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[page 72, continued:]
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SARAH MARGARET
FULLER.
MISS FULLER
was at one time editor, or one of the editors of "The Dial," to which
she
contributed many of the most forcible and certainly some of the most
peculiar
papers. She is known, too, by "Summer on the Lakes," a remarkable
assemblage of sketches, issued in 1844, by Little & Brown, of
Boston.
More lately she has published "Woman in the Nineteenth Century," a work
which has occasioned much discussion, having had the good fortune to be
warmly abused and chivalrously defended. At present, she is assistant
editor
of "The New York Tribune," or rather a salaried contributor to that
journal,
for which she has furnished a great variety of matter, chiefly critical
notices of new books, etc., etc., her articles being designated by an
asterisk.
Two of the best of them were a review of Professor Longfellow's late
magnificent
edition of his own works, (with a portrait,) and an appeal to the
public
in behalf of her friend Harro Harring. The review did her
infinite
credit; it was frank, candid, independent — in even ludicrous contrast
to the usual mere glorifications of the [page 73:]
day, giving honor only where honor was due, yet evincing the
most
thorough capacity to appreciate and the most sincere intention to place
in the fairest light the real and idiosyncratic merits of the poet.
In my opinion it is one of the
very few reviews
of Longfellow's poems, ever published in America, of which the critics
have not had abundant reason to be ashamed. Mr. Longfellow is
entitled
to a certain and very distinguished rank among the poets of his
country,
but that country is disgraced by the evident toadyism which would award
to his social position and influence, to his fine paper and large type,
to his morocco binding and gilt edges, to his flattering portrait of
himself,
and to the illustrations of his poems by Huntingdon, that amount of
indiscriminate
approbation which neither could nor would have been given to the poems
themselves.
The defence of Harro Harring,
or rather the
Philippic against those who were doing him wrong, was one of the most
eloquent
and well-put articles I have ever yet seen in a newspaper.
"Woman in the Nineteenth
Century" is a book
which few women in the country could have written, and no woman in the
country would have published, with the exception of Miss Fuller.
In the way of independence, of unmitigated radicalism, it is one of the
"Curiosities of American Literature," and Doctor Griswold should
include
it in his book. I need scarcely say that the essay is nervous,
forcible,
thoughtful, suggestive, brilliant, and to a certain extent scholar-like
— for all that Miss Fuller produces is entitled to these epithets — but
I must say that the conclusions reached are only in part my own.
Not that they are too bold, by any means — too novel, too startling, or
too dangerous in their consequences, but that in their attainment too
many
premises have been distorted, and too many analogical inferences left
altogether
out of sight. I mean to say that the intention of the Deity as
regards
sexual differences — an intention which can be distinctly comprehended
only by throwing the exterior (more sensitive) portions of the mental
retina casually over
the wide field of universal analogy — I mean to say that this intention
has not been sufficiently considered. Miss Fuller
has erred,
too, through her own excessive objectiveness. She judges woman
by the heart [page 74:] and
intellect of Miss Fuller,
but there are not more than one or two dozen Miss Fullers on the whole
face of the earth. Holding these opinions in regard to "Woman in
the Nineteenth Century," I still feel myself called upon to disavow the
silly, condemnatory criticism of the work which appeared in one of the
earlier numbers of "The Broadway Journal." That article was not written
by myself, and was written by my associate Mr. Briggs.
The most favorable estimate of
Miss Fuller's
genius (for high genius she unquestionably possesses) is to be
obtained,
perhaps, from her contributions to "The Dial," and from her "Summer on
the Lakes." Many of the descriptions in this volume are
unrivalled
for graphicality, (why is there not such a word ?) for the
force
with which they convey the true by the novel or unexpected, by the
introduction
of touches which other artists would be sure to omit as irrelevant to
the
subject. This faculty, too, springs from her subjectiveness,
which
leads her to paint a scene less by its features than by its effects.
