|
[page 126, full page:]
|
|
|
THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK CITY. —
NO. V.
SOME HONEST OPINIONS AT RANDOM RESPECTING THEIR
AUTORIAL
MERITS,
WITH OCCASIONAL WORDS OF PERSONALITY.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
[column 1:]
FRANCES S.
OSGOOD.
 Mrs. Frances Sargent Osgood, for the
last two or three years, has been rapidly attaining distinction — and
this,
evidently, with no effort at attaining it. She seems, in fact, to
have no object in view beyond that of giving voice to the feelings or
to
the fancies of the moment. "Necessity," says the proverb, "is the
mother of Invention;" and the invention of Mrs. O., at least, springs
plainly from necessity — from the necessity of invention. Not
to write poetry — not to think it, dream it, act it, and be it, is
entirely
out of her power.
It may be questioned whether,
with more
method,
more industry, more definite purpose, more ambition, Mrs. Osgood would
have made a more decided impression on the public mind. She
might,
upon the whole, have written better poems, but the chances are that she
would have failed in conveying so vivid and so just an idea of her
powers
as poet. The warm abandonnement of her style — that charm
which
now so captivates — is but a portion and a consequence of her unworldly
nature, of her disregard of mere fame; but it affords us glimpses
(which
we could not otherwise have obtained) of a capacity for accomplishing
what
she has not accomplished and in all probability never will. But
in
the world of poetry there is already more than enough of this
uncongenial
ambition and presence.
Mrs. Osgood has taken no care
whatever of
her
literary fame. A great number of her finest compositions, both in
verse and prose, have been written anonymously, and are now lying perdus
about
the country in out-of-the-way nooks and corners. Many a goodly
reputation
has been reared upon a far more unstable basis than her unclaimed and
uncollected
"fugitive pieces."
Her first volume, I believe,
was published
six or seven years ago, by Edward Churton, of London, during the poet's
residence in that city. I have now lying before me a second
edition
of it, dated 1842 — a most beautifully printed book, dedicated to the
Reverend
Hobart Caunter. It contains a number of what the Bostonians call
"juvenile" poems, written when Mrs. O. (then Miss Locke) could
not
have been more than thirteen, and evincing a very unusual
precocity. The leading piece is "Elfrida, a Dramatic Poem," but in many
respects
well
entitled to the appellation "Drama." I allude chiefly to the passionate
expression [column 2:] of particular portions, to
delineation
of character, and to occasional scenic effect; in construction, (that
is
to say, plot,) in general conduct and plausibility, the play fails —
comparatively,
of course, for the hand of genius is evinced throughout.
The story is the well-known one
of Edgar,
Elfrida
and Earl Athelwood. The king, hearing of Elfrida's extraordinary
beauty, commissions his favorite, Athelwood, to visit her and ascertain
if report speaks truly of her charms. The earl, becoming himself
enamored, represents the lady as anything but beautiful and agreeable,
and the king is satisfied. Athelwood soon afterwards woos and weds
Elfrida,
giving her wealth as his reason to Edgar. The true state of the
case,
however, is betrayed by an enemy, and the monarch resolves to visit the
earl at his castle and so judge for himself. Hearing of this
resolve,
Athelwood, in despair, confesses his duplicity to his wife, and
entreats
her to render null as far as possible the effect of her charms by
dressing
with unusual plainness. This the wife promises to do, but, fired
with ambition and resentment at the wrong done her, arrays herself in
her
most magnificent and becoming costume. The king is captivated,
and
the result (a somewhat immoral one, although in keeping with the
ordinary
idea of poetical justice) is the destruction of Athelwood and the
elevation
of Elfrida to the throne.
These incidents are especially
well adapted
to dramatic purposes, and with more of that art which Mrs. Osgood does not
possess, she might have woven them into a tragedy which the world would
not have willingly let die. As it is, she has merely succeeded in
showing what she might, should, and could have done, but
unhappily
did not. The character of Elfrida is the bright point of the
play. Her beauty and consciousness of it, her indignation and
uncompromising
ambition, are depicted with power.
