Poems of John Brainard / by John Brainard [electronic text]

MEMOIR.

THE birthplace of John Gardner Calkins Brainard was New London, in Connecticut. From the period of his birth, which occurred October 21st, 1796, to the year of his entrance into college, his time was spent under the roof of his father, the Hon. Jeremiah G. Brainard, formerly a judge of the Superior Court in that State. Here he received that early culture in mind and disposition, the happy development of which since, has imparted so much pleasure to the reading community. Those habits of good-nature, modesty, and sociableness, as also those poetic tastes and sensibilities, by which he became distinguished, were doubtless nurtured by his favorable circumstances, during that important period of life. Having finished his preparatory studies under the direction of an elder brother, he entered Yale College in 1811. He is described by those who knew him then, as not having made such efforts in the character of a student, as might have

been expected from his evident genius and capacity. Whether this fact had its foundation in a native inactivity of body and mind, in too humble an appreciation of his powers, or in the generous sensibility which cannot inflict pain on a rival, it is difficult to determine. Probably these several circumstances had each its influence. The regard which was entertained by his fellow students for his superior intellect, — his beautiful genius, — doubtless became the more enhanced, on this account. Neither envy, nor the dread of rivalry, forbade the admiration of talent which interfered not with the honors of others, but was contented with its own manifestations, in its own way. That which he possessed of the mens divinior, was calmly and unostentatiously evolved on every occasion. It acquired character and consistency by degrees, and resembled the flowing of his own Connecticut, noiseless and placid and full rather than the leaping and foaming of a cataract. His social and convivial qualities, equally with the gifts of intellect, drew forth the strong regards of his more particular acquaintances in the college, and he met them with the smile and the repartee, — with the playful jest and mimic fun, which are so easily tolerated in the gayer intercourse of friends, and which, in him, never gave offence. The possession of feelings

of this kind was not, however, incompatible with a tinge of thoughtful and almost depressing pensiveness, which was sometimes observed to steal over his features.

Brainard graduated in 1815, and on his return to his native place, commenced the study of law, in the office of his brother, William F. Brainard, Esq. On the completion of his professional course and admission to the Bar, he removed to the city of Middletown, with a view to the practice of law. This was in 1819, but in the earlier part of the year 1822, we find him in the city of Hartford, engaged in the duties of an editor of a weekly paper, the" Connecticut Mirror." * 1.1His career in the profession he had first chosen was, therefore, short. He seems neither to have been fitted for the law, nor the law for him. The dreams of fancy filled his soul, when he should have been adding to the mass of his legal learning. He beckoned to the muses, when he should have secured a client. He cherished an over-wrought sensibility, when he should have ventured the asperity of the world's men and the world's ways. In short he considered himself as possessing "a temperament," to use his own words,

"much too sensitive for his own comfort, which exposed him to personal altercation, contradiction, and that sharp collision which tries and strengthens the passions of the heart, at least as much as it does the faculties of the mind." We can scarcely wonder, then, that he was not destined to excel in a calling, which requires a hardy cast of character, and which leads into those paths of strife, ambition, and political distinction, so abhorred by the fond poetic enthusiast. With whatever gifts of intellect he was endowed, and however he might have excelled in his profession, had he applied all his powers to it; still it was not the calling he loved, and he had no disposition to make the required application. Judging by the event, he was destined to become eminent in another walk of life. The temperaments and the tastes of men are originally different, one from another. God has made them, by their mental and physical structure, for particular spheres of exertion, thus giving a beautiful variety to human existence, and to the pursuits of men. Some are formed to occupy one department of his earthly providence, and others an entirely different one. Cowper could no more be a lawyer or public man, when he was made and preconfigured for a poet, than the individual we once heard of was destined to be a poet,

who was able to compose but a single couplet in all his life, and that only in the unconscious hours of sleep. Let not then the providence of God be arraigned, by which each one will .....

"fallJust in the niche he was ordained to fill."

The direction of Brainard's genius appeared in the poetic creations which he was meditating, during his residence in Middletown. These resulted in several of his smaller printed poems. He also prepared, at the same period, several pieces for a literary paper, conducted by Cornelius Tuthill, Esq., one of the earlier editors of the "Christian Spectator." The paper was published at New Haven, and called "The Microscope." The humorous story of Gabriel Gap, in that publication, was from the pen of Brainard, though he left it unfinished.

The profession of law was thus abandoned for the no less trying, and far more precarious career, of the literary adventurer. But the latter was the pursuit of his choice, and though he seemed not to have any brilliant anticipations at the commencement, he attained to a distinction which only sterling talents could have commanded. For a portion of his task as an editor of a weekly newspaper, it has been supposed

that neither his temper, nor his training, was fitted. It is true that he had no fondness for political asperity and wrangling. For such times he was not born, unless possibly to allay them, by his pacific and candid spirit. He could not with comfort to himself mingle in the din of such a controversy. But it may well be questioned, whether too slight an estimate has not sometimes been put upon his capacity, to conduct the editorial department of such a journal as he undertook, even in its political discussions. The character of the matter which actually appeared in "The Mirror," is not, in every case, the true test of his ability. He was capable of greater originality of thought, and comprehensivehess of views, on the topics alluded to, than the first naked aspect of things would indicate. We are assured by competent testimony, that labored and able political articles were withheld from publication, owing to causes over which he had little control. It is not, perhaps, necessary to detail the facts, but they certainly go far to exculpate him from the charge of levity, or weakness, in conducting the editorial department of his paper. Prudential considerations were suffered to have sway, at the expense of his reputation for political tact and foresight. The only substitutes for the articles referred to, were such brief and tame pieces as

he could prepare, after the best and almost only hours for composition had passed by. This circumstance, together with the consciousness that the paper was ill sustained in respect to its patronage, was sufficiently discouraging to a person, whose sensibilities were as acute as those of Brainard's. It accounts also for the frequent turns of mental depression which marked his latter years, — heightened, indeed, by that frequent and mortifying concomitant of genius, — slender pecuniary means.

