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[page 40, continued:]
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ANNA CORA MOWATT.
MRS. MOWATT
is in some respects a remarkable woman, and has undoubtedly wrought a
deeper
impression upon the public than any one of her sex in America.
She became first known through
her recitations.
To these she drew large and discriminating audiences in Boston, New
York,
and elsewhere to the north and east. Her subjects were much in
the
usual way of these exhibitions, including comic as well as serious
pieces,
chiefly in verse. In her selections she evinced no very refined
taste, but was probably influenced by the elocutionary rather than by
the
literary value of her programmes. She read well; her
voice
was melodious; her youth and general appearance excited interest, but,
upon the whole, she produced no great effect, and the enterprise may be
termed unsuccessful, although the press, as is its wont, spoke in the
most
sonorous tones of her success.
It was during these recitations
that her name,
prefixed to occasional tales, sketches and brief poems in the
magazines,
first attracted an attention that, but for the recitations, it might
not
have attracted.
Her sketches and tales may be
said to be cleverly written.
They are lively, easy, conventional, scintillating with a
species
of sarcastic wit, which might be termed good were it in any respect
original.
In point of style — that is to say, of mere English, they are very
respectable.
One of the best of her prose papers is entitled "Ennui and its
Antidote,"
published in "The Columbian Magazine" for June, 1845. The
subject,
however, is an exceedingly hackneyed one.
In looking carefully over her
poems, I find
no one entitled to commendation as a whole; in very few of them do I
observe
even noticeable passages, and I confess that I am surprised and
disappointed
at this result of my inquiry; nor can I make up my mind that there is
not
much latent poetical power in Mrs. Mowatt. From some lines
addressed
to Isabel M——, I copy the opening stanza as the most favorable specimen
which I have seen of her verse.
[["]] Forever vanished from thy
cheek
Is
life's unfolding rose
—
Forever quenched the flashing
smile
That
conscious beauty
knows !
Thine orbs are lustrous with a
light
Which
ne'er illumes the
eye
Till heaven is bursting on the
sight
And
earth is fleeting
by." |
In this there is much force,
and the idea in
the concluding quatrain is so well put as to have the air of
originality.
Indeed, I am not sure that the thought of the last two lines is not
original;
— at all events it is exceedingly natural and impressive.
I say "natural," because, in any imagined ascent from the orb we
inhabit, when heaven should "burst on the sight" — in other words, when
the attraction of the planet should be superseded by that of another
sphere,
then instantly would the "earth" have the appearance of "fleeting by."
The versification, also, is much better here than is usual with the
poetess.
In general she is rough, through excess of harsh consonants. The
whole poem is of higher merit than any which I can find with her name
attached;
but there is little of the spirit of poesy in anything she
writes.
She evinces more feeling than ideality.
Her first decided success was
with her comedy,
"Fashion," although much of this success itself is referable to the
interest
felt in her as a beautiful woman and an authoress.
The play is not without
merit. It may
be commended especially for its simplicity of plot. What the
Spanish
playwrights mean by dramas of intrigue, are the worst acting
dramas
in the world; the intellect of an audience can never safely be fatigued
by complexity. The necessity for verbose explanation, however, on
the part of Trueman, at the close of the play, is in this regard a
serious
defect. A dénouement should in all cases be taken
up
with action — with nothing else. Whatever cannot be explained by
such action should be communicated at the opening of the story. [page
42:]
In the plot, however estimable
for simplicity,
there is of course not a particle of originality [[,]] of
invention.
Had it, indeed, been designed as a burlesque upon the arrant
conventionality
of stage incidents in general, it might have been received as a
palpable
hit. There is not an event, a character, a jest, which is not a
well-understood
thing, a matter of course, a stage-property time out of mind. The
general tone is adopted from "The School for Scandal," to which,
indeed,
the whole composition bears just such an affinity as the shell of a
locust
to the locust that tenants it — as the spectrum of a Congreve rocket to
the Congreve rocket itself. In the management of her
imitation,
nevertheless, Mrs. Mowatt has, I think, evinced a sense of theatrical
effect
or point which may lead her, at no very distant day, to compose an
exceedingly taking, although
it can never much aid her in composing a very meritorious drama.