Here, for example, is a portion
of her account
of Niagara: —
Daily these
proportions widened
and towered more and more upon my sight, and I got at last a proper
foreground
for these sublime distances. Before coming away, I think I really
saw the full wonder of the scene. After awhile it so drew me
into
itself as to inspire an undefined dread, such as I never knew before,
such
as may be felt when death is about to usher us into a new existence. The
perpetual trampling of the waters seized my senses. I felt that no
other
sound, however near, could be heard, and would start and look behind me
for a foe. I realized the identity of that mood of nature in
which these waters were poured down with such absorbing force, with
that
in which the Indian was shaped on the same soil. For continually
upon my mind came, unsought and unwelcome, images, such as had
never
haunted it before, of naked savages stealing behind me with uplifted
tomahawks.
Again and again this illusion recurred, and even after I had
thought
it over, and tried to shake it off, I could not help starting
and
looking behind me. What I liked best was to sit on Table
Rock
close to the great fall; there all power of observing details, all
separate
consciousness was quite lost.
The truthfulness of the
passages italicized
will be felt by all; the feelings described are, perhaps, experienced
by
every (imaginative) person who visits the fall; but most persons,
through
predominant subjectiveness, would scarcely be conscious of the
feelings,
or, at best, would never think of employing them in an attempt to
convey
to others an impression of the scene. Hence so many desperate
failures
to convey it on the part of ordinary [page 75:]
tourists.
Mr. William W. Lord, to be sure, in his poem "Niagara," is sufficiently
objective; he describes not the fall, but very properly the effect of
the
fall upon him. He says that it made him think of his own
greatness, of his own superiority, and so forth, and so forth;
and
it is only when we come to think that the thought of Mr. Lord's
greatness
is quite idiosyncratic, confined exclusively to Mr. Lord, that we are
in
condition to understand how, in despite of his objectiveness, he has
failed
to convey an idea of anything beyond one Mr. William W. Lord.
From the essay entitled "Philip
Van Artevelde,"
I copy a paragraph which will serve at once to exemplify Miss Fuller's
more earnest (declamatory) style, and to show the tenor of her
prospective
speculations: —
At Chicago I
read again "Philip
Van Artevelde," and certain passages in it will always be in my mind
associated
with the deep sound of the lake, as heard in the night. I used to
read a short time at night, and then open the blind to look out.
The moon would be full upon the lake, and the calm breath, pure light,
and the deep voice, harmonized well with the thought of the Flemish
hero.
When will this country have such a man ? It is what she
needs
— no thin Idealist, no coarse Realist, but a man whose eye reads the
heavens
while his feet step firmly on the ground, and his hands are strong and
dexterous in the use of human instruments. A man, religious, virtuous,
and — sàgacious; a man of universal sympathies, but
self-possessed;
a man who knows the region of emotion, though he is not its slave; a
man
to whom this world is no mere spectacle or fleeting shadow, but a
great,
solemn game, to be played with good heed, for its stakes are of eternal
value, yet who, if his own play be true, heeds not what he loses by the
falsehood of others. A man who lives from the past, yet knows
that
its honey can but moderately avail him; whose comprehensive eye scans
the
present, neither infatuated by its golden lures nor chilled by its many
ventures; who possesses prescience, as the wise man must, but not so
far
as to be driven mad to-day by the gift which discerns to-morrow. When
there
is such a man for America, the thought which urges her on will be
expressed.
From what I have quoted a general conception
of the prose style of the authoress may be gathered. Her manner,
however, is infinitely varied. It is always forcible — but I am
not
sure that it is always anything else, unless I say picturesque.
It
rather indicates than evinces scholarship. Perhaps only the
scholastic,
or, more properly, those accustomed to look narrowly at the structure
of
phrases, would be willing to acquit her of ignorance of grammar — would
be willing to attribute her slovenliness to disregard of the shell in
anxiety
for the kernel; or to waywardness, or to affectation, or to blind
reverence
for Carlyle — would be able [page 76:] to detect,
in
her strange and continual inaccuracies, a capacity for the accurate.
"I cannot sympathize
with such an apprehension:
the spectacle is capable to swallow up all such
objects."
"It is fearful, too,
to know, as you
look, that whatever has been swallowed by the cataract, is like to
rise suddenly to light."
"I took our mutual friends
to
see her."
"It was always
obvious that they had
nothing in common between them."
"The Indian cannot be
looked at truly except by
a poetic eye."
"McKenney's Tour to
the Lakes gives
some facts not to be met with elsewhere."
