A History of American Literature Since 1870Pattee, Fred Lewis
History
A History of American Literature Since 1870
Pattee, Fred Lewis
American literature -- 19th century -- History and criticism; American literature -- 20th century -- History and criticism
But the great Western city, as did New York a few months later, went on
totally unaware of his advent. The bards even of San Francisco Bay did
not come to the borders of the town to welcome the new genius. They
seemed unaware of his presence. Harte was inclined to be sarcastic,
but finally allowed the _Overland Monthly_ to say a word of faint
praise for the young poet, despite what it termed his "pawing and
curvetting." "His passion," it declared in a review written probably
by Ina Coolbrith, "is truthful and his figures flow rather from his
perception than his sentiment." But that was all. He considered himself
persecuted. His associates in the law had made fun of the legal term
in the title of his book, had hailed him as "Joaquin" Miller, and had
treated him as a joke. "I was so unpopular that when I asked a place
on the Supreme Bench at the Convention, I was derisively told: 'Better
stick to poetry.' Three months later, September 1, 1870, I was kneeling
at the grave of Burns. I really expected to die there in the land of
my fathers." He would support himself as Irving had supported himself
with his pen. He sought cheap quarters in the great city and began to
write. February 1, 1871, he recorded in his diary: "I have nearly given
up this journal to get out a book. I wanted to publish a great drama
called 'Oregonian,' but finally wrote an easy-going little thing which
I called 'Arazonian,' and put the two together and called the little
book _Pacific Poems_. It has been ready for the printer a long time."
He took the manuscript from publisher to publisher until, as he
declares, every house in London had rejected it. His reception by
Murray shows the general estimate of poetry by London publishers in the
early seventies:
He held his head to one side, flipped the leaves, looked in,
jerked his head back, looked in again, twisted his head like a
giraffe, and then lifted his long finger:
"Aye, now, don't you know poetry won't do? Poetry won't do,
don't you know?"
"But will you not read it, please?"
"No, no, no. No use, no use, don't you know?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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