within less than five hundred miles of the cataract, nor do I believe, that when he went to the office, he had meditated upon the subject. It was one of those inspirations which come to the poet--and often come like the lightning--in the very midst of clouds and darkness.
You will readily see, from the circumstances I have mentioned, that I knew the history of most of Brainard's pieces, as they came out, from time to time, in his newspaper. Nearly all of them were occasional
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--that is, suggested by passing events or incidents in the poet's experience. The exquisite lines beginning,
"The dead leaves strew the forest walk, And wither'd are the pale wild-flowers"--
appeared a few days after he had taken leave of a young lady from Savannah, who had spent a month at our hotel, and had left an impression upon his sensitive heart, which the lines, mournful and touching as they are, only reveal to those who witnessed his emotions. Many were struck off in the extreme exigencies of the devil's dun--his very claws upon him. In these cases, he doubtless resorted to the treasures of his mind, which seems to have been largely stored with the scenery of his native State, and the legends connected with them. Two elements, in nearly equal proportion, seemed to fill his soul--the humorous and the sublime--and often in such, contiguity, or even mixture, as to heighten the effect of each--this, however, being more noticeable in his conversation than his writings. It was sometimes amazing to watch the operations of his mind--even in moments of familiarity, often starting from some trivial or perhaps ludicrous incident, into a train of the most lofty and sublime thought. I have compared him, in my own mind, to a child playing upon the sea-beach, who by chance picks up and winds a Triton's shell, or wandering into some cathedral, lays his finger upon the clavier of the organ, and falling upon the key-note of
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his heart, draws from the instrument all its sounding melody.
I trust you will pardon me if I give the history of one or two other poems, connected with, my own observation. I have told you that in the autumn of 1823, I went to Europe, and was absent for a year. On parting with Brainard, we mutually promised to write each other, often. Yet I received not a line from him during my absence. I knew his habits and forgave him--though I was certainly pained by such neglect. On meeting him after my return, I alluded to this. Without saying a word, he went away for a short time: on his return, he put into my hands a copy of the Mirror, which had appeared a few days before, and pointing to the lines--which I extract below--he left me. His reply, thus indicated, was indeed gratifying. You will understand that at the time, Lafayette had just arrived in the country.
ONE THAT'S ON THE SEA.
"With gallant sail and streamer gay,
Sweeping along the splendid bay,
That, throng'd by thousands, seems to greet
The bearer of a precious freight,
The Cadmus comes; and every wave
Is glad the welcomed prow to lave:
What are the ship and freight to me?
I look for One that's on the sea.
"Welcome Fayette," the million cries:
From heart to heart the ardor flies,
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And drum and bell and cannon noise,
In concord with a nation's voice,
Is pealing through a grateful land,
And all go with him. Here I stand,
Musing on One that's dear to me,
Yet sailing on the dangerous sea.
Be thy days happy here, Fayette!
Long may they be so--long--but yet
To me there's one that, dearest still,
Clings to my heart and chains my will.
His languid limbs and feverish head
Are laid upon a sea-sick bed:
Perhaps his thoughts are fix'd on me,
While toss'd upon the mighty sea.
I am alone. Let thousands throng
The noisy, crowded streets along:
Sweet be the beam of beauty's gaze--
Loud be the shout that freemen raise--
Let patriots grasp thy noble hand,
And welcome thee to Freedom's land--
Alas! I think of none but he
Who sail across the foaming sea!
So when the moon is shedding light
Upon the stars, and all is bright
And beautiful; when every eye
Looks upward to the glorious sky;
How have I turn'd my silent gaze,
To catch one little taper's blaze:
'Twas from a spot too dear to me--
The home of him that's on the sea.
Ought I not to have been satisfied? If you will compare these lines with those by Percival, under
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circumstances not altogether dissimilar, you will have the means of comparing the two poets--the one feeling through the suggestions of his imagination, the other exercising his imagination through the impulse of his feelings. Percival was a poet of the fancy--Brainard, of the heart.