"There is that
mixture of culture and
rudeness in the aspect of things as gives a feeling of
freedom,"
etc., etc., etc.
These are merely a few, a very few
instances, taken
at random from among a multitude of wilful murders committed
by
Miss Fuller on the American of President Polk. She uses, too, the
word "ignore," a vulgarity adopted only of late days (and to no good
purpose,
since there is no necessity for it) from the barbarisms of the law, and
makes no scruple of giving the Yankee interpretation to the verbs
"witness"
and "realize," to say nothing of "use," as in the sentence, "I used to
read a short time at night." It will not do to say, in defence of such
words, that in such senses they may be found in certain dictionaries —
in that of Bolles', for instance; — some kind of "authority"
may
be found for any kind of vulgarity under the sun.
In spite of these things, however,
and of her frequent
unjustifiable Carlyleisms, (such as that of writing sentences which are
no sentences, since, to be parsed, reference must be had to sentences
preceding,)
the style of Miss Fuller is one of the very best with which I am
acquainted.
In general effect, I know no style which surpasses it. It is
singularly
piquant, vivid, terse, bold, luminous — leaving details out of sight,
it
is everything that a style need be.
I believe that Miss Fuller has
written much poetry,
although she has published little. That little is tainted with
the
affectation of the transcendentalists, (I used this term, of
course,
in the sense which the public of late days seem resolved to give it,)
but
is brimful of the poetic sentiment. Here, for example, is
something
in Coleridge's manner, of which the author of "Genevieve" might have
had
no reason to be ashamed: — [page 77:]
A maiden sat beneath a tree;
Tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be,
And she sighed heavily.
From forth the wood into the light
A hunter strides with carol light,
And a glance so bold and bright.
He careless stopped and eyed the
maid:
"Why weepest thou ?" he gently
said;
"I love thee well, be not
afraid."
He takes her hand and leads her on
—
She should have waited there
alone,
For he was not her chosen one.
He leans her head upon
his breast —
She knew 'twas not her home of
rest,
But, ah, she had been sore
distrest.
The sacred stars looked sadly
down;
The parting moon appeared to
frown,
To see thus dimmed the diamond
crown.
Then from the thicket starts a
deer —
The huntsman, seizing on his
spear
Cries,"'Maiden, wait thou for me
here."
She sees him vanish into night
—
She starts from sleep in deep
affright,
For it was not her own true
knight.
Though but in dream Gunhilda
failed —
Though but a fancied ill assailed
—
Though she but fancied fault bewailed
—
Yet thought of day makes dream of
night;
She is not worthy of the knight;
The inmost altar burns not
bright.
If loneliness thou canst not bear
—
Cannot the dragon's venom dare —
Of the pure meed thou shouldst
despair.
Now sadder that lone maiden
sighs;
Far bitterer tears profane her
eyes;
Crushed in the dust her heart's
flower lies. |
To show the evident carelessness with
which this
poem was constructed, I have italicized an identical rhyme (of about
the
same force in versification as an identical proposition in logic) and
two
grammatical improprieties. To lean is a neuter verb, and
"seizing on"
is not properly to be called a pleonasm, merely because it is — nothing
at all. The concluding line is difficult of pronunciation through
excess of consonants. I should have preferred, [page
78:]
indeed, the ante-penultimate tristich as the finale of the
poem.
The supposition that the book of an
author is a thing
apart from the author's self, is, I think, ill-founded. The soul
is a cipher, in the sense of a cryptograph; and the shorter a
cryptograph
is, the more difficulty there is in its comprehension — at a certain
point
of brevity it would bid defiance to an army of Champollions. And
thus he who has written very little, may in that little either conceal
his spirit or convey quite an erroneous idea of it — of his
acquirements,
talents, temper, manner, tenor and depth (or shallowness) of thought —
in a word, of his character, of himself. But this is impossible
with
him who has written much. Of such a person we get, from his
books,
not merely a just, but the most just representation. Bulwer, the
individual,
personal man, in a green velvet waistcoat and amber gloves, is not by
any
means the veritable Sir Edward Lytton, who is discoverable only in
"Ernest
Maltravers," where his soul is deliberately and nakedly set
forth.
