And no fine frenzy riots in the veins,
There still are found a few to whom belong
The fire of virtue and the soul of song.”
William Cliffton, a Pennsylvania Friend, who died in 1799 of consumption, in his twenty-seventh year, knew nothing of the cold shades and shifting skies which chilled the genius of European poets; he knew only that America cared little for such genius and fancy as he could offer, and he rebelled against the neglect. He was better treated than Wordsworth, Keats, or Shelley; but it was easy to blame the public for dulness and indifference, though readers were kinder than authors had a right to expect. Even Cliffton was less severe than some of his contemporaries. A writer in the “Boston Anthology,” for January, 1807, uttered in still stronger words the prevailing feeling of the literary class:—
“We know that in this land, where the spirit of democracy is everywhere diffused, we are exposed as it were to a poisonous atmosphere, which blasts everything beautiful in nature, and corrodes everything elegant in art; we know that with us ‘the rose-leaves fall ungathered,’ and we believe that there is little to praise and nothing to admire in most of the objects which would first present themselves to the view of a stranger.”
Yet the American world was not unsympathetic toward Cliffton and his rivals, though they strained prose through their sieves of versification, and showed open contempt for their audience. Toward President Dwight the public was even generous; and he returned the generosity with parental love and condescension which shone through every line he wrote. For some years his patriotism was almost as enthusiastic as that of Joel Barlow. He was among the numerous rivals of Macaulay and Shelley for the honor of inventing the stranger to sit among the ruins of St. Paul’s; and naturally America supplied the explorer who was to penetrate the forest of London and indulge his national self-complacency over ruined temples and towers.
“Some unknown wild, some shore without a name,
In all thy pomp shall then majestic shine
As silver-headed Time’s slow years decline.
Not ruins only meet th’ inquiring eye;