"Fashion," in a word, owes what it had of success to its being the work
of a lovely woman who had already excited interest, and to the very
commonplaceness
or spirit of conventionality which rendered it readily comprehensible
and
appreciable by the public proper. It was much indebted, too, to
the
carpets, the ottomans, the chandeliers and the conservatories, which
gained
so decided a popularity for that despicable mass of inanity, the
"London
Assurance" of Bourcicault.
Since "Fashion," Mrs. Mowatt
has published
one or two brief novels in pamphlet form, but they have no particular
merit,
although they afford glimpses (I cannot help thinking) of a genius as
yet
unrevealed, except in her capacity of actress.
In this capacity, if she be but
true to herself,
she will assuredly win a very enviable distinction. She has done
well, wonderfully well, both in tragedy and comedy; but if she knew her
own strength she would confine herself nearly altogether to the
depicting
(in
letters not less than on the stage) the more gentle sentiments and the
most profound passions. Her sympathy with the latter is evidently
intense. In the utterance of the truly generous, of the really
noble,
of the unaffectedly passionate, we see her bosom heave, her cheek grow
pale, her limbs tremble, her lip quiver, and nature's own tear rush
impetuously
to the eye. It is this freshness of the heart which will provide
for her the greenest laurels. It is this enthusiasm, this well of
deep feeling, [page 43:] which should be made to
prove
for her an inexhaustible source of fame. As an actress, it is to
her a mine of wealth worth all the dawdling instruction in the
world.
Mrs. Mowatt, on her first appearance as Pauline, was quite as able to
give
lessons in stage routine to any actor or actress in America,
as
was any actor or actress to give lessons to her. Now, at
least,
she should throw all "support" to the winds, trust proudly to her own
sense
of art, her own rich and natural elocution, her beauty, which is
unusual,
her grace, which is queenly, and be assured that these qualities, as
she now possesses
them, are all sufficient to render her a great actress, when considered
simply as the means by which the end of natural acting is to be
attained,
as the mere instruments by which she may effectively and unimpededly
lay
bare to the audience the movements of her own passionate heart.
Indeed, the great charm of her
manner is its
naturalness. She looks, speaks and moves, with a well-controlled
impulsiveness,
as different as can be conceived from the customary rant and cant, the
hack conventionality of the stage. Her voice is rich and
voluminous,
and although by no means powerful, is so well managed as to seem
so.
Her utterance is singularly distinct, its sole blemish being an
occasional
Anglicism of accent, adopted probably from her instructor, Mr.
Crisp.
Her reading could scarcely be improved. Her action is
distinguished
by an ease and self-possession which would do credit to a
veteran.
Her step is the perfection of grace. Often have I watched her for
hours with the closest scrutiny, yet never for an instant did I observe
her in an attitude of the least awkwardness or even constraint, while
many
of her seemingly impulsive gestures spoke in loud terms of the woman of
genius, of the poet imbued with the profoundest sentiment of the
beautiful
in motion.
Her figure is slight, even
fragile. Her
face is a remarkably fine one, and of that precise character best
adapted
to the stage. The forehead is, perhaps, the least prepossessing
feature,
although it is by no means an unintellectual one. Hair light
auburn,
in rich profusion, and always arranged with exquisite taste. The
eyes are gray, brilliant and expressive, without being full. The
nose is well formed, with the Roman curve, and indicative of
energy.
This quality is also shown in the somewhat excessive [page
44:]
prominence of the chin. The mouth is large, with brilliant and
even
teeth and flexible lips, capable of the most instantaneous and
effective
variations of expression. A more radiantly beautiful smile it is
quite impossible to conceive.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
GEORGE B.
CHEEVER.