The English collection of which
I speak was
entitled "A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England." It met with a really
cordial
reception in Great Britain — was favorably noticed by the "Literary
Gazette,"
"Times," "Monthly Chronicle," "Atlas," and especially by the "Court
Journal,"
the "Court and Ladies' Magazine," "La Belle Assemblée,"
and
other similar works circulating very extensively among the
aristocracy. Mr. Osgood's merits as an artist had already introduced [page
127:] his wife into distinguished society, (she was petted
in
especial by Mrs. Norton and Rogers,) but her beautiful volume had at
once
an evidently favorable effect upon his fortunes. His pictures were all
placed in a more advantageous light by her poetical and conversational
grace.
As the "Wreath of Wild Flowers"
has had
comparatively
little circulation in this country, I may be pardoned for making one or
two other extracts. "The Dying Rosebud's Lament," although
by no means one of the best poems included, will very well serve to
show
the earlier and more characteristic manner of the poetess.
"Ah me ! — ah, woe is
me !
That I should
perish now,
With the dear sunlight just let
in
Upon my balmy brow
!
"My leaves, instinct with
glowing life,
Were quivering
to unclose ;
My happy heart with love was
rife —
I was almost a
rose.
"Nerved by a hope, warm, rich,
intense,
Already I had
risen
Above my cage's curving
fence —
My green and
graceful
prison.
"My pouting lips, by Zephyr
pressed,
Were just
prepared to part
And whisper to the wooing
wind
The rapture of
my heart.
"In new-born fancies reveling,
My mossy cell
half riven,
Each thrilling leaflet
seemed a wing
To bear me into
Heaven.
"How oft, while yet an infant
flower,
My crimson
cheek I've laid
Against the green bars of my
bower,
Impatient of
the shade!
"And pressing up and peeping
through
Its small but
precious
vistas,
Sighed for the lovely light
and dew
That blessed my
elder
sisters.
"I saw the sweet breeze rippling
o'er
Their leaves that
loved the
play,
Though the light thief stole
all their
store
Of dew-drop gems
away.
"I thought how happy I should
be
Such diamond
wreaths to
wear,
And frolic with a rose's
glee
With sunbeam, bird
and
air.
"Ah me ! — ah, woe is
me, that
I,
Ere yet my leaves
unclose,
With all my wealth of sweets, must
die
Before I am a
rose ! " |
Every true poet must here appreciate the exceeding
delicacy of
expression,
the richness of fancy, the nice appositeness of the overt and
insinuated
meaning. The passages I have italicized have seldom, in their
peculiar
and very graceful way, been equaled — never surpassed. [column
2:]
I cannot speak of the poems of
Mrs. Osgood
without a strong propensity to ring the changes upon the indefinite
word
"grace" and its derivatives. It seems, indeed, the one
key-phrase
unlocking the cryptograph of her power — of the effect she
produces. And yet the effect is scarcely more a secret than the key. Grace,
perhaps,
may be most satisfactorily defined as a term applied, in despair, to
that
class of the impressions of beauty which admit neither of analysis nor
of comprehension. It is this irresoluble charm — in grace — that
Mrs. Osgood excels any poetess of her country — or, indeed, of any
country
under the sun. Nor is she more graceful herself than appreciative of
the
graceful, under whatever guise it is presented to her
consideration.
The sentiment, the perception, and the keenest enjoyment of grace,
render
themselves manifest in innumerable instances, as well throughout her
prose
as her poetry. A fine example is to be found in "A Letter to an
Absent
Friend, on seeing Celeste for the first time in the
Wept-of-Wish-ton-Wish,"
included in the "Wild Flowers from New England." Celeste has been often
described — the effect of her dancing, I mean — but assuredly never has
she been brought so fully to the eye of the mind as in the verses which
follow: —
"She comes — the spirit of the
dance !
And but for those
large,
eloquent
eyes,
Where passion speaks in every
glance,
She'd seem a
wanderer from the
skies.
"So light that, gazing breathless
there,
Lest the celestial
dream
should go,
You'd think the music in the
air
Waved the fair
vision to
and fro
!
"Or that the melody's sweet flow
Within the
radiant creature
played,
And those soft wreathing
arms of snow
And white sylph
feet the
music
made.