And who would ever know Dickens by looking at him or talking with him,
or doing anything with him except reading his "Curiosity Shop ?" What
poet,
in especial, but must feel at least the better portion of himself more
fairly represented in even his commonest sonnet, (earnestly written)
than
in his most elaborate or most intimate personalities ?
I put all this as a general
proposition, to which
Miss Fuller affords a marked exception — to this extent, that her
personal
character and her printed book are merely one and the same thing.
We get access to her soul as directly from the one as from the
other
— no more readily from this than from that — easily from
either.
Her acts are bookish, and her books are less thoughts than acts.
Her literary and her conversational manner are identical. Here is
a passage from her "Summer on the Lakes:" —
The rapids enchanted
me far beyond
what I expected; they are so swift that they cease to seem so —
you can think only of their beauty. The fountain beyond the
Moss
islands I discovered for myself, and thought it for some time an accidental
beauty
which it would not do to leave, lest I might never see it
again.
After I found it permanent, I returned many times to watch the
play
of its crest. In the little waterfall beyond, Nature seems, as
she
often does, to have made a study for some larger design.
She
delights in this — a sketch within a sketch — a dream within a
dream. Wherever we see it, the lines of the great buttress in
the fragment
of stone, the hues of the [page 79:] waterfall,
copied
in the flowers that star its bordering mosses, we are delighted;
for
all the lineaments become fluent, and we mould the scene in
congenial
thought with its genius.
Now all this is precisely as Miss
Fuller would speak it.
She is perpetually saying just such things in just such words. To
get the conversational woman in the mind's eye, all that is
needed
is to imagine her reciting the paragraph just quoted: but first let us
have the personal woman. She is of the medium height; nothing
remarkable
about the figure; a profusion of lustrous light hair; eyes a bluish
gray,
full of fire; capacious forehead; the mouth when in repose indicates
profound
sensibility, capacity for affection, for love — when moved by a slight
smile, it becomes even beautiful in the intensity of this expression;
but
the upper lip, as if impelled by the action of involuntary muscles,
habitually
uplifts itself, conveying the impression of a sneer. Imagine,
now,
a person of this description looking you at one moment earnestly in the
face, at the next seeming to look only within her own spirit or at the
wall; moving nervously every now and then in her chair; speaking in a
high
key, but musically, deliberately, (not hurriedly or loudly,) with a
delicious
distinctness of enunciation — speaking, I say, the paragraph in
question,
and emphasizing the words which I have italicized, not by impulsion of
the breath, (as is usual,) but by drawing them out as long as possible,
nearly closing her eyes the while — imagine all this, and we have both
the woman and the authoress before us.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
JAMES LAWSON.
MR. LAWSON
has published, I believe, only "Giordano," a tragedy, and two volumes
entitled
"Tales and Sketches by a Cosmopolite." The former was condemned (to use
a gentle word) some years ago at the Part Theatre; and never was
condemnation
more religiously deserved. The latter are in so much more tolerable
than
the former, that they contain one non-execrable thing — "The Dapper
Gentleman's
Story" — in manner, as in title, an imitation of one of Irving's "Tales
of a Traveller."
I mention Mr. L., however, not on account of his
literary labors, [page
80:] but because, although a Scotchman, he has always
professed
to have greatly at heart the welfare of American letters. He is much in
the society of authors and booksellers, converses fluently, tells a
good
story, is of social habits, and, with no taste what ever, is quite
enthusiastic
on all topics appertaining to Taste.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CAROLINE M.
KIRKLAND.
MRS. KIRKLAND'S
"New Home," published under the nom de plume of "Mary
Clavers,"
wrought an undoubted sensation. The cause lay not so much in
picturesque
description, in racy humor, or in animated individual portraiture, as
in truth
and novelty. The west at the time was a field comparatively
untrodden
by the sketcher or the novelist. In certain works, to be sure, we
had obtained brief glimpses of character strange to us sojourners in
the
civilized east, but to Mrs. Kirkland alone we were indebted for our
acquaintance
with the home and home-life of the backwoodsman. With a
fidelity
and vigor that prove her pictures to be taken from the very life, she
has
represented "scenes " that could have occurred only as and where
she
has described them. She has placed before us the veritable
settlers
of the forest, with all their peculiarities, national and individual;
their
free and fearless spirit; their homely utilitarian views; their shrewd
out-looking for self-interest; their thrifty care and inventions
multiform;
their coarseness of manner, united with real delicacy and substantial
kindness
when their sympathies are called into action — in a word, with all the
characteristics of the Yankee, in a region where the salient points of
character are unsmoothed by contact with society. So lifelike were her
representations that they have been appropriated as individual
portraits
by many who have been disposed to plead, trumpet-tongued, against what
they supposed to be "the deep damnation of their taking-off."