THE REVEREND
GEORGE B. CHEEVER created
at
one time something of an excitement by the publication of a little brochure
entitled
"Deacon Giles' Distillery." He is much better known, however, as the
editor
of "The Commonplace Book of American Poetry," a work which has at least
the merit of not belying its title, and is exceedingly
commonplace.
I am ashamed to say that for several years this compilation afforded to
Europeans the only material from which it was possible to form an
estimate
of the poetical ability of Americans. The selections appear to me
exceedingly injudicious, and have all a marked leaning to the
didactic.
Dr. Cheever is not without a certain sort of negative ability as
critic,
but works of this character should be undertaken by poets or not at
all.
The verses which I have seen attributed to him are undeniably médiocres.
His principal publications, in
addition to
those mentioned above, are "God's Hand in America," "Wanderings of a
Pilgrim
under the Shadow of Mont Blanc," "Wanderings of a Pilgrim under the
Shadow
of Jungfrau," and, lately, a "Defence of Capital Punishment." This
"Defence"
is at many points well reasoned, and as a clear resumé of
all that has been already said on its own side of the question, may be
considered as commendable. It [[Its]] premises, however, (as well
as those of all reasoners pro or con on this vexed
topic,)
are admitted only very partially by the world at large — a fact of
which
the author affects to be ignorant. Neither does he make the
slightest
attempt at bringing forward one novel argument. Any man of
ordinary
invention might have adduced and maintained a dozen.
The two series of "Wanderings"
are, perhaps,
the best works of their writer. They are what is called
"eloquent;"
a little too much in that way, perhaps, but nevertheless entertaining. [page
45:]
Dr. Cheever is rather small in
stature, and
his countenance is vivacious; in other respects, there is nothing very
observable about his personal appearance. He has been recently
married.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CHARLES ANTHON.
DOCTOR CHARLES
ANTHON is the well-known Jay-Professor of the
Greek
and Latin languages in Columbia College, New York, and Rector of the
Grammar
School. If not absolutely the best, he is at least generally
considered
the best classicist in America. In England, and in Europe at
large,
his scholastic acquirements are more sincerely respected than those of
any of our countrymen. His additions to Lemprière are
there
justly regarded as evincing a nice perception of method, and accurate
as
well as extensive erudition, but his "Classical Dictionary" has
superseded
the work of the Frenchman altogether. Most of Professor Anthon's
publications have been adopted as text-books at Oxford and Cambridge —
an honor to be properly understood only by those acquainted with the
many
high requisites for attaining it. As a commentator (if not
exactly
as a critic) he may rank with any of his day, and has evinced powers
very
unusual in men who devote their lives to classical lore. His
accuracy
is very remarkable; in this particular he is always to be relied
upon.
The trait manifests itself even in his MS., which is a model of
neatness
and symmetry, exceeding in these respects anything of the kind with
which
I am acquainted. It is somewhat too neat, perhaps, and too
regular,
as well as diminutive, to be called beautiful; it might be mistaken at
any time, however, for very elaborate copperplate engraving.
But his chirography, although
fully in keeping,
so far as precision is concerned, with his mental character, is, in its
entire freedom from flourish or superfluity, as much out of
keeping
with his verbal style. In his notes to the Classics he is
singularly
Ciceronian — if, indeed, not positively Johnsonese.
An attempt was made not long
ago to prepossess
the public against his "Classical Dictionary," the most important of
his
works, by getting up a hue and cry of plagiarism — in the case of [page
46:] all similar books the most preposterous accusation in
the
world, although, from its very preposterousness, one not easily
rebutted.
