MULCHINOCK'S POEMS.* In the early days of criticism it was rare that any book could pass through one edi- | tion without being made the text of a commentary or a philippic, and authors felt themselves insulted if their works, which the common people admired or censured after their own untaught fashion, were not at least noticed by the higher and more privileged oracles of letters. But as publishers' lists expanded, the mass of reviews became briefer and more superficial, passing from the ornate pages of quarterlies to the hurried columns of the newspaper, and dictated quite as often by personal favor or dislike as by literary taste, until now it is quite impossible to give a fair portion of impartial time and type to any but strongly-marked and representative specimens of current literature. From decisions thus arrived at, the public may extend their opinions as little or as widely as they please, and authors take their cue with a readiness proportioned to their acquiescence in critical judgment. And if an author once thought himself slighted if he was overlooked, he should now consider himself fortunate if sufficiently representative of good or bad to be marked out by reviewers, for surely that "bad eminence" which is ever made the object of attack is better than an unmolested because unnoticed mediocrity. There is always hope for men or books whose faults are so conspicuous that they are singled out for special animadversion. Mr. Mulchinock's poetry is representative, but not of originality. It is representative as were the verses of Hoole and other close imitators of the rhythmical beauty of Pope; or as the towering fustian of Lee and Dryden when they essayed to overtop their masters, the early English dramatists. It is representative of ambition-but of unwarranted growth; of emulation-but emulation of such a nature that it uses imitated gesture and phrase to accomplish the object of its pursuit; of facility-but a facility that defeats itself, and defrauds its own coinage of its legible and current stamp. It is preeminently representative of the largest and most unproductive school of imitative poetry of the present day. And if it claim to be of no extraordinary pretensions, and if in reality it is neither powerful nor durable, it may be well to pause over it for a moment, as a profitable lesson for our myriad versifiers, whose number is surely not warranted by any special increase of the poetic element amongst us. In common with most men, we have no very friendly feelings toward imitation of any kind in literature; but for that imitation of which Mr. Mulchinock's verses may be taken as an exponent, we have a peculiar distaste. We have little fault to find with a young and inexperienced writer, who, for the purpose of perfecting himself in the externals of poetry, gives his days and nights to that most melodious of versifiers, Pope, since his is almost a necessary task, and one from which, in these days of incorrect rhythm, it were better no aspirant for poetic laurels should be exempt. But we question if the public, for whom we would be mouthpiece, have any such leniency for the writer who adopts the phrases which original and poetic minds have created and immortalized, and spreads them over his own pages, as easy and current subterfuges behind which to hide his own dearth of sentiment and poetical power. There is an affectation of poetical affinity about this, which is as specious as it is insincere, and which, in addition to its own unworthiness, is apt to detract from the credit of the genuine poet, whose peculiar terms of expression are thus subjected to the imputation of claptrap and unmeaningness. Even beyond the absurdities of certain small philosophers, who have adopted the esoteric and mystical expressions of continental thinkers as a clothing for their own The Ballads and Songs of William Pembroke Mulchinock. New-York: T. W. Strong & Co., No. 98 Nassau street. only can he rise into a better-is elevated, by his reverence and fidelity, into a being whom we reward not less with love than with food and raiment. To the catholic eye of art, high and humble are but relative dependencies, mutual in position, though differing in height and aspect. The beauti over the superior, which it is the peculiar | tined to an inferior condition, through which quality of all intellectual exercises to subdue and to correct. These find an aliment in the obvious nature which renders them indifferent to, and keeps them ignorant of, the prurient appetites of a morbid mood. The aspects of nature and man are equally grateful to the faith which looks confidingly to all things under the genial influence of a hopeful and the obscure, the bright and the dark, that takes its birth in the affections, and believes chiefly because it loves. And it is precisely such a confiding nature which is the soul and very secret of success in art. To its eye, nothing is absolutely unseemly, though all demands improvement, in the natural aspects of earth and man. The desert is no desert, spread out and sleeping beneath the broad, blue canopy of heaven. The sea is no terror, reposing in its delicious moonlight. The forest is no region of gloom and exile, but one rather of refuge and of shade, when the world threatens and the burning sun prevails. It is by an innate property that art is enabled to crown nature with an aspect of her own;-nor inanimate nature only. The wild beast is stilled by, and crouches beneath, a look; the reptile is spelled by a sound, and uncoils himself, unharming, from his victim. And man himself-the savage man! He is savage, it may be, but not necessarily foul or beastly. Wild, but why vicious, unless you make, or suffer him to remain so? It is in your own hands to subject him to holier and happier laws, if you will only so far sympathize with his inferior nature, as to show him the pathway to a better promise. The serf-des are but natural foils of each other-in other words, parts of a system, in which variety is not simply a proof of the boundless resources of the Creator, but of his sense, also, of what is essential to the proper exercise, the relief and the gratification of the soul. The