In whatever pertained to the literary portion of his paper, he was certainly at home. Hence his notices of new works were interesting and able. He possessed the urbanity and frankness to give utterance to his sense of intellectual beauty, whenever he perceived any traces of it in the authors on whom he commented. In the language of Mr. Whittier, who appreciated his character in this particular, with the kindred temper of a poet and a philanthropist: "there was too much gentleness in his nature, too much charity for the offending, and too much modesty in his own pretensions, to allow any rudeness of criticism, or severity of censure. His writings in the "Connecticut Mirror," are uniformly gentlemanly and good natured. It is impossible to discover in them any thing like malice or

wantonness of satire. He was the first to award due praise to his literary brethren. His criticisms were those of a man willing to lend his fine ear to the harmonies of poetry, and his clear, healthful eye to the light of intellectual beauty, wherever these were to be seen or heard.

Of his poetic pieces in "The Mirror," there was but one opinion. They were well received, and deserved the tribute of praise which was accorded by many a reader. The reputation which he earned was not, however, instantaneous. He at first became a favorite in a circle of friends, and by them his talents were known and somewhat appreciated. Still, the impression which he was calculated to make on their minds, was not fully felt, until certain poems of a superior order came out. The lines "On the birthday of Washington," beginning

"Behold the mossed cornered-stone dropped from the wall"

and some others, burst on their view, like brilliant meteors, surprising and enchanting them. After this, it was not long before he was honored by the literary part of the community generally, and by all who took an interest in the productions of native genius; and every number of" The Mirror" was seized with avidity by men, women, and children, to see if it

contained any of Brainard's poetry. It is on these poetic effusions that his claims to the regard of future times will principally rest. For however happy be may have been in several of his prose compositions, the public know him mostly as a poet, and in that light will he here be chiefly viewed. The few criticisms which we shall attempt in respect to his poetry will appear in the sequel. In this part of our task, our only design was to present the few incidents of his life, and sketch the striking points of his general character.

We have already seen Brainard in the commencement of his literary career, as an editor, and as a writer of poetry. Short as that career was, extending only to six years, it was nevertheless important to his own fame, and to his country's intellectual wealth. He seems to have availed himself of his opportunities for observation to good effect, and was not unversed in the learning of books. He culled every variety of sweet that lay in his path, and looked on nature and man, with the eye of a poet, and to subserve a poet's purposes. All our real bards, men renowned in song, have proved themselves to be men of knowledge. Those undying forms of thought which they put forth, are the products of capacious, well-stored, far-reaching intellects. They may not be all scholars, in the rigid

and collegiate sense of the word, but they are men of information and intellectual power. That which they write is stamped with the seal of truth and adherence to nature, and shows the vestiges of study and research of some kind. Thus Brainard had his rich intellectual acquisitions; but they were not gathered in the ordinary way of the student, ever bending over his books, and observing nightly vigils. He was "one of those men, who," as a friend that well knew him remarked, "love to lie on their backs, and see what they can think." Brainard acquired his rich and beautiful intellectual stores somewhat in this manner. And he had frequent occasion to lay them under contribution, in the preparation of poems for his paper. These pieces, as already remarked, were eagerly read, and highly commended. They established his fame as a poet, and drew him forth from the retirement which he seemed to love so well. Praise, however, apparently excites no emotions of vanity in his bosom, and he ever retired thither for the sweetest solace he found or desired on earth. Several of the pieces, however, as they were composed in the hurry, and under the embarrassments incident to his profession as an editor, received less care and polish than should have been bestowed upon them, but they all showed a ready and

skilful hand, and that only leisure was wanting to their perfection. Negligence, in some instances, was but too natural under these circumstances, and taste could not always be consulted or indulged.

Three years sufficed to furnish a small volume of the poetry thus contributed to "The Mirror," or that remained by him unprinted. It was published early in the year 1825. It was accompanied by a very brief and unpretending introduction, and left to find its way by its own merits, into the hearts and minds of his countrymen. * 1.2The naivete with which it was

committed to their attention, was answered by a generous and general approval of its contents. Our ablest periodical literature, in one instance at least, * 1.3spoke in tones of approbation and encouragement, stating, however, such exceptions to their general good opinion, as judicious criticism is always expected to put forth. No other literary effort followed the preparation of this volume, except other fugitive pieces, which, together with the former, were collected in a volume published in 1832, by Mr. Goodsell.

But the voice of the bard was destined ere long to be hushed in the silence of death. Prematurely was he called (we speak with deference to the divine arrangements,) to resign life with all its sweets and its fame, into the hand of the Giver. His health had begun to decline previously to the spring of 1827, at which period he retired from his professional labors, though not with a design to relinquish them finally. He sought repose in his native town, where the assiduities of friendship and affection, so grateful in sickness and depression, were bestowed and enjoyed, in a high degree. But nothing could arrest the progress of the disease with which he was visited. It proved

to be consumption, that surest precursor of death, though often slow in its work, and flattering in its symptoms. Resort was had in summer to a short residence on Long island. No material relief, however, was afforded by the excursion, and he was forced to abandon the idea of returning to Hartford, and resuming the duties of editorship. He lingered till the 26th of September the following year, (1828,) when he cheerfully departed to his rest. During this period of physical debility and decay, he exerted, as usual, his mental powers in the composition of several short, but beautiful poems, which were published in "The Mirror." The circumstances of his sickness and death were detailed at the time by the Rev. Mr. M'Ewen, pastor of the church to which Brainard belonged, in a letter to the Rev. Dr. Hawes, of Hartford. We adopt it from Mr. Whittier's "Sketch of Brainard's Life" prefixed to Goodsell's edition of his "Literary Remains."

"In my first visit to him, two or three months before his death, he said: "I am sick and near death, and I ought not to be too confident how I should act or feel had I a prospect of health and the worldly pleasures and prosperity which it would offer. But if I know myself I would, were I well, devote my life to the service of Jesus Christ.' I stated some of the

main doctrines of Christianity. ' These are Scripture,' he said, ' they are true and delightful to me. The plan of salvation in the Gospel is all that I wish for; — it fills me with wonder and gratitude; and makes the prospect of death not only peaceful but joyful. My salvation,' he continued, ' is not to be effected by a profession of religion; but when I read Christ's requirements, and look round on my friends and acquaintances, I cannot be content without performing this public duty.' He was propounded, and in due time, pale and feeble, yet manifestly with mental joy and serenity, he came to the house of God, professed his faith and was baptized and entered into covenant with God and his people. The next Sabbath the Lord's Supper was administered. It was wet, and he could not be out. His disappointment was great. A few friends went to his room and communed with him there in this ordinance. While his father's family and others, during the scene, were dissolved in tears, he sat with dignity and composure, absorbed in the interesting ceremony in which he was engaged. In my last interview with him, after he was, at his own request, left alone with me, he said: ' I wish not to be deceived about my state, — but I am not in the usual condition to try myself. No one abuses a sick man, — every thing

around me is sympathy and kindness. I used to be angry when people spoke what was true of me. I have now no resentment. I can forgive all and pray, I think, for the salvation of all. I am not tried with pain. I have hardly any outward trial.' ' But,' said I, 'you have one great trial, — you must soon part with life: ' ' And I am willing,' he replied. ' The Gospel makes my prospect delightful. God is a God of truth, and I think I am reconciled to him.' I saw him no more, but was told that he died in peace."