"Now gliding slow with dreamy
grace,
Her eyes beneath
their lashes
lost,
Now motionless, with lifted
face,
And small hands on
her bosom
crossed.
"And now with flashing eyes she
springs —
Her whole
bright figure
raised
in air,
As if her soul had spread
its wings
And poised her
one will
instant
there!
"She spoke not — but, so richly
fraught
With language are
her glance
and smile,
That when the curtain fell, I
thought
She had been
talking all
the while." |
Messrs. Clark &
Austin, of New
York,
have lately issued another, but still a very imperfect, collection of
"Poems,
by Frances S. Osgood." In general, it embraces by no means the
best
of her works, although some of her best ("The Spirit of Poetry," for
example),
are included. "The Daughter of Herodias," one of her longest
compositions,
a very noble poem — quite as good as anything written by Mrs. Hemans —
is omitted. The [page 128:] volume contains a
number
of the least meritorious pieces in the "Wreath of Wild Flowers from New
England," and also more than enough of a class of allegorical or
emblematical
verses — a kind of writing which, through an odd perversity, the fair
authoress
at one time much affected, but which no poet can admit to be poetry at
all. These jeux d'esprit (for what else shall we call
them?) afforded her, however, a fine opportunity for the display of
ingenuity
and an epigrammatism in which she especially excels.
Of this latter quality, in its
better phase
— that is to say, existing apart from the allegory — I must be
permitted
to give two exquisite specimens: —
"LENORE.
"Oh, fragile and fair as the delicate
chalices
Wrought with
so rare and
so
subtle a skill,
Bright relics that tell of the
pomp of
those palaces
Venice, the
sea-goddess,
glories
in still !
"Whose exquisite texture,
transparent and
tender,
A pure blush
alone from
the
ruby wine takes,
Yet, ah, if some false hand,
profaning its
splendor,
Dares but to
taint it
with poison,
it breaks.
"So when Love poured through thy
pure heart
his lightning,
On thy pale
cheek the
soft rose-hues
awoke —
So when wild Passion, that
timid heart
frightening,
Poisoned the
treasure,
it trembled
and broke ! "
——
"TO SARAH.
"Oh, they never can know that
heart of
thine,
Who dare accuse thee
of
flirtation;
They might as well say that the
stars,
which shine
In the light of
their joy o'er
creation,
Are flirting with every wild
wave in which
lies
One beam of the glory that
kindles the
skies.
"Smile on, then, undimmed in your
beauty and
grace !
Too well e'er to
doubt, love,
we know
you;
And shed from your heaven the
light of your
face,
Where the waves
chase each
other below
you —
For none can e'er deem it your
shame or your
sin
That each wave holds your
star-image
smiling within." |
"Lenore," independently of its mere
epigrammatism,
well exemplifies the poet's usual turn of thought, her exactitude and
facility
at illustration. The versification (except in the first quatrain, which
puts me in mind of Moore), is defective. The first two lines of
the
third are even rough. The rhythm is dactylic, but the dactyls are all
false
— e. g.:
"So when Love | poured through
thy | pure
heart his |
lightning,
On thy pale | cheek the soft |
rose-hues a
| woke." |
Here the necessarily long
syllables, love,
through, heart, pale, soft, and hues, should be short,
and the
rhythm halts because they are not so. "To Sarah" is the better
poem
in every respect; — the compliment in the two last lines is exquisitely
pointed. Both these pieces appeared originally [column
2:]
in "The Broadway Journal" (which has been honored by many of Mrs.
Osgood's
very finest compositions;) the last, "To Sarah," is not included in the
volume lately published by Messrs. Clark & Austin.
What is really new in this
volume shows a
marked
change in the themes, in the manner, in the whole character of the
poetess.