"Forest Life" succeeded "A New Home,"
and was read
with equal interest. It gives us, perhaps, more of the philosophy of
western
life, but has the same freshness, freedom, piquancy. Of course, a
truthful picture of pioneer habits could never be given in any grave
history
or essay so well as in the form of narration, [page 81:]
where each character is permitted to develope itself; narration,
therefore,
was very properly adopted by Mrs. Kirkland in both the books just
mentioned, and even more entirely in her later volume, "Western
Clearings."
This is the title of a collection of tales, illustrative, in general,
of
Western manners, customs, ideas. "The Land Fever" is a story of
the
wild days when the madness of speculation in land was at its height. It
is a richly characteristic sketch, as is also "The Ball at Thram's
Huddle."
Only those who have had the fortune to visit or live in the "back
settlements"
can enjoy such pictures to the full. "Chances and Changes" and
"Love vs. Aristocracy" are more regularly constructed tales,
with
the "universal passion" as the moving power, but colored with the
glowing
hues of the west. "The Bee Tree" exhibits a striking but too numerous
class
among the settlers, and explains, also, the depth of the bitterness
that
grows out of an unprosperous condition in that "Paradise of the Poor."
"Ambuscades" and "Half-Lengths from Life," I remember two piquant
sketches
to which an annual, a year or two ago, was indebted for a most unusual
sale among the conscious and pen-dreading denizens of the west.
"Half-Lengths"
turns on the trying subject of caste. "The
Schoolmaster's
Progress" is full of truth and humor. The western pedagogue, the
stiff, solitary nondescript figure in the drama of a new settlement,
occupying
a middle position between "our folks" and "company," and "boarding
round,"
is irresistibly amusing, and cannot fail to be recognised as the
representative
of a class. The occupation, indeed, always seems to mould those
engaged
in it — they all soon, like Master Horner, learn to "know well what
belongs
to the pedagogical character, and that facial solemnity stands high on
the list of indispensable qualifications." The spelling-school, also,
is
a "new country" feature which we owe Mrs. Kirkland many thanks
for
recording. The incidents of "An Embroidered Fact " are singular
and
picturesque, but not particularly illustrative of the "Clearings." The
same may be said of "Bitter Fruits from Chance-Sown Seeds;" but this
abounds
in capital touches of character: all the horrors of the tale are
brought
about through suspicion of pride, an accusation as destructive
at
the west as that of witchcraft in olden times, or the cry of mad dog in
modern. [page 82:]
In the way of absolute books, Mrs.
Kirkland,
I believe, has achieved nothing beyond the three volumes specified,
(with
another lately issued by Wiley and Putnam,) but she is a very constant
contributor to the magazines. Unquestionably, she is one of our best
writers,
has a province of her own, and in that province has few equals.
Her
most noticeable trait is a certain freshness of style,
seemingly
drawn, as her subjects in general, from the west. In the second
place
is to be observed a species of wit, approximating humor, and so
interspersed with pure fun, that "wit," after all, is nothing
like
a definition of it. To give an example — "Old Thoughts on the New
Year" commences with a quotation from Tasso's "Aminta:"—
Il mondo invecchia
E invecchiando intristisce; |
and the following is given as a "free translation:" —
The world is growing older
And wiser
day by day;
Everybody knows beforehand
What you're
going to say.
We used to laugh and frolic —
Now we must
behave:
Poor old Fun is dead and buried
—
Pride dug
his grave. |
This, if I am not mistaken, is the only specimen of poetry
as
yet given by Mrs. Kirkland to the world. She has afforded us no
means
of judging in respect to her inventive powers, although fancy, and even
imagination, are apparent in everything she does. Her perceptive
faculties enable her to describe with great
verisimilitude.