philosophy which art teaches, is the faith with which youth begins; a faith which youth is but too apt to forget, in the more earthy cares of manhood; but which it is the becoming vocation of art, as tributary to religion, still to re-inspire. It is in this way that art is always young and original. Every generation discovers in her a new aspect. Novel forms, new guises, declare for her supremacy over the monotonous and tamely recurring aspects of ordinary time. It is because heedless of this peculiar virtue in the constitution of this catholic Muse, that we find the critic of hackneyed judgment, grown too subservient to the customary to appreciate the fresh, resenting as a vice the assumption of new phases in the very Genius which he has worshipped under another form. He seems unwilling to believe that there should be any longer a novelty in art, when there is no longer a freshness in his own nature. MULCHINOCK'S POEMS.* In the early days of criticism it was rare pursuit; of facility-but a facility that dethat any book could pass through one edi- feats itself, and defrauds its own coinage of tion without being made the text of a com- its legible and current stamp. It is prementary or a philippic, and authors felt eminently representative of the largest and themselves insulted if their works, which the most unproductive school of imitative poetry common people admired or censured after of the present day. And if it claim to be their own untaught fashion, were not at of no extraordinary pretensions, and if in least noticed by the higher and more privi-reality it is neither powerful nor durable, it leged oracles of letters. But as publishers' may be well to pause over it for a moment, lists expanded, the mass of reviews became as a profitable lesson for our myriad versibriefer and more superficial, passing from the fiers, whose number is surely not warranted ornate pages of quarterlies to the hurried by any special incréase of the poetic elecolumns of the newspaper, and dictated quite ment amongst us. as often by personal favor or dislike as by literary taste, until now it is quite impossible to give a fair portion of impartial time and type to any but strongly-marked and representative specimens of current literature. From decisions thus arrived at, the public may extend their opinions as little or as widely as they please, and authors take their cue with a readiness proportioned to their acquiescence in critical judgment. And if an author once thought himself slighted if he was overlooked, he should now consider himself fortunate if sufficiently representative of good or bad to be marked out by reviewers, for surely that "bad eminence" which is ever made the object of attack is better than an unmolested because unnoticed mediocrity. There is always hope for men or books whose faults are so conspicuous that they are singled out for special animadversion. Mr. Mulchinock's poetry is representative, but not of originality. It is representative as were the verses of Hoole and other close imitators of the rhythmical beauty of Pope; or as the towering fustian of Lee and Dryden when they essayed to overtop their masters, the early English dramatists. It is representative of ambition-but of unwarranted growth; of emulation-but emulation of such a nature that it uses imitated gesture and phrase to accomplish the object of its In common with most men, we have no very friendly feelings toward imitation of any kind in literature; but for that imitation of which Mr. Mulchinock's verses may be taken as an exponent, we have a peculiar distaste. We have little fault to find with a young and inexperienced writer, who, for the purpose of perfecting himself in the externals of poetry, gives his days and nights to that most melodious of versifiers, Pope, since his is almost a necessary task, and one from which, in these days of incorrect rhythm, it were better no aspirant for poetic laurels should be exempt. But we question if the public, for whom we would be mouthpiece, have any such leniency for the writer who adopts the phrases which original and poetic minds have created and immortalized, and spreads them over his own pages, as easy and current subterfuges behind which to hide his own dearth of sentiment and poetical power. There is an affectation of poetical affinity about this, which is as specious as it is insincere, and which, in addition to its own unworthiness, is apt to detract from the credit of the genuine poet, whose peculiar terms of expression are thus subjected to the imputation of claptrap and unmeaningness. Even beyond the absurdities of certain small philosophers, who have adopted the esoteric and mystical expressions of continental thinkers as a clothing for their own The Ballads and Songs of William Pembroke Mulchinock. New-York: T. W. Strong & Co., No. 98 Nassau street. bald and commonplace sentiments, do we | easy complacency with which they are led rank in point of dishonesty and extravagance off by the imitators of these poets, and prethe effusions of that school of versifiers who eminently Mr. Mulchinock, is an attack upon have complacently taken the phrases of con- our forbearance and an affront to our notions temporary poets as their own, and used them of good sense and good poetry. What, for as capital on which to build a wide and profit- instance, can we think of such rhymings able reputation. as the following? It is fortunate for the true poet that the imitative versifier always overreaches himself. The peculiar turns of phraseology, the rhythmical dress and posturing, and the artistic connections of sentiment, which, with as little modification as possible, the imitator would make his own, are rarely to be transferred so as to preserve their original beauty, even by the most skilful hands; and, degenerating into mannerism by being forced upon us too often, at last entirely lose their harmony and effect. It too frequently happens that an author who has charmed us by original felicities of manner is so far carried away by success and self-praise as to give us too many of them in his subsequent works. But, however well we may endure the repetition of the cloying sweetness, we