Still one more passing note. The "Sea-Bird's Song" appears to me one of the most poetical compositions in Brainard's collection, and the history of it can not be uninteresting. It was written some time after my return from England, and when I was again married and settled at Hartford. He was a frequent--almost daily visitor at our house, and took especial pleasure in hearing my wife sing. He had no skill in music, but, as with most persons of a sentimental turn, his choice always fell upon minors. One evening his ear caught up the old Welsh tune of "Taffy Morgan," which is, in point of fact, a composition of great power, especially when it is slowly and seriously executed. He was greatly affected by it, and some one suggested that he should compose a song to suit it. I remarked that I had often thought the song of a sea-bird, if treated with ballad simplicity and vigor, might be very effective. He began to ponder, and the next day brought a verse to try its rhythm with the music. This being approved, he went on, and two days after, came with the whole poem, which he slightly altered and adapted upon, hearing it sung. Having said thus much, pardon me
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for reciting the lines, and asking you to get some good ballad-singer to give it to you, in the cadence of the old Welch melody I have mentioned. Thus sung, it is one of the most thrilling compositions I have ever heard.
THE SEA-BIRD'S SONG.
On the deep is the mariner's danger--
On the deep is the mariner's death:
Who, to fear of the tempest a stranger,
Sees the last bubble burst of his breath?
'Tis the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
Lone looker on despair:
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
The only witness there!
Who watches their course, who so mildly
Careen to the kiss of the breeze?
Who lists to their shrieks, who so wildly
Are clasped in the arms of the seas?
'Tis the sea-bird, &c.
Who hovers on high o'er the lover,
And her who has clung to his neck?
Whose wing is the wing that can cover
With its shadow the foundering wreck?
'Tis the sea-bird, &c.
My eye in the light of the billow,
My wing on the wake of the wave,
I shall take to my breast, for a pillow,
The shroud of the fair and the brave!
'Tis the sea-bird, &c.
My foot on the iceberg has lighted
When hoarse the wild winds veer about;
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My eye, when the bark is benighted,
Sees the lamp of the lighthouse go out!
I'm the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
Lone looker on despair;
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
The only witness there!
Where is there a song of more wild and impressive imagery--exciting more deep and touching emotions, than this?
These stanzas were written in the spring of 1826. The year before I had persuaded Brainard to make a collection of his poems, and have them published. At first his lip curled at the idea, as being too pretentious; he insisted that he had done nothing to justify the publication of a volume. Gradually he began to think of it, and at length--March 14, 1825--I induced him to sign a contract, authorizing me to make arrangements for the work. He set about the preparation, and at length--after much lagging and many lapses--the pieces were selected and arranged. When all was ready, I persuaded him to go to New York with me, to settle the matter with a publisher. I introduced him to Bliss & White, and they readily undertook it, on the terms of joint and equal profits. Thus appeared the little volume, with Bunyan's quaint rhyme for a motto--
"Some said, 'John, print it'--others said, 'Not so;' Some said, 'It might do good'--others said, 'No!'"
I must note a slight incident which occurred at
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New York, illustrative of Brainard's character. He was keenly alive to every species of beauty, in nature and art. His appreciation of the beauties of literature amounted to passion. That he had a craving for pathos and sublimity, is manifest from his works; yet he seemed to feel the nicer and more latent touches of wit and humor with a greater intensity of delight, than any other species of literary luxury. He was hence a special admirer of Halleck, and more than once remarked that he should like to see him. I proposed to introduce him; but he was shy of all formal meetings, and seemed indeed to feel that there would be a kind of presumption in Ins being presented to the leading poet of the great metropolis.
I was therefore obliged to give up the idea of effecting a meeting between these two persons, both natives of Connecticut, and peculiarly fitted to appreciate and admire each other. One morning, however, fortune seemed to favor me. As we entered the bookstore of Messrs. Bliss & White--then on the eastern side of Broadway, near Cedar-street--I saw Halleck at the further end of the room. Incautiously, I told this to Brainard. He eagerly asked me which was the poet, among two or three persons that were standing together. I pointed him out. Brainard took a long and earnest gaze, then turned on his heel, and I could not find him for the rest of the day!
His little volume was very favorably received by the public, and he was universally recognized as a true
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poet. These effusions, however, were regarded rather in the light of promise than fulfillment, and therefore people generally looked forward to the achievement of some greater work. I felt this, and frequently urged him to undertake a serious poem, which might develop his genius and establish his fame. He thought of it, but his habitual inertness mastered him. I returned to the subject, however, and we frequently conversed upon it. At last, he seemed to have resolved on the attempt, and actually wrote a considerable number of stanzas. After a time, however, he gave it up in despair. He told me, frankly, that it was impossible for him to sustain the continuity of thought and consistency of purpose indispensable to such an achievement. What he had actually done was merely an introduction, and was afterward published under the title of "Sketch of an Occurrence on board a Brig." Whoever has read these lines, can not fail to lament that weakness in the author--constitutional and habitual--which rendered him incompetent to continue a flight so nobly begun.