Her mere style is admirable, lucid, terse, full of variety, faultlessly
pure, and yet bold — so bold as to appear heedless of the ordinary decora
of
composition. In even her most reckless sentences, however, she
betrays
the woman of refinement, of accomplishment, of unusually thorough
education.
There are a great many points in which her general manner resembles
that
of Willis, whom she evidently admires. Indeed, it would not be
difficult
to pick out from her works an occasional Willisism, not less palpable
than
happy. For example —
Peaches were like
little green velvet
buttons when George was first mistaken for Doctor Beaseley, and before
they were ripe he, &c. [page 83:]
And again —
Mr. Hammond is
fortunately settled
in our neighborhood, for the present at least; and he has the neatest
little
cottage in the world, standing, too, under a very tall oak, which bends
kindly over it, looking like the Princess Glumdalclitch inclining her
ear
to the box which contained her pet Gulliver.
Mrs. Kirkland's personal manner is an
echo of her
literary one. She is frank, cordial, yet sufficiently dignified —
even bold, yet especially ladylike; converses with remarkable accuracy
as well as fluency; is brilliantly witty, and now and then not a little
sarcastic, but a general amiability prevails.
She is rather above the medium
height; eyes and hair
dark; features somewhat small, with no marked characteristics, but the
whole countenance beams with benevolence and intellect.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PROSPER M.
WETMORE.
GENERAL WETMORE
occupied some years ago quite a conspicuous position among the littérateurs
of
New York city. His name was seen very frequently in "The Mirror,"
and in other similar journals, in connexion with brief poems and
occasional
prose compositions. His only publication in volume form, I
believe,
is "The Battle of Lexington and other Poems," a collection of
considerable
merit, and one which met a very cordial reception from the press.
Much of this cordiality,
however, is attributable
to the personal popularity of the man, to his facility in making
acquaintances,
and his tact in converting them into unwavering friends.
General Wetmore has an exhaustless
fund of vitality. His energy, activity and indefatigability
are
proverbial, not less
than his peculiar sociability. These qualities give him unusual
influence
among his fellow-citizens, and have constituted him (as precisely the
same
traits have constituted his friend General Morris,) one of a standing
committee
for the regulation of a certain class of city affairs — such, for
instance,
as the getting up a complimentary benefit, or a public demonstration of
respect for some deceased worthy, or a ball and dinner to Mr. Irving or
Mr. Dickens.
Mr. Wetmore is not only a general,
but Naval Officer
of the [page 84:] Port of New York, Member of the
Board
of Trade, one of the Council of the Art Union, one of the Corresponding
Committee of the Historical Society, and of more other committees than
I can just now remember. His manners are recherchés, courteous
— a little in the old school way. He is sensitive, punctilious;
speaks
well, roundly, fluently, plausibly, and is skilled in pouring oil upon
the waters of stormy debate.
He is, perhaps, fifty years of age,
but has a youthful
look; is about five feet eight in height, slender, neat, with an air of
military compactness; looks especially well on horseback.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
EMMA C. EMBURY.
MRS. EMBURY
is one of the most noted, and certainly one of the most meritorious of
our female littérateurs. She has been many years
before
the public — her earliest compositions, I believe, having been
contributed
to the "New York Mirror" under the nom de plume "Ianthe." They
attracted
very general attention at the time of their appearance and materially
aided
the paper. They were subsequently, with some other pieces,
published
in volume form, with the title "Guido and other Poems." The book has
been
long out of print. Of late days its author has written but little
poetry — that little, however, has at least indicated a poetic capacity
of no common order.
Yet as a poetess she is comparatively
unknown, her
reputation in this regard having been quite overshadowed by that which
she has acquired as a writer of tales. In this latter capacity
she
has, upon the whole, no equal among her sex in America — certainly no
superior.
She is not so vigorous as Mrs. Stephens, nor so vivacious as Miss
Chubbuck,
nor so caustic as Miss Leslie, nor so dignified as Miss Sedgwick, nor
so
graceful, fanciful and spirituelle as Mrs. Osgood, but is deficient
in
none of the qualities for which these ladies are noted, and in certain
particulars surpasses them all. Her subjects are fresh, if
not always vividly original, and she manages them with more skill than
is usually exhibited by our magazinists. She has also much
imagination
and sensibility, while her style is pure, earnest, and devoid of
verbiage
and exaggeration. [page 85:] I make a point
of reading all tales to which I see the name of Mrs.