Obviously, the design in any such compilation is, in the first place,
to
make a useful school-book or book of reference, and the
scholar
who should be weak enough to neglect this indispensable point for the
mere
purpose of winning credit with a few bookish men for originality, would
deserve to be dubbed, by the public at least, a dunce. There are
very few points of classical scholarship which are not the common
property
of "the learned" throughout the world, and in composing any book of
reference
recourse is unscrupulously and even necessarily had in all cases to
similar
books which have preceded. In availing themselves of these
latter,
however, it is the practice of quacks to paraphrase page after page,
rearranging
the order of paragraphs, making a slight alteration in point of fact
here
and there, but preserving the spirit of the whole, its information,
erudition,
etc., etc., while everything is so completely re-written as to
leave
no room for a direct charge of plagiarism; and this is considered and
lauded
as originality. Now, he who, in availing himself of the labors of
his predecessors (and it is clear that all scholars must avail
themselves
of such labors) — he who shall copy verbatim the passages to
be
desired, without attempt at palming off their spirit as original with
himself,
is certainly no plagiarist, even if he fail to make direct acknowledgment
of indebtedness — is unquestionably less of the plagiarist
than
the disingenuous and contemptible quack who wriggles himself, as above
explained, into a reputation for originality, a reputation quite out of
place in a case of this kind — the public, of course, never caring a
straw
whether he be original or not. These attacks upon the New York
professor
are to be attributed to a clique of pedants in and about
Boston,
gentlemen envious of his success, and whose own compilations are
noticeable
only for the singular patience and ingenuity with which their
dovetailing
chicanery is concealed from the public eye.
Doctor Anthon is, perhaps,
forty-eight years
of age; about five feet eight inches in height; rather stout; fair
complexion;
hair light and inclined to curl; forehead remarkably broad and high;
eye
gray, clear and penetrating; mouth well-formed, with excellent teeth —
the lips having great flexibility, and consequent [page 47:]
power of expression; the smile particularly pleasing. His address
in general is bold, frank, cordial, full of bonhommie. His
whole air is distinigué in the best understanding of
the
term — that is to say, he would impress any one at first sight with the
idea of his being no ordinary man. He has qualities, indeed,
which
would have insured him eminent success in almost any pursuit; and there
are times in which his friends are half disposed to regret his
exclusive
devotion to classical literature. He was one of the originators
of
the late "New York Review," his associates in the conduct and
proprietorship
being Dr. F. L. Hawks and Professor R. C. Henry. By far the most
valuable papers, however, were those of Doctor A.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
RALPH HOYT.
THE REVEREND
RALPH HOYT is known
chiefly —
at least to the world of letters — by "The Chaunt of Life and other
Poems,
with Sketches and Essays." The publication of this work, however, was
never completed, only
a portion of the poems having appeared, and none of the essays or
sketches.
It is hoped that we shall yet have these latter.
Of the poems issued, one,
entitled "Old," had
so many peculiar excellences that I copied the whole of it, although
quite
long, in "The Broadway Journal." It will remind every reader of
Durand's
fine picture, "An Old Man's Recollections," although between poem and
painting
there is no more than a very admissible similarity.
I quote a stanza from "Old"
(the opening one)
by way of bringing the piece to the remembrance of any who may have
forgotten
it.
"By the wayside, on a mossy
stone,
Sat a
hoary pilgrim sadly
musing;
Oft I marked him sitting there
alone,
All
the landscape like
a page perusing;
Poor unknown,
By the way side on a mossy
stone." |
The quaintness aimed at here is, so
far as a single
stanza is concerned, to be defended as a legitimate effect, conferring
high pleasure [page 48:] on a numerous and
cultivated
class of minds. Mr. Hoyt, however, in his continuous and uniform
repetition of the first line in the last of each stanza of twenty-five,
has by much exceeded the proper limits of the quaint and impinged upon
the ludicrous. The poem, nevertheless, abounds in lofty merit,
and
has, in especial, some passages of rich imagination and exquisite
pathos.
For example —
Seemed it pitiful he should sit
there,
No one
sympathizing, no
one heeding,
None to love him for his
thin gray hair.
One sweet spirit broke the silent
spell —
Ah, to
me her name was
always Heaven !
She besought him all his grief
to tell —
(I was
then thirteen and
she eleven)
Isabel !
One sweet spirit broke the
silent spell.