have no patience for the distasteful and disproportionate dose of mannerism which the forthcoming imitator would compel us to swallow. And we resent the attempted infliction with as much heartiness as we would repel the impertinences of a bystander, who had taken upon himself to insult us from beholding our forbearance under the momentary caprices of a friend. Some time ago we had marked out certain phrases on the pages of two of our special favoites, Tennyson and Poe, and had ventured to predict in a quiet way, that the imitators of these admirable poets would betray themselves by fastening on these peculiarities, and repeating them to us ad nauseam. Two words particularly had attracted our attention as being very open to abuse, and very difficult to be used at all, except by minds of exquisite perceptions; and indeed they had been so bandied about by shallow mystics, that men who were equal to an appreciation of their meaning would be very cautious how they employed them. These words are the Real and the Ideal; and surely no one will say that they are to be played with by children, or harped on in vacant hours, like the strings of an idle instrument. Tennyson and Poe had been sufficiently familiar with them for our taste, and had used them quite enough for producing effect; but the 'Blending with the bright Ideal the sad Actual and Real, Till its chords shall seem to be all touched and Kept us on a weary chase; If we met it face to face." "In dreams she comes to me, to cherish and woo me The slumber is pleasure, the waking is woe, Where fades the Ideal, when triumphs the Real; I pine for young Alice of Ballinasloe." "Oh! thou bright and blest Ideal, Radiant vision of my dreams, Lighting up the darksome Real With your rainbow-tinted gleams!" Are they not simply an affectation of high sentiment where there is no sentiment at all, and an irreverent handling of words which were never meant to be trifled with? It requires no very great amount of skill to frame stanzas that shall contain these words; they are remarkably docile in couples; and there is not a clever lad of fifteen who could not string them together with as much of the "bright" and "blest" and "darksome" as they are garnished with by Mr. Mulchinock. And we do not know why we should be called upon to admire so cheap and easy a performance-what any of us could do equally well at any time. We are sorry to see Mr. Mulchinock depending so much for effect on the words "Past," "Present," and "Future," with their attendant adjectives, which every reader's memory will readily suggest to him. What has just been said about the Ideal and the Real will apply to these much-abused words. It requires a delicacy of taste amounting almost to genius to avoid using them in just such connections as those in which they are employed by the mob of ordinary writers and speakers when they would be thought learned, sublime, and prophetic. To talk about these three conditions of Time is to run the risk of talking commonplace ambitiously. Mr. Mulchinock has taken the risk, often find him appropriating with equal recklessness the more peculiar property of other poets. Coleridge tells us of and we think he has been unlucky-if we | with trifling with poetic terms, when we may judge from verses like these spoken by Paul Flemming, the "pale" student:"Then like music spake he-Mary, by my that ne'er can vary, love By mine eyes so wan and weary, weary watching for thy presence, Oh, thou beautifully fair; "By the Past whose gloom is o'er me; by the Future dark before me; Saw the Vision of the world and all the wonder that would be." Such coincidences, however, are common with Mr. Mulchinock. We may notice one or two others before we part company. Here is a stanza quite in the prophetic style of Mævius and Bavius. It is addressed to "Men of Genius": "Though to all your toil incessant Ye shall feel and find the Present Heaven's angels toiled on earth.” We consider this disparagement of the times in which one lives an affectation, and unworthy a liberal mind. And in all candor we must say we find far too much of it in Mr. Mulchinock. But of this hereafter. We have noticed many other instances of this commonplace and unmeaning trifling with suggestive phrases which it is hardly necessary to quote for the purpose of showing that Mr. Mulchinock has brought nothing more out of them than certain rhymes and cadences for which he has mainly employed them. We shall not be accused of treating him unfairly in thus charging him "A noise as of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June." This therefore is Coleridge's, and no one else has any right to it. But Mr. Mulchinock does not agree with us. By virtue of his poetic calling he has a right to it, and proceeds to exercise his prerogative as follows: "Sweeter than the streamlet rushing amid spring flowers in their flushing Came the song of love outgushing from the lips of the pale student In the leafy month of June." Very awkwardly done. But it requires talent to plagiarize well. Tennyson's Locksley Hall contains this beautiful couplet : "Love took up the harp of Life and smote on all its chords with might, Smote the chord of self, that trembling passed in music out of sight." In Mr. Mulchinock's Chant for Toilers this is very coolly reproduced : "From the chord of self-evoking music, wild but sweet to hear, Fraught with mystic strange revealings to the earnest thinker's ear." We hardly know what to style the following, but it certainly shows a great facility of adaptation, if nothing more. The original is from Locksley Hall: "Many a morning in the moorland did we hear the copses ring, And her whispers thronged my pulses with the fulness of the spring. "Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips." Mr. Mulchinock thus adapts it:"Many a morning by the waters of the far re sounding sex, Have I walked in meditation, all my spirit fancy free. "Many a morning in the forest ere the birds began to sing, Have I sung of Freedom's advent, harping on the bounding string." But enough of mere verbal criticism; of citations of what it is charity to style imitations, which any one of moderate acquaint |