Narrative Poetry

JOHN BROWN'S BODY--Stephen Vincent Benet--Doubleday Doran ($2.50).

The Poem. Rustic Homer and urban Virgil used roundly to invoke the muses before composing an epic. Poet Stephen Vincent Benet, however, narrowly and specifically invokes the "American Muse," by crying, "you are the buffalo-ghost, the broncho-ghost ... a friend, an enemy, a sacred hag with two oceans in her medicine bag . . . and you are . . . the cheap car parked by the station door. . . ." A brief prelude concerning the Yankee slaver that bears its black cargo of misery to America, and quickly the artist sets himself to the stupendous task of setting the panoramic scene, North and South. From every corner they come. In the South, Clay Wingate, gentleman planter, gloated with boyish pride over boots and sabre, crisp new toys of war; but he brooded over their necessity. He knew the cause wasn't slavery, "that stale red-herring of Yankee knavery"; he knew it wasn't even states' rights. Vaguely he sensed it was a conflicting temperament, a difference in culture, North and South: A voice, a fragrance, a taste of wine, A face half-seen with candleshine, A yellow river, a blowing dust. . . . In the North, Jack Ellyat pitied the fugitive slave, "a black man with the eyes of a tortured horse," but he thought of new states crowding to be admitted to the Union: The buckskin-States, the buffalo-horned, the wild Mustangs with coats the color of crude gold. . . . And must they wait like spayed mares in the rain, While Carolina and Connecticut Fight an old quarrel out before a ghost? . . . And from the mountains, came reluctant stragglers wondering just who their enemies were: "Dunno's I rightly know just who they air," He admitted finally, "But 'tain't the British. It's some trash-lot of furriners, that's shore. They call 'em Yankees near as I can make it. ..." but he was content that his neighbors, of long standing feud, were with the enemy Yanks. And there were others, non-fighters: The congressmen came out to see Bull Run, The congressmen who like free shows and spectacles, They brought their wives and carriages along, They brought their speeches and their picnic-lunch, Their black constituent-hats and their devotion: Some even brought a little whisky, too. (A little whisky is a comforting thing For congressmen in the sun, in the heat of the sun.) The bearded congressmen with orators' mouths The fine, clean-shaved, Websterian congressmen, Come out to see the gladiator's show. But from a high place, as befits the wise, You will not see the long windrows of men Strewn like dead pears before the Henry House Or the stonewall of Jackson breathe its parched Devouring breath upon the failing charge. . . . The Significance. "What America needs is a good five cent cigar"--and not till now has it had an adequate story or poem of the Civil War (aside from Walt Whitman's Lincoln). Yet, the Civil War surpasses in colorful drama any other episode in U. S. history, and Poet Benet proves it so. Delving into that not quite forgotten past, he reproduces atmosphere and currents of passion. Through 377 pages of close-packed verse, his rhythm is pompous for matters of state, simple for poignant stories of lovers and "Hiders" and deserters, cadenced for darky spirituals, and measured into virtual prose for straightforward historical narrative. In keeping with the poet's distinguished achievement is the proposed program of his publishers. Radio announcements, "Who's Who" window displays, elaborate printed advertisements, bookstore distribution of decorated "ballad sheets," accompany the first edition of 65,000 copies --unheard of number for any but the most popular novelists. The Author. Son of an army officer, Stephen Benet has lived of necessity in all parts of the country. Barely 30, he has studied at Yale and the Sorbonne and published, previous to John Brown's Body, two novels and two books of verse. His brother is William Rose Benet, poet and critic; and for ancestors he claims Black Pedro Benet, Mexican bandit, as well as armless, legless, Irish O'Gorman Mahon who was carried to battle on a shield, and (his descendant supposes) rolled about biting the ankles of his foes.