The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe - Edgar Allan Poe [979]
Descending to a distant age,
Embodied forth on the deathless page
of the author — that is to say, of Jack Downing, Esquire. We have now one after the other, CANTOS one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven — each subdivided into PARTS, by means of Roman numerals — some of these PARTS comprehending as many as six lines — upon the principle, we presume, of packing up precious commodities in small bundles. The volume then winds up with Notes, in proportion of three to one, as regards the amount of text, and taken, the most of them, from Burk’s Virginia, as before.
It is very difficult to keep one’s countenance when reviewing such a work as this; but we will do our best, for the truth’s sake, and put on as serious a face as the case will admit.
The leading fault of “Powhatan,” then, is precisely what its author supposes to be its principal merit. “It would be difficult,” he says, in that pitiable preface, in which he has so exposed himself, “to find a poem that embodies more truly the spirit of history, or indeed that follows out more faithfully many of its details.” It would, indeed; and we are very sorry to say it. The truth is, Mr. Downing has never dreamed of any artistic arrangement of his facts. He has gone straight forward, like a blind horse, and turned neither to the one side nor to the other, for fear of stumbling. But he gets them all in — every one of them — the facts we mean. Powhatan never did anything in his life, we are sure, that Mr. Downing has not got in his poem. He begins at the beginning, and goes on steadily to the end — painting away at his story, just as a sign-painter at a sign; beginning at the left hand side of his board, and plastering through to the right. But he has omitted one very ingenious trick of the sign-painter. He has forgotten to write under his portrait — “this is a pig,” and thus there is some danger of mistaking it for an opossum.
But we are growing scurrilous, in spite of our promise, and must put on a sober visage once more. It is a hard thing, however, when we have to read and write about such doggrel as this:
But bravely to the river’s brink
I led my warrior train,
And face to face, each glance they sent,
We sent it back again.
Their werowance looked stern at me,
And I looked stern at him,
And all my warriors clasped their bows,
And nerved each heart and limb.
I raised my heavy war-club high,
And swung it fiercely round,
And shook it towards the shallop’s side,
Then laid it on the ground.
And then the lighted calumet
I offered to their view,
And thrice I drew the sacred smoke,
And toward the shallop blew,
And as the curling vapor rose
Soft as a spirit prayer,
I saw the pale-face leader wave
A white flag in the air.
Then launching out their painted skiff
They boldly came to land,
And spoke us many a kindly word,
And took us by the hand,
Presenting rich and shining gifts,
Of copper, brass, and beads,
To show that they were men like us,
And prone to generous deeds.
We held a long and friendly talk,
Inquiring whence they came,
And who the leader of their band
And what their country’s name.
And how their mighty shallop moved
Across the boundless sea,
And why they touched our great king’s land
Without his liberty.
It won’t do. We cannot sing to this tune any longer. We greatly prefer,
John Gilpin was a gentleman
Of credit and renown,
A train-band captain eke was he
Of famous London town.
Or —
Old Grimes is dead, that good old man,
We ne’er shall see him more,
He used to wear an over-coat
All buttoned down before —
or lines to that effect — we wish we could remember the words. The part, however, about
Their werowance look’d stern at me,
And I looked stern at him —
is not quiteoriginal with Mr. Downing — is it? We merely ask for information. Have we not heard something about
An old crow sitting on a hickory limb,
Who winked at me, and I winked at him.
The simple truth is, that Mr. Downing never committed a greater mistake in his life than when he fancied himself a poet, even in the ninety-ninth degree. We doubt