MR. WILLIS.
When so many mouths are full of Mr. Willis, and pamphlets and periodicals are alternately lauding and lashing him—and, moreover, since he has so lately passed through this city, (the city of his Alma Mater,) and with him, his very lovely trans-Atlantic lady—it is certainly proper that this magazine (the deputed organ of Yale’s literary notions) break its dignified silence. Criticism, it is true, of right belongs to older heads—but since such numbers have apparently forgotten this in the community at large, we shield our presumption under their greater impertinence. Impertinence! That the thousand and one notions put forth here and there to the detriment of Willis, are impertinent, lies on the face of them. What right have they to find fault with his coat, or the fit of his breeches? “Ah! but he don’t pay for them!” Prove that, rascal—perhaps your prejudice then will be less apparent. But stop a moment.
Of course—we are not seated to make out an analysis of Willis’ mind—nor to criticise thoroughly his poetry—nor to meddle particularly with his morals—nor to read him furiously a Chesterfieldian lecture—nor to tell him whether he shall or shall not curl his hair—whether he shall or shall not have his carriage, his horses, his dogs,et cetera, et cetera. No! nothing of this, save incidentally—we leave this to others. Besides, ’tis too late for it—they have been treated on, and his new work has not yet come to us. But our purpose is, to scribble a rapid, running, off-hand article—to trouble, somewhat, some of the defamers of Willis—to give our own opinions as may be about this or that—to say just what we have a mind to—to say it how we have a mind to—and (of this, reader, be certain) to enjoy our own opinions.
Whether we are capable of this, of advancing an opinion—of that, reader, you must judge. Thus much wedaresay—our prejudices will not trouble our judgment. We have alike objected to the indiscriminate laudatory efforts of the friends of Willis, and the pitiable swellings and puny malice of his enemies—we have made ourselves alike familiar with his prose and with his poetry—(what man of taste has not?)—we have never shut our eyes on his faults, or suffered a jaundiced vision to distort, discolor, or otherwise interfere with his excellencies—we have often censured and praised him—fought for him and against him—in short, been placed exactly in those circumstances, which are favorable to a proper appreciation of his merits—supposing all this time, that we possess a moderately good share of judgment in these matters. Thus much we dare say.
The most troublesome things to be met with now-a-days, are yourechoinggentlemen.[2]Mr. Willis has done thus and so, says one—Mr. Willis has written thus and so, says another. Now we don’t say Mr. Willis hasnotdone or written thus and so—perhaps he has—nor would we be understood exactly in this free government, as interdicting the expression of opinions, even supposing these young gentlemen harmless, and as entirely innocent of a capability to judge as they really are—but we do say that, in this hot weather, and especially as dog days are coming on, every buzzing, barking, or otherwise troublesome creature, should be heard as little as possible, and that it is altogether too much of a tax upon the easiness of modest men, and too much of a tax on the patience of sensible ones, when with all their exertions and cooling appliances, (such as ventilating, dressing thin, and going under the College pump,) they can scarcely keep themselves comfortable. He’s a puppy, says one. What do you mean by “puppy,” say we. Why, he’s an exquisite—a dandy. Now, hang your ignorance! for your charge proves you a clown.Wehave seen Mr. Willis (we have no acquaintance with him) sitting and standing—we have seen him in company and out of company—we have seen him hat on and hat off—we have seen him walking and talking—andwedeclare, that there’s nothing about him but an air of high society, and a well bred gentleman. The charge of being a dandy, might be laid any where with equal propriety—the urbanity of his deportment, considering his publicity, is worthy of high praise.
His publicity, his English reputation—this is another thing his enemies turn against him. Witness the slighting method of the Quarterly—witness the cool handling of the Edinburgh—witness his annihilation in the Metropolitan, say they. Annihilation! murder—what a term is this—here’s a tax—here’s a sweep—here’s a pull on our credulousness. Have these gentlemen forgotten the admitted principle in physics, that you cannot annihilate matter? But—’tis of a piece with the rest of their absurdities.