"'Angel," said he, sadly, "I am
old;
Earthly hope no longer
hath a morrow:
Why I sit here thou shalt soon
be told" —
(Then
his eye betrayed
a pearl of sorrow —
Down it rolled — )
"Angel," said he, sadly, "I am old
! " |
It must be confessed that some
portions of "Old"
(which is by far the best of the collection) remind us forcibly of the
"Old Man" of Oliver Wendell Holmes.
"Pröemus" is the
concluding poem of the
volume, and itself concludes with an exceedingly vigorous stanza,
putting
me not a little in mind of Campbell in his best days.
"O'er all the silent sky
A dark
and scowling frown
—
But darker scowled each
eye
When all resolved to die —
When
(night
of dread renown!)
A
thousand stars went
down." |
Mr. Hoyt is about forty
years of age,
of the medium height, pale complexion, dark hair and eyes. His
countenance
expresses sensibility and benevolence. He converses slowly and
with
perfect deliberation. He is married. [page 49:]
[[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]]
GULIAN C.
VERPLANCK.
MR. VERPLANCK
has acquired reputation — at least his literary reputation — less from
what he has done than from what he has given indication of ability to
do.
His best if not his principal works, have been addresses, orations and
contributions to the reviews. His scholarship is more than respectable,
and his taste and acumen are not to be disputed.
His legal acquirements, it is
admitted, are
very considerable. When in Congress he was noted as the most
industrious
man in that assembly, and acted as a walking register or volume of
reference,
ever at the service of that class of legislators who are too
lofty-minded
to burden their memories with mere business particulars or matters of
fact.
Of late years the energy of his character appears to have abated, and
many
of his friends go so far as to accuse him of indolence.
His family is quite influential
— one of the
few old Dutch ones retaining their social position.
Mr. Verplanck is short in
stature, not more
than five feet five inches in height, and compactly or stoutly
built.
The head is square, massive, and covered with thick, bushy and grizzly
hair; the cheeks are ruddy; lips red and full, indicating a relish for
good cheer; nose short and straight; eyebrows much arched; eyes dark
blue,
with what seems, to a casual glance, a sleepy expression — but they
gather
light and fire as we examine them.
He must be sixty, but a
vigorous constitution
gives promise of a ripe and healthful old age. He is active;
walks
firmly, with a short, quick step. His manner is affable, or (more
accurately) sociable. He converses well, although with no great
fluency,
and has his hobbies of talk; is especially fond of old English
literature.
Altogether, his person, intellect, tastes and general peculiarities,
bear
a very striking resemblance to those of the late Nicholas Biddle. [page
50:]
[[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]]
FREEMAN HUNT.
MR. HUNT
is the editor and proprietor of the well-known "Merchants' Magazine,"
one
of the most useful of our monthly journals, and decidedly the best
"property"
of any work of its class. In its establishment he evinced many
remarkable
traits of character. He was entirely without means, and even much
in debt, and otherwise embarrassed, when by one of those intuitive
perceptions
which belong only to genius, but which are usually attributed to "good
luck," the "happy" idea entered his head of getting up a magazine
devoted
to the interests of the influential class of merchants. The chief
happiness of this idea, however, (which no doubt had been entertained
and
discarded by a hundred projectors before Mr. H.,) consisted in the
method
by which he proposed to carry it into operation. Neglecting the
hackneyed
modes of advertising largely, circulating flashy prospectuses and
sending
out numerous "agents," who in general, merely serve the purpose of
boring
people into a very temporary support of the work in whose behalf they
are
employed, he took the whole matter resolutely into his own hands;
called
personally, in the first place, upon his immediate mercantile friends;
explained to them, frankly and succinctly, his object; put the value
and
necessity of the contemplated publication in the best light — as he
well
knew how to do — and in this manner obtained to head his subscription
list
a good many of the most eminent business men in New York. Armed
with
their names and with recommendatory letters from many of them, he now
pushed
on to the other chief cities of the Union, and thus, in less time than
is taken by ordinary men to make a preparatory flourish of trumpets,
succeeded
in building up for himself a permanent fortune and for the public a
journal
of immense interest and value. In the whole proceeding he evinced
a tact, a knowledge of mankind and a self-dependence which are the
staple
of even greater achievements than the establishment of a five dollar
magazine.
