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[page 266, full page:]
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THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK CITY. —
NO. II.
SOME HONEST OPINIONS AT RANDOM RESPECTING THEIR
AUTORIAL
MERITS,
WITH OCCASIONAL WORDS OF PERSONALITY.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
[column 1:]
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 favourable
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! [column 2:]
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.
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 — [page 267:] 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, 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 [column 2:] 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 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. Its premises, however, (as well as
those
of all reasoners [page 268:] 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.
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 honour 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
copper-plate
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 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 [column
2:] 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 labours
of
his predecessors (and it is clear that all scholars must avail
themselves
of such labours) — 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 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.[page 269:]
——
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 to be 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 one 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 wayside 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 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. [column
2:]
"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.
——
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.
——
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 [page 270:] 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 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, [column
2:] 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 honour in the city he does honour 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.
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.
* At this point
Mr. Willis
is,
perhaps, in error. [[This footnote appears at the bottom of page 270,
column
2.]]
——
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 [page 271:] "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 favourable 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; 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 endeavours 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 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 — the whole equal to four pages of this
magazine. Alla-Ad-Deen is the son of Alladdin, 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 [column 2:]
reason — and so on in a never-ending ascent. In other words, the
only thing proved is the rather bullish proposition that evil is no
evil
at all. I do not find that the "Dream" 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 vigour. 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 of a bulky satirical poem, leveled 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 [page 272:] 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 an article called
"Marginalia"
published lately in "The Democratic Review." [column 2:]
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,
honour — 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 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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