It may be interesting to learn a few ether particulars respecting the poet, during his last illness. To this end, we are happy to have it in our power to introduce a short account, furnished by a gentleman in Hartford, a friend and acquaintance of Brainard's, who called on him, eight or ten days before the death of the latter. This gentleman had previously written him during his sickness, and accompanied the letter by a copy of "Wolfe's Remains." We give the account as it was detailed in conversation.

"I called at Judge Brainard's, and on inquiry for John was shown unannounced into his room, or rather the parlour where he was, — and not expecting to find him there. Of course both parties were taken by surprise. Brainard was sitting in the middle of the room, dressed in his usual attire, and with his hat on and his

cane near by. In his lap, was a large old-fashioned family Bible lying open, in the reading of which he was entirely absorbed, and from which his attention was withdrawn only by my entrance. Immediately after his recognition of me, and the usual greeting, he said he had received the letter which I had addressed to him, with the accompanying volume which had been to him like a draught of water to a thirsty man.' He then almost immediately spoke of his religious views and feelings, — apologizing for his seeming abruptness in introducing the topic of religion, by a reference to his then feeble condition, (he could speak only in a whisper,) and to the opinion now entertained by him, that this was 'the only subject.' Pointing to the Bible, he spoke of the great comfort and support he there found, and with much earnestness expressed his confident hope, that not only myself, but also his other familiar friends at Hartford, would 'get right,' and derive from that book the same consolation which it now afforded him. He said he suffered no bodily pain, * 1.4— none worthy of a thought; — that he had no

apprehension of death, — that he indeed longed, and was impatient to depart. In expressing a wish for an early dismissal from life, he desired to avoid a sinful impatience, — but that the earliest time, so that it was God's time, would be to him most welcome. I gathered from his remarks, that his time was divided between his Bible and the thoughts and meditations it inspired, and the garden where he occasionally sat, and breathed the fresh air. His sister, who, on my entrance, had cautioned me not to let her brother become exhausted by too much conversation, here, for the second or third time, appeared at the door of the apartment, with so much anxiety depicted on her countenance, that her solicitude could not be mistaken nor disregarded, notwithstanding the earnest wish manifested by her brother (who now for the first and only time spoke aloud) that my stay might be prolonged. Fearing, therefore, the effect on him of a longer interview, I here took my leave; and a short week or two brought Brainard the release from life, which he so earnestly desired."

In joining the church, as narrated by Mr. M'Ewen above, it may be added, as we learn, that Brainard being too feeble to go to church and remain through the ordinary services, consequently arrived at and

entered the sanctuary, when these were nearly or quite through. Every one present (literally, almost,) knew him, — the occasion of his coming was understood, — and when he appeared, pale, feeble, emaciated, and trembling in consequence of his extreme debility, the sensation it produced was at once apparent throughout the whole assembly. There seemed to be an instinctive homage paid to the grace of God in him; or perhaps the fact shows, how readily a refined Christian community sympathizes with genius and virtue destined to an early tomb.

The lively grief of the reading community, as well as of his friends in particular, attested their sense of the loss which had been experienced. He had evidently been regarded with great favor, and it was no unnatural feeling to dwell, with fond pensiveness, on the memory of one who had often contributed to their serious and innocent gratification. Thus he shone among the

" Bright forms we sorrowing weep,So fleet they passed away to die,"

and the lovers of song had only the mournful satisfaction of expressing their regard for departed excellence. His death was extensively lamented, and many felt that one had fallen who had already achieved not

a little, and promised still more, in his devotion to a delightful art.

Several traits of Brainard's character have incidentally appeared already; but we should do him injustice not to give more prominence to a few of its features. His mind, naturally tender and susceptible in a high degree, was given to pensive thought; and in his riper years its developments amounted at times, to melancholy and depression. Whether this is to be attributed to a cause which has been publicly stated, — a cause which often withers the affections of the young heart, — we know not. If that cause existed, it was unknown to his immediate relatives. But whatever may have been the occasion of the characteristic we speak of, the latter was an acknowledged reality, and even in his poetry itself, the tones of a deeply sad spirit often break forth. The "Edinburgh Review," in one instance, attaches to this character of his poetry, the epithets of "melancholy" and "wayward," and quotes as an example, the touching stanzas beginning with the line

" The dead leaves strew the forest walk."

A friend and admirer of the poet remarked to us, that he appeared as one, who, notwithstanding the frequent gayety of his strains, "was disposed to sport

with his own feelings." The sadness which he felt within could not be better thrown off, or parried, than by indulging in an external gayety. Still there were bright sunny spots in his life, an innocent joyousness was not an entire stranger to his bosom, and even immersed, as he often was, in dark and sombre thoughts, he never became moody and misanthropic. In the language of another, "disheartened and despondent as we know Brainard was, looking out upon the world with an eye that saw every thing glowing with prismatic beauty, yet mournfully feeling that this beauty was not made for him, — still, when he met a friend, the cloud passed instantly from his brow, a smile was on his lips, and words of merriment and levity broke from his tongue. It was apparent that for the moment, he obtained relief from his painful musings in the play of a humorous fancy, — a laugh seemed to beguile his sorrow, — a joke to scare back into their recesses, the demons that preyed upon his bosom. Those only, who knew him well, can understand how interesting was this light of his mind, breaking out amid the clouds and darkness which encompassed it." We may add to the above, that he possessed a keen perception of the humorous and ridiculous, —that he had the art of seizing on those

points of character in others, which constituted their foibles, as well as their excellences, — that his mode of expression, like the association of his ideas, was at once singular and engaging, — and hence on these several accounts, he could inspire in the minds of a circle, emotions of mirth and gayety, apparently the most opposite to those, with which his own mind was so frequently occupied.