In the subsequent conduct of the work he gave evidence of equal
ability.
Having without aid put the magazine upon a satisfactory footing as
regards
its circulation, he [page 51:] also without aid
undertook
its editorial and business conduct — from the first germ of the
conception
to the present moment having kept the whole undertaking within his own
hands. His subscribers and regular contributors are now among the
most intelligent and influential in America; the journal is regarded as
absolute authority in mercantile matters, circulates extensively not
only
in this country but in Europe, and even in regions more remote,
affording
its worthy and enterprising projector a large income, which no one
knows
better than himself how to put to good use.
The strong points, the marked
peculiarities
of Mr. Hunt could not have failed in arresting the attention of all
observers
of character; and Mr. Willis in especial has made him the subject of
repeated
comment. I copy what follows from the "New York Mirror:"
Hunt has been
glorified in the
"Hong-Kong Gazette," is regularly complimented by the English
mercantile
authorities, has every bank in the world for an eager subscriber, every
consul, every ship-owner and navigator; is filed away as authority in
every
library, and thought of in half the countries of the world as early as
No. 3 in their enumeration of distinguished Americans, yet who
seeks
to do him honor in the city he does honor to? The "Merchants'
Magazine,"
though a prodigy of perseverance and industry, is not an accidental
development
of Hunt's energies. He has always been singularly sagacious and
original
in devising new works and good ones. He was the founder of the
first
'Ladies' Magazine,'* of the first children's
periodical; he started the
'American Magazine of Useful and Entertaining Knowledge,' compiled the
best known collection of American anecdotes and is an indefatigable
writer
— the author, among other things, of "Letters About the Hudson."
Hunt was a
playfellow of ours
in round-jacket days, and we have always looked at him with a
reminiscent
interest. His luminous, eager eyes, as he goes along the street,
keenly bent on his errand, would impress any observer with an idea of
his
genius and determination, and we think it quite time his earnest head
was
in the engraver's hand and his daily passing by a mark for the digito
monstrari. Few more worthy or more valuable citizens are
among
us.
Much of Mr. Hunt's character is
included in
what I have already said and quoted. He is "earnest," "eager,"
combining
in a very singular manner general coolness and occasional
excitability.
He is a true friend, and the enemy of no man. His heart is full
of
the warmest sympathies and charities. No one in New York is more
universally popular. [page 52:]
He is about five feet eight
inches in height,
well proportioned; complexion dark-florid; forehead capacious; chin
massive
and projecting, indicative (according to Lavater and general
experience)
of that energy which is, in fact, the chief point of his character;
hair
light brown, very fine, of a weblike texture, worn long and floating
about
the face; eyes of wonderful brilliancy and intensity of expression; the
whole countenance beaming with sensibility and intelligence. He
is
married, and about thirty-eight years of age.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PIERO MARONCELLI.
DURING
his twelve years'
imprisonment, Maroncelli composed a number of poetical works,
some
of which were committed to paper, others lost for the want of it.
In this country he has published a volume entitled "Additions to the
Memoirs
of Silvio Pellico," containing numerous anecdotes of the captivity not
recorded in Pellico's work, and an "Essay on the Classic and Romantic
Schools,"
the author proposing to divide them anew and designate them by novel
distinctions.
There is at least some scholarship and some originality in this
essay.
It is also brief. Maroncelli regards it as the best of his
compositions.
It is strongly tinctured with transcendentalism. The volume contains,
likewise,
some poems, of which the "Psalm of Life," and the "Psalm of the Dawn"
have
never been translated into English. "Winds of the Wakened
Spring,"
one of the pieces included, has been happily rendered by Mr. Halleck,
and
is the most favorable specimen that could have been selected.
These
"Additions" accompanied a Boston version of "My Prisons, by Silvio
Pellico."
Maroncelli is now about fifty
years old, and
bears on his person the marks of long suffering; he has lost a leg; his
hair and beard became gray many years ago; just now he is suffering
from
severe illness, and from this it can scarcely be expected that he will
recover.