As for the attacks of those great organs of English sentiment, the Edinburgh and Quarterly, it only needs a glance at theacknowledgedreason of those attacks, to show it altogether complimentary to thetalentsof Willis. His stories publishing successively in the London New Monthly—he was bowed through England with an assiduity and politeness well worthy the English nation, and of which any American might be proud. The first ranks welcomed him to their circles—their first literary men were pleased with his acquaintance, (aye! the very men who afterwards smote at him)—and the first critic of England, or of the world even (North, we mean,) hasestimated his power, and written him—no common genius. This were praise enough, in all conscience. The indiscretions of Willis—and such he has, and we blame him—these it was called forth those harrowing, ripping, raking articles, so eagerly cited against him now; and with thesefactsbefore us—shall we taketheirestimate of his intellect, and North on our side into the bargain? Out on him who does it! But the first men of the age have been placed precisely as Willis has—some of the Reviews one side, some on the other. Byron was thus placed. To the last day of his life he was horridly mauled by some of them, whenever that great lion turned flank and exposed himself to the enemy. He has been called ridiculous, affected, a narrow though great mind, and a plagiarist, by one of their first Reviews; and others of their great men have run the gauntlet, and after the same fashion. There’s nothing new in it—what, then, is the worth of the argument?
Of the article in the Metropolitan, nothing need be said—’twas personalpique, as every one knows. The fact that a single sentence of Willis’ condemnatory of Marryatt called forth that article, is a high proof of the estimation in which he was held, and speaking in no ordinary tone. Policy should have kept Mr. Willis from saying it—this no one doubts, whether it was true or not. If true, however, he deserves less censure; and now we call upon every admirer of Capt. Marryatt, and demand if it is not true, that there are passages in most of his novels we read with disgust—that we would not read in good society, or before a sister—and if he has not come into a dangerous proximity with that point, where he deserves all that Willis says of him?Weassert that he has—let Capt. Marryatt’s admirers disprove it. And the Willis and Marryatt correspondence too! little need be said here, than that those letters went to show Marryatt a bullying blackguard, and Willisthegentleman. These things we assert—and yet professing ourselves admirers of Marryatt. He is doubtless one of the geniuses of the age. But we will not let our admiration distort facts, when such distortion is injurious to one of our countrymen.
These echoing gentlemen talk much of Mr. Willis’ ephemeral reputation—of his fame’s dying with him. Lo, and behold these Solomons in literature—witness these wise men of Gotham,—these “Daniels’ come to judgment!” Have these gentlemen to learn, that men never tolerate each other’s weaknesses?—have they to learn that Willis has been indiscreet?—have they to learn that such numbers of young and old, high and low, rich and poor, as have pitched upon him, have done soforthis—and that it follows necessarily, his genius is undervalued. Whether they have or not—men of sense admit it all over the world. Men’s follies die with them. We don’t bring hatred to the grave’s side—unless to throw it in there and bury it. The smouldering earth we lay over them hides their defects—we put their virtues in our hearts. So it iswith men whose follies tarnish their genius. Genius is in itself, a living principle—you can’t annihilate it—you can’t lessen it—you can’t depress it. Youmayundervalue it—you may rail at it—you may affect to despise it. But it never was heard and it never will be, that genius, however manifested, has not sooner or later regained its splendid birth-right. So will it be with Willis—would we admit what his enemies ask, that the community as a body are against him. He has genius—a noble, lofty, and original one—(we wish time permitted to show this by references)—his follies stand betwixt the light and his merits—let him die, his follies die, and the world at once acknowledges this merit. Such is the process—if we admit, as just mentioned, that the community are against him.
We have already transcribed our limits—we therefore, pause. Before doing so, however, let us and the reader understand each other. Let us not be ranked with the mad admirers of Willis—we are none such—he has too many follies for that. But we cannot forget, either, how very very brilliant are many very many of his productions, and with what unmitigated pleasure we have always perused them. And, if our humble voice might be heard so far, we would counsel Mr. Willis that he no longer—if he has done so—discredit the fine genius that God has given him—that he tax well, and long, and arduously, that mind of his—that he by some noble effort so engrave his name on this age, that the rust of after years shall never eat it away.
[2]By echoing gentlemen, we mean such as carry their chins high—walk with canes—retail opinions pilfered from English papers, and call them their own.
[2]By echoing gentlemen, we mean such as carry their chins high—walk with canes—retail opinions pilfered from English papers, and call them their own.