It is not surprising, then, that he was eminently formed for society, and the enjoyment of its innocent festivities and delights, notwithstanding the retiring modesty and the keen sensitiveness by which he was distinguished. "His habits of self-reliance," says Mr. Whittier, "of a gentle retirement into the calm beauty of his own mind, rendered him, in a measure, indifferent to the opinion of the world. Yet he loved society, — the society of the gifted and intellectual, — and of those who had become accustomed to his peculiarities of manner and feeling, who could appreciate his merit, or relish his good-natured jests, and 'mocks, and knaveries,' and laugh with him at what he considered the ludicrous eagerness of the multitude after the vanities of existence. In larger and mixed circles, his peculiar sensitiveness was a frequent cause of unhappiness. Amidst his gayety and humor, a word

spoken inadvertently, — some unmeaning gesture, — some casual inattention or unlucky oversight checked at once the free flow of his sprightly conversation, — the jest died upon his lips, — and the melancholy which had been lifted from his heart, fell again with increased heaviness."

There was a quiet sportiveness and humor about Brainard, which rendered him a highly agreeable companion, and threw a charm over the circles in which he visited. It arose at times into wit of a keen and brilliant character. This, his writings also sufficiently show. It is no matter of surprise that he was a favorite in company, or peculiarly interesting in conversation, to his intimate friends. We have heard of specimens of his lively and facetious turn, one of which we will take the liberty to record. In his native place, we believe it was, he attended, on some occasion, a meeting which was successively addressed by two preachers, who claimed to be divinely moved, in the exercise of their gifts. The first one was brief, and in what he said seemed to defer to his brother, as more likely to fulfil the expectations of the audience. The other attempted much more, but proceeded with difficulty. Indeed, he several times offered the apology, in rather quaint phrase, that his mind was imprisoned.

At the close of the services, as the people retired, it was natural that the conversation should turn on the speakers. It was observed by one, that the latter preacher succeeded but indifferently. "You know," replied a by-stander, "that he complained of the imprisonment of his mind." At this moment Brainard came up, and, on hearing the conversation, remarked, in his ready and piquant manner, that "the preacher's mind might have easily sworn out." The readiness of his wit was apparent in his writings, a single instance of which we will adduce. The following appears in "The Mirror" of July 5, 1824, as a retort upon one of his critics. "We observe a criticism in the 'Village Record,' on some verses headed ' The Deep,' in which the writer says, 'the word brine has no more business in sentimental poetry, than a pig in a parlour.' We suspect the writer, though his piece is dated Philadelphia, lives at a greater distance from the sea; and has got his ideas of the salt water from his father's pork barrel."

The seeming severity, as well as the wit of the above stricture reminds us to say, that such was not the tone which he held generally towards the criticisms bestowed upon his pieces. He submitted to just and candid remarks upon his performances, with

perfect good-nature. As this was a striking trait of his character, connected with his humble opinion of his own performances, it deserves some illustration. In a communication to "The Mirror" of Nov. 10, 1828, by a Lady, the writer says, — "It is too often the fault of authors that they are unwilling to submit to criticism, — still less to the alterations of others. That the subject of this article (Brainard) was superior to this, and diffident of his own abilities, appears in a letter to the (then) editor of ' The Mirror,' Mr. Lincoln, dated Jan. 1822, in which Brainard says, 'I received yours this morning, and in reading it, had to regret that you should have found it necessary to offer the slightest apology, on account of the very proper and necessary alterations in the lines I sent you. For, if I remember right, you was not only authorized, but requested to make such use of them, as would best answer the purposes of "The Mirror." From the solemn tone of your letter, I feared you was a hypochondriac, or that you was not so well acquainted with me as I could wish. Why, my dear Lincoln, when you was about it, did you not apologize for thinking me a conceited fool, who knows his verses are none of the best, and yet quarrels with his friend for coming to the same conclusion. Upon my word, I

did not expect to see so much of them printed as I found in your last Mirror.'" The writer adds, — "There is something which makes us feel, as if it were almost sacrilege to bring forward to the public, what was only designed for the private eye of friendship, but it also seems as if the public had a kind of property in the private thoughts of men of genius; and when we find talents united with modesty, and good-humor, we are constrained to love, when we before admired."

In respect to other features of his character, we have the authority of a writer in the "Boston Statesman," of 1828, (as quoted by Mr. Whittier,) a gentleman intimately acquainted with the poet, who cleverly observes as follows. "Brainard did not make much show in the world. He was an unassuming and unambitious man, — but he had talents which should have made him our pride. They were not showy or dazzling, — and perhaps that is the reason that the general eye did not rest upon him, — but he had a keen discriminating susceptibility, and a taste exquisitely refined and true ...... Brainard had no enemies. It was not that his character was negative, or his courtesy universal. There was a directness in his manner, and a plain-spoken earnestness in his

address, which could never have been wanting in proper discrimination. He would never have compromised with the unworthy for their good opinion. But it was his truth, — his fine, open, ingenuous truth, — bound up with a character of great purity and benevolence, which won love for him. I never met a man of whom all men spoke so well. I fear I never shall. When I was introduced to him he took me aside and talked with me for an hour. I shall never forget that conversation. He made no commonplace remarks. He would not talk of himself, though I tried to lead him to it. He took a high intellectual tone, and I never have heard its beauty or originality equalled. He knew wonderfully well the secrets of mental relish and development; and had evidently examined himself till he had grown fond, as every one must who does it, of a quiet, contemplative, self-cultivating life." But, however his habitual aspirations may have been after this refined enjoyment, he still greatly delighted in the visible and palpable of human life. In whatever manner these different traits may be reconciled, or accounted for, as meeting in the same subject, yet it is certain that no man ever enjoyed more than he did the every-day bustle of the world. He loved to mix with it, and in it, and cared not if he was borne along,

for a time, in its current. A brigade review, with its exhilarating sights, sounds, and cheer, seemed to give him, in company with a few friends, as unsophisticated a feeling of pleasure, as it did to the veriest boy on the ground.