In figure he is short and
slight. His
forehead is rather low, but broad. His eyes are light blue and
weak.
The nose and mouth are large. His features in general have all
the
Italian mobility; [page 53:] their expression is
animated
and full of intelligence. He speaks hurriedly and gesticulates to
excess. He is irritable, frank, generous, chivalrous, warmly
attached
to his friends, and expecting from them equal devotion. His love
of country is unbounded, and he is quite enthusiastic in his endeavors
to circulate in America the literature of Italy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
LAUGHTON OSBORN.
Personally, MR.
OSBORN
is little known as an author, either to the public or in literary
society,
but he has made a great many "sensations" anonymously or with a mon
[[nom]] de plume. I am not sure that he has
published
anything with his own name.
One of his earliest works — if
not his earliest
— was "The Adventures of Jeremy Levis, by Himself," in one volume, a
kind
of medley of fact, fiction, satire, criticism, and novel
philosophy.
lt is a dashing, reckless brochure, brimful of talent and
audacity.
Of course it was covertly admired by the few, and loudly condemned by
all
of the many who can fairly be said to have seen it at all. It had
no great circulation. There was something wrong, I fancy, in the
mode of its issue.
"Jeremy Levis" was followed by
"The Dream of
Alla-Ad-Deen, from the romance of 'Anastasia,' by Charles Erskine
White,
D.D." This is a thin pamphlet of thirty-two pages, each page containing
about a hundred and forty words. Alla-Ad-Deen is the son of Aladdin, of
"wonderful lamp" memory, and the story is in the "Vision of Mirza," or
"Rasselas" way. The design is to reconcile us to death and evil,
on the somewhat unphilosophical ground that comparatively we are of
little
importance in the scale of creation. The author himself supposes
this scale to be infinite, and thus his argument proves too much; for
if
evil should be regarded by man as of no consequence because,
"comparatively," he
is of none, it must be regarded as of no consequence by the angels for
a similar reason — and so on in a never-ending ascent. In other
words,
the only thing proved is the rather bull-ish proposition that evil is
no
evil at all. I do not find that the "Dream" [page 54:]
elicited any attention. It would have been more appropriately
published
in one of our magazines.
Next in order came, I believe,
"The Confessions
of a Poet, by Himself." This was in two volumes, of the ordinary novel
form, but printed very openly. It made much noise in the literary
world, and no little curiosity was excited in regard to its author, who
was generally supposed to be John Neal. There were some grounds
for
this supposition, the tone and matter of the narrative bearing much
resemblance
to those of "Errata" and "Seventy-Six," especially in the points of
boldness
and vigor. The "Confessions," however, far surpassed any
production
of Mr. Neal's in a certain air of cultivation (if not exactly of
scholarship)
which pervaded it, as well as in the management of its construction — a
particular in which the author of "The Battle of Niagara" invariably
fails;
there is no precision, no finish, about anything he does — always an
excessive force but
little of refined art. Mr. N. seems to be deficient in a sense of
completeness. He begins well, vigorously,
startlingly, and
proceeds by fits, quite at random, now prosing, now exciting vivid
interest,
but his conclusions are sure to be hurried and indistinct, so that the
reader perceives a falling off, and closes the book with
dissatisfaction.
He has done nothing which, as a whole, is even respectable, and "The
Confessions"
are quite remarkable for their artistic unity and perfection. But
in higher regards they are to be commended. I do not think,
indeed,
that a better book of its kind has been written in America. To be
sure, it is not precisely the work to place in the hands of a lady, but
its scenes of passion are intensely wrought, its incidents are striking
and original, its sentiments audacious and suggestive at least, if not
at all times tenable. In a word, it is that rare thing, a fiction
of power without rudeness. Its spirit, in general,
resembles
that of "Miserrimus" and "Martin Faber."