We see less of vivacity, less of fancy; more of tenderness,
earnestness,
even passion, and of the true imagination as distinguished from its
subordinate
fancy: the one prevalent and predominating trait, grace, alone
distinctly
remains. In illustration of these points I feel tempted to copy
some
seven or eight of the later poems, but the deep interest of my subject
has already led me too far, and I am by no means writing a
review. I must refer, however, to two brief songs as best
exemplifying
what
I have said. They were quoted, about five months ago, in a notice
of the works of the poetess — a notice by myself, published in this
magazine;
— the one commences, "She loves him yet," the other, "Yes, lower to the
level." These pieces serve also to show the marked improvement of the
writer
in versification. The first-named is not only rhythmically
perfect,
but evinces much originality in its structure; the last, although in
rhythm
not so novel, is more forcible, better balanced, and more thoroughly
sustained
— in these respects I have seldom seen anything so good. In terse
energy of expression this poem is unsurpassed.
My extracts are already
extended to a
greater
length than I had designed or than comports with the plan of these
papers,
yet I cannot forbear making another. Its music, simplicity and
genuine
earnestness, will find their way to the hearts of all who read it.
"A MOTHER'S PRAYER IN ILLNESS.
"Yes, take them first, my Father; let my
doves
Fold their white wings in Heaven, safe on Thy breast,
Ere I am called away ! I dare not leave
Their young hearts here — their innocent, thoughtless hearts !
Ah, how the shadowy train of future ills
Comes sweeping down life's vista as I gaze !
My May, my careless, ardent-tempered May,
My frank and frolic child, in whose blue eyes
Wild joy and passionate woe alternate rise;
Whose cheek the morning in her soul illumes;
Whose little loving heart a word, a glance,
Can sway to grief or glee; who leaves her play,
And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms
Each moment for a kiss, and softly asks
With her clear, flute-like voice, ' Do you love me ?'
Ah, let me stay — ah, let me still be by,
To answer her and meet her warm caress !
For, I away, how oft in this rough world
That earnest question will be asked in vain !
How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart,
Will shrink abashed and chilled, to learn at length
The hateful withering lesson of distrust !
Ah, let her nestle still upon this breast,
In which each shade that dims her darling face
Is felt and answered, as the lake reflects
The clouds that cross yon smiling heaven. And thou, [page
129:]
My modest Ellen — tender, thoughtful, true,
Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies —
My pure, proud, noble Ellen, with thy gifts
Of genius, grace and loveliness, half hidden
'Neath the soft veil of innate modesty,
How will the world's wild discord reach thy heart
To startle and appal ! Thy generous scorn
Of all things base and mean; thy quick, keen taste,
Dainty and delicate; thy instinctive fear
Of those unworthy of a soul so pure;
Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien —
All, they will all bring pain to thee, my child.
And, oh ! if even their grace and goodness meet
Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all
The latent evil yet undisciplined
In their young, timid souls, forgiveness find —
Forgiveness and forbearance, and soft chidings,
Which I, their mother, learned of Love to give ?
Ah, let me stay — albeit my heart is weary,
Weary and worn, tired of its own sad beat
That finds no echo in this busy world
Which cannot pause to answer — tired alike
Of joy and sorrow, of the day and night.
Ah, take them first, my Father, and then me !
And for their sakes — for their sweet sakes, my Father,
Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet !" |
Mrs. Osgood has done far more
in prose than
in poetry, but then her prose is merely poetry in disguise. Of
pure
prose, of prose proper, she has, perhaps, never written a line in her
life.
Her usual magazine articles are a class by themselves. She begins
with a desperate effort at being sedate — that is to say, sufficiently
prosaic and matter-of-fact for the purpose of a legend or an essay, but
in a few sentences we behold uprising the leaven of the unrighteousness
of the muse; then, after some flourishes and futile attempts at
repression,
a scrap of verse renders itself manifest; then another and another; —
then
comes a poem outright, and then another and another and another, with
little
odd batches of prose in between, until at length the mask is thrown
fairly
off and far away, and the whole article — sings.
I shall say nothing farther,
then, of Mrs.
Osgood's prose.
Her character is daguerreotyped
in her
works
— reading the one we know the other. She is ardent, sensitive,
impulsive; the very soul of truth and honor; a worshipper of the
beautiful,
with a heart so radically artless as to seem abundant in art —
universally
respected, admired and beloved. In person she is about the medium
height, slender even to fragility, graceful whether in action or
repose; complexion usually pale; hair very black and glossy; eyes of a
clear, luminous gray, large, and with a singular capacity of
expression.