The writer above quoted, notices the poet in his social hours. "The first time I ever saw him, I met him in a gay and fashionable circle. He was pointed out to me as the poet Brainard. A plain, ordinary looking individual, careless in his dress, and apparently without the least outward claim to the attention of those who value such advantages. But there was no person there, so much or so flatteringly attended to. He was among those who saw him every day and knew him familiarly; and I almost envied him, as he went round, the unqualified kindness and even affection, with which every bright girl and every mother in the room received him. He was evidently the idol, not only of the poetry loving and gentler sex, — but also of the young men who were about him, — an evidence of worth, let me say, which is as high as it is uncommon."

The susceptibility and benevolence of his heart, were apparent to the view of all who were acquainted with him. To illustrate his character, in this respect,

we are happy to furnish the following from a manuscript which has been put into our hands, drawn up by an intimate friend of the poet. "I have several times," he says, "attempted it," (that is, to portray the character of Brainard,) "either for my own amusement, or the gratification of others, and have succeeded only in sketching a sort of panegyric of any amiable, talented, and refined gentleman. Still he was a man of many distinctive characteristics. They were those traits, however, which pleased by their beauty, rather than astonished by their obtrusive boldness. Indeed, his governing quality, and that which mellowed the light and shade of all the rest, was a delicate sensibility. It was not, however, that morbid susceptibility to malevolent impressions, which some cultivate for effect, — a compound of sullenness and misanthropy, — a malignant excrescence, that deforms all the beautiful proportions which the soul brought from the hands of its Creator; but it was the offspring of benevolence rather, which delighted in the happiness, and was pained by the misery of any sentient being in the universe. It is true it could ill bear the shocks to which it was exposed in this jostling and selfish world; but it rarely led him to murmur at the causes of his own unhappiness, or excited hostility against the

authors of ill to him. He bore his own griefs in silence, whatever they were, but was aroused to active sympathy whenever he saw his fellow-man, or even a brute suffer." .....

"I first met him while he resided in Middletown. I accompanied a sister of mine, while making an afternoon call on Miss S — , who, you know, was somewhat celebrated for her beauty and wit. There were several ladies in the room when we entered. Brainard was there, the soul and spirit of the conversation. He seemed delighted, and was in his happiest mood. Of course none present could fail to be delighted in him. Through awkwardness, or some other cause, I had taken a seat somewhat by myself, and being much younger than the rest, was very naturally neglected. The embarrassment of my situation did not long escape the observation of Brainard. He left the circle of beauty and brilliant conversation, and in the kindest and most affectionate manner addressed to me such conversation as was calculated to please one of my age. You may be sure I was interested. It was not long before he was again the centre of attraction, and his benevolent face lighted up with peculiar joy when he found my embarrassment removed, and me a sharer in the conversation of that

pleasant circle of friends. Still, he did not neglect me, nor would he allow others to do so. But by often addressing me he seemed to say, 'we may all be happy, but the ease and happiness of my young friend must not be neglected.' On parting, his cordial invitation to call on him, and make use of his hospitality while I remained in town, was fully in keeping with his kindness during our short interview. In all this there was nothing of that patronizing air, which is so commonly apparent, when men offer politeness to those younger than themselves; but just enough deference to my opinion to gratify self-love. In short, there was just that tact which made me feel pleased with myself, and grateful to him."

To the general beauty of his character, we add the testimony of an accomplished female author, whose representation is no less beautiful than just. We quote it from Mr. Whittier's "Sketch." "To the intellectual power and poetical eminence of Mr. Brainard, the public will undoubtedly do justice. But those who knew and valued him as a friend, can bear testimony to the intrinsic excellences of his. character. They were admitted with a generous freedom into the sanctuary of his soul, and saw those fountains of deep and disinterested feeling which were hidden from casual

observation. Friendship was not in him a modification of selfishness, lightly conceived, and as lightly dissolved. His sentiments respecting it were formed on the noble models of ancient story; and he proved himself capable of its delicate perceptions, and its undeviating integrities. His heart had an aptitude both for its confidential interchange, and its sacred responsibilities. In his intercourse with society, he exhibited neither the pride of genius, nor the pedantry of knowledge. To the critic he might have appeared deficient in personal dignity. So humbly did he think of himself, and his own attainments, that the voice of approbation and kindness seemed necessary to assure his spirits, and even to sustain his perseverance in the labors of literature. Possessed both of genuine wit, and of that playful humor which rendered his company sought and admired, he never trifled with the feelings of others, or aimed to shine at their expense. Hence he expected the same regard to his own mental comfort, and was exceedingly vulnerable to the careless jest, or to the chillness of reserve.

"It did not require the eye of intimacy to discover that he was endowed with an acute sensibility. This received early nurture and example in the bosom of most affectionate relatives. The endearing associations

connected with his paternal mansion, preserved their freshness and force, long after he ceased to be an inmate there ...... The efforts which he continually put forth during his intercourse with mankind, to conceal his extreme susceptibility, sometimes gave to his manners the semblance of levity. Hence he was liable to misconstruction, and a consciousness of this, by inducing occasional melancholy and seclusion, threw him still further from those sympathies for which his affectionate spirit languished. Still it cannot be said that his sensibility had a morbid tendency. It shrank, indeed, like the Mimosa, but it had no worm at its root. Its gushings forth were in admiration of the charms of nature, and in benevolence to the humblest creature; to the poor child in the street, and to the forest bird. It had affinity with love to God, and with good-will to man. Had his life been prolonged, and he permitted to encircle with the beautiful domestic charities a household hearth of his own, the true excellences of his heart would have gained more perfect illustration. It possessed a simplicity of trusting confidence, a fulness of tender and enduring affection, which would there have found free scope and legitimate action. There he might have worn as a crown, that exquisite sensibility, which, among proud and lofty

spirits, he covered as a blemish, or shrank from as a reproach. But it pleased the Almighty early to transfer him where loneliness can no longer settle as a cloud over his soul, nor the coarse enginery which earth employs jar against its harp-strings, and obstruct its melody."

The social qualities of Brainard rendered him deservedly popular. He was formed for friendship, — he had a keen relish of its pleasures, and a nice discernment of the influences by which it might be improved and perpetuated. His heart was in unison with truth, nature, and beauty. Sweet voices, glad looks, the beamings of intelligence, the throbbings of affection, home, kindred, country, the glorious creation, all gave him the purest delight, and drew responses from every chord of his heart and harp. He was ardent and devoted in his personal attachments, and it is possible that the description of the poet might occasionally be applied to him;

"Then must you speakOf one that loved, not wisely, but too well."