Partly on account of what most
persons would
term their licentiousness, partly, also, on account of the prevalent
idea
that Mr. Neal (who was never very popular with the press) had written
them,
"The Confessions," by the newspapers, were most unscrupulously
misrepresented
and abused. The "Commercial Advertiser" of New York was, it
appears,
foremost in condemnation, and Mr. Osborn thought proper to avenge his
wrongs
by the publication [page 55:] of a bulky satirical
poem, levelled at the critics in general, but more especially at
Colonel
Stone, the editor of the "Commercial." This satire (which was published
in exquisite style as regards print and paper,) was entitled "The
Vision
of Rubeta." Owing to the high price necessarily set upon the book, no
great
many copies were sold, but the few that got into circulation made quite
a hubbub, and with reason, for the satire was not only bitter but
personal
in the last degree. It was, moreover, very censurably indecent — filthy
is, perhaps, the more appropriate word. The press, without
exception,
or nearly so, condemned it in loud terms, without taking the trouble to
investigate its pretensions as a literary work. But as "The
Confessions
of a Poet " was one of the best novels of its kind ever
written
in this country, so "The Vision of Rubeta " was decidedly the best satire.
For its vulgarity and gross personality there is no defence, but its
mordacity
cannot be gainsaid. In calling it, however, the best American
satire,
I do not intend any excessive commendation — for it is, in fact, the only
satire
composed by an American. Trumbull's clumsy work is nothing at
all,
and then we have Halleck's "Croakers," which is very feeble — but what
is there besides ? "The Vision" is our best satire, and still a
sadly
deficient one. It was bold enough and bitter enough, and well
constructed
and decently versified, but it failed in sarcasm because its
malignity
was permitted to render itself evident. The author is never very
severe because he is never sufficiently cool. We laugh not so
much
at the objects of his satire as we do at himself for getting into so
great
a passion. But, perhaps, under no circumstances is wit the forte
of Mr. Osborn. He has few equals at downright invective.
The "Vision " was succeeded by
"Arthur Carryl
and other Poems," including an additional canto of the satire, and
several
happy although not in all cases accurate or comprehensive imitations in
English of the Greek and Roman metres. "Arthur Carryl" is a
fragment,
in the manner of "Don Juan." I do not think it especially
meritorious.
It has, however, a truth-telling and discriminative preface, and its
notes
are well worthy perusal. Some opinions embraced in these latter
on
the topic of versification I have examined in one of the series of
articles
called "Marginalia." [page 56:]
I am not aware that since
"Arthur Carryl" Mr.
Osborn has written anything more than a "Treatise on Oil Painting,"
issued
not long ago by Messrs. Wiley and Putnam. This work is highly
spoken
of by those well qualified to judge, but is, I believe, principally a
compilation
or compendium.
In personal character, Mr.
O. is one
of the most remarkable men I ever yet had the pleasure of
meeting.
He is undoubtedly one of "Nature's own noblemen," full of generosity,
courage,
honor — chivalrous in every respect, but, unhappily, carrying his ideas
of chivalry, or rather of independence, to the point of Quixotism, if
not
of absolute insanity. He has no doubt been misapprehended, and
therefore
wronged by the world; but he should not fail to remember that the
source
of the wrong lay in his own idiosyncrasy — one altogether
unintelligible
and unappreciable by the mass of mankind.
He is a member of one of the
oldest and most
influential, formerly one of the wealthiest families in New York.
His acquirements and accomplishments are many and unusual. As
poet,
painter and musician, he has succeeded nearly equally well, and
absolutely
succeeded as each. His scholarship is extensive. In the
French
and Italian languages, he is quits [[quite]] at home, and in everything
he is thorough and accurate. His critical abilities are to be
highly
respected, although he is apt to swear somewhat too roundly by Johnson
and Pope. Imagination is not Mr. Osborn's forte.
He is about thirty-two or three
— certainly
not more than thirty-five years of age. In person he is well
made,
probably five feet ten or eleven, muscular and active. Hair, eyes
and, complexion, rather light; fine teeth; the whole expression of the
countenance manly, frank, and prepossessing in the highest degree. |
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