In no respect can she be termed beautiful, (as the world understands
the
epithet,) but the question, "Is it really possible that she is not so?"
is very frequently asked, and most frequently by those who
most
intimately know her. Her husband is still occupied with his
profession. They have two children — the Ellen and May of the poem. [column
2:]
——
LYDIA M.
CHILD.
Mrs. Child has acquired
a just
celebrity
by many compositions of high merit, the most noticeable of which are
"Hobomok,"
"Philothea," and a "History of the Condition of Women." "Philothea," in
especial, is written with great vigor, and, as a classical romance, is
not far inferior to the "Anacharsis" of Barthelemi; — its style is a
model
for purity, chastity and ease. Some of her magazine papers are
distinguished
for graceful and brilliant imagination — a quality rarely
noticed
in our countrywomen. She continues to write a great deal for the
monthlies and other journals, and invariably writes well. Poetry
she has not often attempted, but I make no doubt that in this she would
excel. It seems, indeed, the legitimate province of her fervid
and
fanciful nature. I quote one of her shorter compositions, as well
to instance (from the subject) her intense appreciation of genius in
others
as to exemplify the force of her poetic expression: —
"MARIUS AMID THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.
"Pillars are fallen at thy
feet,
Fanes quiver in
the air,
A prostrate city is thy
seat,
And thou alone art
there.
"No change comes o'er thy noble
brow,
Though ruin is
around
thee;
Thine eyebeam burns as proudly
now
As when the laurel
crowned
thee.
"It cannot bend thy lofty
soul
Though friends and
fame depart
—
The car of Fate may o'er thee
roll
Nor crush thy
Roman
heart.
"And genius hath electric
power
Which earth can
never
tame;
Bright suns may scorch and dark
clouds
lower,
Its flash is still
the
same.
"The dreams we loved in early
life
May melt like mist
away;
High thoughts may seem, 'mid
passion's
strife,
Like Carthage in
decay;
"And proud hopes in the human
heart
May be to ruin
hurled,
Like mouldering monuments of
art
Heaped on a
sleeping
world:
"Yet there is something will not
die
Where life hath
once been
fair;
Some towering thoughts still
rear on
high,
Some Roman
lingers there." |
Mrs. Child, casually observed,
has nothing
particularly striking in her personal appearance. One would pass
her in the street a dozen times without notice. She is low in
stature
and slightly framed. Her complexion is florid; eyes and hair are dark;
features in general diminutive. The expression of her countenance, when
animated, is highly intellectual. Her dress is usually plain, not even
neat [page 130:] — anything but fashionable. Her
bearing
needs excitement to impress it with life and dignity. She is of
that
order of beings who are themselves only on "great occasions." Her
husband
is still living. She has no children. I need scarcely add
that
she has always been distinguished for her energetic and active
philanthropy.
——
ELIZABETH
BOGART.
Miss Bogart has been for
many years
before the public as a writer of poems and tales (principally the
former)
for the periodicals, having made her debût as a
contributor
to the original "New York Mirror." Doctor Griswold, in a foot-note
appended
to one of her poems quoted in his "Poets and Poetry," speaks of the
"volume"
from which he quotes; but Miss Bogart has not yet collected her
writings
in volume form. Her fugitive pieces have usually been signed
"Estelle."
They are noticeable for nerve, dignity and finish. Perhaps the
four
stanzas entitled "He came too Late," and introduced into Dr. Griswold's
compilation, are the most favorable specimen of her manner. Had
he
not quoted them I should have copied them here.
Miss Bogart is a member of one
of the
oldest
families in the state. An interesting sketch of her progenitors
is
to be found in Thompson's "History of Long Island." She is about the
medium
height, straight and slender; black hair and eyes; countenance full of
vivacity and intelligence. She converses with fluency and spirit,
enunciates
distinctly, and exhibits interest in whatever is addressed to her — a
rare
quality in good talkers; has a keen appreciation of genius and of
natural
scenery; is cheerful and fond of society.
——
CATHERINE M.
SEDGWICK.