"An affection" (we believe it is the language of Hazlitt) "indulged to excess, or carried beyond what he position of the parties, or the worth of the regarded warrants, or excited to render superfluous service, is,

in the long run, destructive of its existence, and injurious to the peace of those indulging it, in other things beside love and friendship." If, occasionally, Brainard was in danger of being carried, in his attachments, beyond the boundaries of prudence, this fact only betrayed the exuberant feelings of his fond and confiding nature.

Mr. Brainard professed the hopes, as he had also studied and believed the truths, of Christianity. His sickness and death-bed scene before described, are well adapted to impress his readers on that point. The lessons of adversity and of life's trials had not been lost upon him. They softened and refined his spirit through divine grace, and prepared it, we trust for its entrance upon a brighter sphere. The hallowing process could not but be observed with much interest. The soul's disorders through sin are remedied often by the instrumentalities of the body's sufferings. And, transformed by the Spirit of holiness into the divine image, it gathers up its energies to meet the crisis of its fate, with cheerful and blest submission to the Sovereign Disposer. Thus it was with Brainard, as it has been with other believers. They are invigorated within, as they decay without. They grow spiritual, as the body is more inert. They are made contented, as their

corporeal infirmities abound. Their spirits become joyful, as their senses are rendered incapable of gratification. And glory is felt to be nearer, as that greatest earthly trial approaches, — the dissolution of the body. This is the paradox of a triumphing Christianity. Let none of the choice spirits of the world be left to doubt, that the Gospel can do that for them, which it did for Brainard,— which it has done for others endowed with all the gifts, and exposed to all the temptations, of genius.

The person of Brainard was somewhat below the ordinary size. The bland feelings of his heart, as well as his intelligence, beamed from his eye, as they were also expressed in the lineaments of his countenance generally. In the intercourse of friendship, and in the lively sallies of wit, his face was wont to glow with a fine expression. There was a carelessness about his personal appearance and costume, — his attitudes and walk, — which, though not obnoxious to animadversion, showed the abstractedness of the poet and the man of thought. His sensitiveness was particularly manifested by any allusion to his size. Little as such a circumstance deserved consideration or notice on his part, it was a peculiarity of the man, that he seemed to wish it had been otherwise. We should find it difficult, were we to undertake it, to account for the whims of

intellectual men; and these things are mentioned, only because the public regard any thing as interesting, which illustrates the character of a favorite.

Brainard was in the habit of rapid composition. This was in agreement with the character of his mind, and was aided by the circumstances in which he was led to write his poems. The necessity of filling some column or part of a column of his paper with verses, prompted to the composition of most of his pieces, and it was hence almost unavoidable that he should write in haste, and often in a state of mind adverse to poetical inspiration. The ease, however, with which he poured out his thoughts on paper, made some amends for this disadvantage. In any place, and in any situation, it is understood, he could give audience to the whisper of his Muse. * 1.5

The above is the substance of what we have been able to gather of the history and character of Brainard, from published records, and from the communications of private friendship and acquaintanceship. It might be a matter of regret, that a larger number of incidents pertaining to his life, and a fuller delineation of his intellect, disposition, and habits, could not be presented in this place, were it not true, that the interest of literary biography depends but in part on the abundance of the materials thus spread out before the public eye. We look not for adventures and startling incidents, in the life of a mere poet or literary man. We can well dispense also with many offerings, in the shape of encomium, and the enthusiastic admiration of friends, to his hallowed memory. We love chiefly to contemplate him in his writings, — to learn the man

and his story there. Sometimes, when a bright and beautiful luminary has blazed in the intellectual horizon, we are disappointed, as in the case of Shakspeare, at the meagre details of the history of its course. We would trace it from its rising to its setting, and mark all its phases and variations, with the fondness of an idolatrous veneration; and satisfy our minds, how like or unlike it was, to any thing that ever attracted the view of mankind, before or since. It may also add somewhat to the admiration of genius, to be able to learn, for instance, the perilous adventures of a Camoens, swimming from a shipwreck, with his immortal epic borne in his hand above the waves, — the heroic exploits, and martyr-like sufferings, of a Cervantes in Algerine captivity, — or the wayward fortunes of a Tasso, in imprisonment, prolonged disease, and disappointed love. Still, in the majority of cases, we are contented to learn the better part of the writer in his works. Genuine talent stamps upon these its own features. The passions and dispositions of the heart stand forth embodied and living in the portraitures of the pen. There we must learn much of Brainard.

It is generally true, that excellence in any department of intellectual effort, is sooner or later recognised, on the part of those before whom it is exhibited. This

is the fact in regard to poetry, perhaps, even in a greater degree, than in any other species of writing. The genuine strains of the muse readily find a response in the minds of most men. They are laid up in the memories, and rehearsed from the lips of thousands. There may, sometimes, be a tardiness in the public, as in the case of Shakspeare and Milton, in awarding its approbation; but that approbation will come at length, and make ample amends for its temporary injustice, by its increased and more lasting incense, Wherever a true bard appears, the public will become interested in him. He cannot pour forth the sweet voice of song, and long remain unheard — unanswered. Its echoes will resound through grove, and cottage, and hall — through camp and court. This is the test of worth; and it is a test to which Brainard and his poems may be confidingly committed. For although, as Snelling says, "he wrote under every disadvantage, and, as might be expected, the faults of his writings were neither few nor small," yet, "at the same time he had the stamina of poetry. Had he received encouragement sufficient to awaken his energies, his name would have lived for ever. He was wholly unconscious of his own strength, and threw off his best pieces without hesitation or premeditation. To this carelessness his

faults must be attributed. In this, too, he is not alone among American poets, most of whom, it seems, write as carelessly as Brainard, though by no means as well. I wish I could mention three of them who equal John Gardiner Calkins Brainard, or six who even approach his excellence."