One anecdote--in addition to those already before the public--and I shall close this sketch. Brainard's talent for repartee was of the first order. On one occasion, Nathan Smith, an eminent lawyer, was at Ripley's tavern, in the midst of a circle of judges and lawyers, attending the court. He was an Episcopalian, and at this time was considered by his political adversaries--unjustly, no doubt--as the paid agent of
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that persuasion, now clamoring for a sum of money from the State, to lay the foundation of a "Bishops' Fund." He was thus regarded somewhat in the same light as O'Connell, who, while he was the great patriot leader of Irish independence, was at the same time liberally supported by the "rint." By accident, Brainard came in, and Smith, noticing a little feathery attempt at whiskers down his cheek, rallied him upon it.
"It will never do," said he; "you can not raise it, Brainard. Come, here's sixpence--take that, and go to the barber's and get it shaved off! It will smooth your cheek, and ease your conscience."
Brainard drew himself up, and said, with great dignity--as Smith held out the sixpence on the point of his forefinger--"No, sir, you had better keep it for the Bishops' Fund!"
I need not--I must not--prolong this sketch. What I have said, is sufficient to give you an insight into the character of this gifted child of genius. In person he was very short, with large hands and feet, and a walk paddling and awkward. His hair was light-brown, his skin pallid, his eye large and bluish-gray, his lips thick, his forehead smooth, white, and handsome; his brow beautifully arched, and edged with a definite, narrow line. His general appearance was that of a somewhat clumsy boy. His countenance was usually dull, yet with a wonderful power of expression---wit, drollery, seriousness, chasing each other in rapid succession. Its changes were at once
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sudden and marvelous. At one moment he looked stupid and then inspired. His face was like a revolving light--now dull and dark--now radiant, and shedding its beams on all around. His manners were subject to a similar change; usually he seemed uncouth, yet often have I seen him seductively courteous. In short, he was a bundle of contradictions: generally he was ugly, yet sometimes handsome; for the most part he was awkward, yet often graceful; his countenance was ordinarily dull, yet frequently beaming with light.
Thus with a look and appearance of youth--with indeed something of the waywardness and improvidence of boyhood, even when he had reached the full age of manhood--he was still full of noble thoughts and sentiments. In his editorial career--though he was negligent, dilatory, sometimes almost imbecile from a sort of constitutional inertness--still a train of inextinguishable light remains to gleam along his path. Many a busy, toiling editor has filled his daily columns for years, without leaving a living page behind him; while Brainard, with all his failings and irregularities, has left a collection of gems, which loving, and tender, and poetic hearts will wear and cherish to immortality. And among all that he wrote--be it remembered, thus idly, recklessly, as it might seem--there is not a line that, "dying, he could wish to blot." His love of parents, of home, of kindred, was beautiful indeed; his love of nature, and especially of the
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scenes of his childhood, was the affection of one never weaned from the remembrance of his mother's breast. He was true in friendship, chivalrous in all that belonged to personal honor. I never heard him utter a malignant thought--I never knew him to pursue an unjust design. At the early age of eight-and-twenty he was admonished that his end was near. With a submissive spirit he resigned himself to his doom, and, in pious, gentle, cheerful faith, he departed on the 26th of September, 1828.
Weep not for him, who hath laid his head
On a pillow of earth in the cypress shade;
For the sweetest dews that the night airs shed,
Descend on the couch for that sleeper made.
Weep not for him, though the wintry sleet
Throw its chill folds o'er his manly breast--
That spotless robe is a covering meet
For the shrouded soul in its home of rest!
Weep not for him, though his heart is still,
And the soul-lit eye like a lamp grown dim--
Though the noble pulse is an icy rill,
By the hoar-frost chained--Oh, weep not for him!
The diamond gathers its purest ray
In the hidden grot where no sun is known--
And the sweetest voices of music play
In the trembling ear of silence alone:
And there in the hush of that starless tomb
A holier light breaks in on the eye,
And wind-harps steal through the sullen gloom,
To woo that sleeper away to the sky!