Embury appended.
The story by which she has attained most reputation is "Constance
Latimer,
the Blind Girl."
Mrs. E. is a daughter of Doctor
Manly, an eminent
physician of New York city. At an early age she married a
gentleman
of some wealth and of education, as well as of tastes akin to her
own.
She is noted for her domestic virtues no less than for literary talents
and acquirements.
She is about the medium height;
complexion, eyes,
and hair light; arched eyebrows; Grecian nose; the mouth a fine one,
and
indicative of firmness; the whole countenance pleasing, intellectual,
and
expressive. The portrait in "Graham's Magazine" for January,
1843,
has no resemblance to her whatever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
EPES SARGENT.
MR. SARGENT
is well known to the public as the author of "Velasco, a Tragedy," "The
Light of the Light-house, with other Poems," one or two short nouvelettes,
and numerous contributions to the periodicals. He was also the
editor
of "Sargent's Magazine," a monthly work, which had the misfortune of
falling
between two stools, never having been able to make up its mind whether
to be popular with the three or dignified with the five dollar
journals.
It was a "happy medium" between the two classes, and met the
fate
of all happy media in dying, as well through lack of foes as
of
friends. In medio tutissimus ibis is the worst advice in
the
world for the editor of a magazine. Its observance proved the
downfall
of Mr. Lowell and his really meritorious "Pioneer."
"Velasco" has received some words of
commendation
from the author of "Ion," and I am ashamed to say, owes most of its
home
appreciation to this circumstance. Mr. Talfourd's play has,
itself,
little truly dramatic, with much picturesque and more poetical value;
its
author, nevertheless, is better entitled to respect as a dramatist than
as a critic of dramas. "Velasco," compared with American
tragedies
generally, is a good tragedy — indeed, an excellent one, but,
positively
considered, its merits are very inconsiderable. It has many of the
traits
of Mrs. Mowatt's "Fashion," [page 86:] to which,
in
its mode of construction, its scenic effects, and several other points,
it bears as close a resemblance as, in the nature of things, it could
very
well bear. It is by no means improbable, however, that Mrs.
Mowatt
received some assistance from Mr. Sargent in the composition of her
comedy,
or at least was guided by his advice in many particulars of
technicality.
"Shells and Sea Weeds," a series of
brief poems,
recording the incidents of a voyage to Cuba, is, I think, the best work
in verse of its author, and evinces a fine fancy, with keen
appreciation
of the beautiful in natural scenery. Mr. Sargent is fond of
sea-pieces,
and paints them with skill, flooding them with that warmth and
geniality
which are their character and their due. "A Life on the Ocean
Wave"
has attained great popularity, but is by no means so good as the less
lyrical
compositions, "A Calm," "The Gale," "Tropical Weather," and "A Night
Storm
at Sea."
"The Light of the Light-house" is a
spirited poem,
with many musical and fanciful passages, well expressed. For
example
—
But, oh, Aurora's crimson
light,
That makes the
watch-fire dim,
Is not a more transporting sight
Than Ellen is to
him.
He pineth not for fields and
brooks,
Wild flowers and
singing birds,
For summer smileth in her looks
And singeth in her
words. |
There is something of the Dibdin
spirit throughout
the poem, and, indeed, throughout all the sea poems of Mr. Sargent — a
little too much of it, perhaps.
His prose is not quite so meritorious
as his poetry.
He writes "easily," and is apt at burlesque and sarcasm — both rather
broad
than original. Mr. Sargent has an excellent memory for good hits,
and no little dexterity in their application. To those who meddle
little with books, some of his satirical papers must appear
brilliant.
In a word, he is one of the most prominent members of a very extensive
American family — the men of industry, talent and tact.
In stature he is short — not more
than five feet
five — but well proportioned. His face is a fine one; the features
regular
and expressive. His demeanor is very gentlemanly.
Unmarried,
and about thirty years of age. |
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