His poetry, it is conceived, reflects much of the idiosyncrasy of the man. His simplicity, his sportiveness, the child-like character of his feelings, the tenderness of his emotions, his humble and unpretending views of himself, and the occasional depression which came over him, are imaged forth in his poetry, as in a polished mirror. We are at no loss to decipher him, — to tell what he was. He appears honest and open as the day. Both the blossoms and the fruit of charity in him, — the elevated scriptural sentiment, and the practical purpose of good, — mingle together in varied loveliness of description, like the flowering and fruit-laden orange tree; and while the imagination is feasted with its beauty, the heart is improved by its lessons and example of wisdom. There was no mysticism about him, — no such shaping of his words as to make men wonder what he was, and least of all, what he means. He never "minces an ambiguous skepticism," after the fashion of many of his brother bards abroad. His

simple faith is simply expressed, and there is a commonsense view which he takes of man, nature, and the events of providence, that approves itself to every unsophisticated mind.

His poetry is the expression of clear and quiet thought. The image is brought out with distinctness, and there seems to be the absence of effort to make it dazzling and impressive. This is the true classical grace, — the repose of a pure, deep soul, as we find it in the masters of the lyre, in past times. The circumstances under which Brainard wrote, as we have already learned, precluded that degree of polish and care, so desirable in poetic composition. Hence, he has unequal poems, and sometimes careless, incorrect, or coarse lines. But he showed the natural felicity of the bard — the power of delineating in a few graceful and graphic touches, the image as it arose in his own mind. With what clearness and nature is the idea brought out in the following lines of the "Invalid"!

"The grassy lane o'er-arched with boughs and leaves,Runs its green vista to a small bright point,And that point is the ocean. Faint the limbs,And all the body tires, — but for the soulIt hath its holyday in such a spot.

"A moment rest we on the only stoneIn all the alley, — wipe the sweating brow,And drop the eye upon the turf around."

The above has the terseness, the distinct thought of Cowper, and perhaps more than his simplicity. Again, in the following lines of the poem on "Connecticut River," we notice the same feature.

"Thy noble shores! where the tall steeple shines,At mid-day, higher than thy mountain pines,Where the white school-house with its daily drillOf sunburnt children, smiles upon the hill;Where the neat village grows upon the eye,Decked forth in nature's sweet simplicity, — Where hard-won competence, the farmer's wealth,Gains merit, honor, and gives labor health;Where Goldsmith's self might send his exiled bandTo find a new 'Sweet Auburn,' in our land."

The name of Goldsmith here reminds us that the strain itself, as well as the theme, is not unworthy of that sweet and elegant poet.

A foreign reviewer * 1.6 calls Brainard "careless," but pays him generally a high compliment, and acknowledges that, "even in this carelessness, which presents the thought in its full and undiluted form, there is often a charm." We should say, rather, that the charm lies in a certain rare union of a vivid conception with the power of graphic expression, — thus painting the idea with perfecthess to the reader's mind, as in the passage on the Falls of Niagara, — which accurate and sublime

description, be it remembered, is the more remarkable from the fact that the poet never saw Niagara.

"It would seem,As if God poured thee from his 'hollow hand,'And hung his bow upon thy awful front;And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to himWho dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,'The sound of many waters,' and had badeThy flood to chronicle the ages back,And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks."

Also, we have the same characteristic in the lines of the "Invalid."

"He has heard its mighty soundWhose bark was on its awful waters, whenThe billows swept the deck and rioted,Mixed with the winds round all its gallant spars.He too has heard its moanings, who, becalmedLies like a small thing, helpless and alone,Upon a rolling waste immensity."

The reader of Brainard's poetry will have noticed his nice and accurate observation of nature, and the objects around him, so characteristic of one, who has a true poet's eye and heart. We cite the following as an example, in the "Maniac's Song "; —

" Now I have lost my blooming health,And joy and hope no more abide;And wildering fancies come by stealth,Like moonlight on a shifting tide."

Also the latter paragraph of" The Indian Summer" :

"The moon stays longest for the hunter now;The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blitheAnd busy squirrel hoards his winter store:While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps alongThe bright blue sky above him, and that bendsMagnificently all the forest's pride,Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks,'What is there saddening in the autumn leaves?'"

Those associations which are suggested to the mind by natural objects, are occasionally marked by the poet, with much effect, as in the following passage;

"'There's music in the deep : —It is not in the surf's rough roar,Nor in the whispering shelly shore, —They are but earthly sounds, that tellHow little of the sea nymph's shellThat sends its loud clear note abroad,Or winds its softness through the flood,Echoes through groves with coral gay,And dies on spongy banks away."

The poem "I know a Brook," has one of those suggestive topics, which are so pleasing and instructive in poetry. After a beautiful description of the object, the poet concludes;

"There I placedA frail memorial, — that when againI should revisit it, the thought might comeOf the dull tide of life, and that pure springWhich he who drinks of never shall thirst more."

The frequent occurrence of the pathetic in Brainard's poetry, has given it one of its most winning characteristics. Every reader feels its power, in the simple and concise touches, which could have proceeded only from a heart exquisitely alive to every holy sympathy. "Sketch of an Occurrence on board of a Brig," "On a late Loss," "The Maniac's Song," " Is it Fancy or is it Fact," are among the pieces that bear this character. Poets that excel in pathos, are not unfrequently felicitous in humorous description, which would appear to require talent of an opposite kind, though they may be connected by a nice and undiscernible bond. Some of the pieces of the latter kind, are "The Fragment," "Lines written for a Lady's Common-Place Book," " The presidential Cotillion," "The Bar versus the Docket," and " The Two Comets." There is much genuine humor in them, though, in a few instances, they happen to contain indifferent poetry.

Our poet has a various and appropriate manner, in his several productions. There is in them the reverse of sameness in matter, argument, and style. Scarcely a recurrence of the same expression is found. We meet with no ever-returning identities of thought and imagery, and language. Every thing is fitted to its place and occasion; and only a natural and appropriate

form seems to have been adopted, in spreading out his fancies and feelings, before the eye of the public. No one was ever less a mannerist than this poet. After reading a few pieces of some of our writers of song, you learn what to expect in regard to that which is coming, in rhythm and cadence, if not in sentiment and thought. You know the author, almost, without reading his name, as soon as a few strings of his lyre have been touched: and you have hardly the pleasure of gratifying an excited curiosity, by the appearance of any variety or novelty of matter and manner. Brainard had too much of the warm spirit of poetry about him, to fall into that artificial mannerism, by which some would impart effect to their ungenial effusions.

Brainard has recommended himself to his countrymen, as a truly American poet. His topics, his imagery, his illustrations are mostly of native growth. There is a raciness about them which cannot be mistaken. The reader on this side of the water is familiar with the scenes, the associations, or the incidents to which he is introduced. Most of the common-place of poetry is avoided. The mountains, lakes, rivers, trees, animals,— the characters, pursuits, pastimes, and superstitions, which are touched by the pen of the bard, are American. A foreign reviewer has expressed the

opinion, concerning a volume of Selections from American Poets, designed especially to convey strong impressions of the characteristics of the New World, that it conveys no such impression at all,— that, with slight exceptions, one is surprised to find it so truly English, — that its beauties and defects are so similar to the poetry of the parent land. However true this may be in general, yet in regard to Brainard, who is one of the poets from whom selections were made, it cannot be admitted. Scarcely a page is there but shows the American in the topic, the allusion, the scenery, or the characters. He is more truly American, than some English bards are English. Take, for instance, Shenstone, who is, indeed, sufficiently artificial, but whom, however, we mention, because we happened not long since to refresh our memory with his entire poetry. He speaks much of the country and its scenes, particularly in his pastorals and elegies; but it might, in general, as well have been Greece, as Great Britain,— Arcadia as Warwickshire. Fine and sweet as he is, who does not sicken to hear so many changes rung on the pastoral names of Damon, Corydons Strephon, Phillis, Delia, and Melissa! The kids, the goats, and the lambs of Theocritus and Virgil, figure in the effeminate, though lauded strain. Our native

bard has made his mother tongue a better vehicle of American peculiarities, than the Englishman has of the characteristics of Old England. It is, at all events, poetry in which his countrymen can see its reflection of themselves,—their notions, sentiments, usages, and institutions.

Like the great mass of American poetry, Brainard's is free alike from a vicious and infidel taint. It is safe to the healthfulhess, purity, and peace of the heart to read his productions. A strain of humor, — of merriment may occasionally relax the muscles of the face; but no licentious, and maddening thoughts are suggested by the pictures of his Muse. Generally, a serious, though cheerful and correct view, is taken of human life, and its varied, its vast interests, — of the world and its pursuits, — of the ways of Providence, — and of the truths of Revelation. Occasionally you meet with a sweet religious sentiment, — not perhaps directly and didactically enforced, but incidentally and by allusion, or example, somewhat in the manner of Cowper, in his "Alexander Selkirk."

Brainard's was a short career: had he therefore been characterized by unwonted diligence and energy, he might have failed, by the shortness of life, to realize the highest style of the poetic art. But, inclined as

he was, constitutionally, somewhat to the opposite state of mind, and obliged often to write in haste and in other circumstances unfavorable to composition, several of his efforts, as we have already sufficiently admitted, are stamped with a corresponding imperfection. Still, enough has been achieved to rank him as a poet of no ordinary power and maturity. The spirit of song dwelt in him richly, — the success that he met with shows that he did not mistake his vocation, — and it would seem, as if only longer life and additional opportunities were wanting, to the fullest development of poetic excellence.

We subjoin to this sketch, a poetic tribute to the memory of Bratnard, from the pen of Snelling. Though it probably expresses, with far too much strength, the poet's trials arising from the deficient patronage and favor of his countrymen at large, it is, in other respects, both just and beautiful.

"PEACE, Muse; a rest thy wearied pinions crave, Alight, and weep on Brainard's early grave. Lamented Brainard! Since no living line Records thy worth, I 'll make that merit mine: Be mine the task to make fresh roses bloom, And shed undying fragrance on thy tomb. In thine own mind our cause of mourning grew, — The falchion's temper ate the scabbard through.

Hard, hard thy lot, and great thy country's shame, Who let such offspring die without his fame. He pined to see the buds his brow that decked, Nipped by the bitter blight of cold neglect. Torn from the tree they perished one by one Before their opening petals saw the sun; While the same chilling blast that breathed on them, Froze the rich life-blood of the noble stem. But not neglect, nor sorrow's rankling smart,' Could sour the kindly current of his heart; And not the canker that consumed his frame Could to the last his eagle spirit tame; With faltering hand his master harp he strung, While music echoed from his dying tongue, Then, winged his passage to a higher sphere, To seek the glory we denied him here. Fair Cygnus thus, while life's last pulses roll, Pours forth in melody his parting soul."

Notes

• * 1.1

  These duties commenced on the 25th of February.
• * 1.2

  The Introduction to the volume was as follows: — "The author of the following pieces has been induced to publish them in a book, from considerations which cannot be interesting to the public. Many of these little poems have been printed in the Connecticut Mirror; and others are just fit to keep them company. No apologies are made, and no criticisms deprecated. The commonplace story of the importunities of friends, though it had its share in the publication, is not insisted upon; but the vanity of the author, if others choose to call it such, is a natural motive, and the hope of 'making a little something by it,' is an honest acknowledgment, if it is a poor excuse." The motto of the title-page was as quaint, —

  "Some said, 'John print it; ' others said 'Not so;'Some said ' It might do good; ' others said 'No.'"Bunyan' s Apology.
• * 1.3

  North American Review.
• * 1.4

  The impression of the family was, that he had, at times, suffered much. If so, his religious views, hopes, and aspirations had probably rendered him superior to the usual distressing accompaniments of disease.
• * 1.5

  A single anecdote in illustration. A friend had long solicited Brainard to write for him a piece of poetry for the Commonplace Book of a young lady; from which, on some plea, he had always excused himself. One wintry day he again entered the editor's room, with the identical album in hand. Brainard was shivering with cold : there were only a few exhausted embers on the hearth, and no wood in the room. After a few moments, he turned to his friend and said; "I tell you what: if you will run up stairs and bring me down an arm-full of wood, I'll write for you." The wood was in the garret, up two flights of stairs; but the book was handed to Brainard, and off went the friend for his burden, glad in any way to secure the poetry. He had hardly returned before Brainard had completed the beautiful lines commencing, "See to your book, young lady." We know, also, that some portion of the lines on Connecticut River (which originally appeared as "New-Year's Verses," with the caption, "The Compliments of the Year 1827 to the Connecticut River,") went to the compositor in fragments of a few lines, as he was waiting for copy.
• * 1.6

  The Edinburgh Review.