Miss Sedgwick is not
only one of our
most celebrated and most meritorious writers, but attained reputation
at
a period when American reputation in letters was regarded as a
phenomenon;
and thus, like Irving, Cooper, Paulding, Bryant, Halleck, and one or
two
others, she is indebted, certainly, for some portion of the
esteem
in which she was and is held, to that patriotic pride and gratitude to
which I have already alluded, and for which we must make reasonable
allowance
in estimating the absolute merit of our literary pioneers.
Her earliest published work of
any length
was
"A New England Tale," designed in the first place as a religious tract,
but expanding itself into a volume of considerable size. Its
success
— partially owing, perhaps, to the influence of the parties for whom or
at whose instigation it was written — encouraged the author to attempt
a novel of [column 2:] somewhat greater
elaborateness
as well as length, and "Redwood" was soon announced, establishing her
at
once as the first female prose writer of her country. It was reprinted
in England, and translated, I believe, into French and Italian. "Hope
Leslie" next appeared — also a novel — and was more favorably received
even than its predecessors. Afterwards came "Clarence," not quite
so successful, and then "The Linwoods," which took rank in the public
esteem
with "Hope Leslie." These are all of her longer prose fictions, but she
has written numerous shorter ones of great merit — such as "The Rich
Poor
Man and the Poor Rich Man," "Live and Let Live," (both in volume form,)
with various articles for the magazines and annuals, to which she is
still
an industrious contributor. About ten years since she published a
compilation of several of her fugitive prose pieces, under the title
"Tales
and Sketches," and a short time ago a series of "Letters from Abroad" —
not the least popular or least meritorious of her compositions.
Miss Sedgwick has now and then
been
nicknamed
"the Miss Edgeworth of America ;" but she has done nothing to bring
down
upon her the vengeance of so equivocal a title. That she has
thoroughly
studied and profoundly admired Miss Edgeworth may, indeed, be gleaned
from
her works — but what woman has not? Of imitation there is
not the slightest perceptible taint. In both authors we observe
the
same tone of thoughtful morality, but here all resemblance
ceases.
In the Englishwoman there is far more of a certain Scotch prudence, in
the American more of warmth, tenderness, sympathy for the weaknesses of
her sex. Miss Edgeworth is the more acute, the more inventive and
the more rigid. Miss Sedgwick is the more womanly.
All her stories are full of
interest. The "New England Tale" and "Hope Leslie" are especially so,
but upon
the
whole I am best pleased with "The Linwoods." Its prevailing features
are
ease, purity of style, pathos, and verisimilitude. To plot it has
little pretension. The scene is in America, and, as the sub-title
indicates, "Sixty years since." This, by-the-by, is taken from
"Waverley."
The adventures of the family of a Mr. Linwood, a resident of New York,
form the principal theme. The character of this gentleman is
happily
drawn, although there is an antagonism between the initial and
concluding
touches — the end has forgotten the beginning, like the government of
Trinculo. Mr. L. has two children, Herbert and Isabella. Being himself
a
Tory,
the boyish impulses of his son in favor of the revolutionists are
watched
with anxiety and vexation; and on the breaking out of the war, Herbert,
positively refusing to drink the king's health, is expelled from home
by
his father — an event on which hinges the main interest of the
narrative. Isabella is the heroine proper, full of generous impulses,
beautiful,
intellectual, spirituelle
— indeed, a most fascinating creature. But the family of a
Widow
Lee [page 131:] throws quite a charm over all the
book
— a matronly, pious and devoted mother, yielding up her son to the
cause
of her country — the son gallant, chivalrous, yet thoughtful; a
daughter, gentle, loving, melancholy, and susceptible of light
impressions. This daughter, Bessie Lee, is one of the most effective
personations to
be found in our fictitious literature, and may lay claims to the
distinction
of originality — no slight distinction where character is
concerned. It is the old story, to be sure, of a meek and trusting
heart broken by
treachery and abandonment, but in the narration of Miss Sedgwick it
breaks
upon us with all the freshness of novel emotion. Deserted by her
lover, an accomplished and aristocratical coxcomb, the spirits of the
gentle
girl sink gradually from trust to simple hope, from hope to anxiety,
from
anxiety to doubt, from doubt to melancholy, and from melancholy to
madness.
The gradation is depicted in a masterly manner. She escapes from
her home in New England and endeavors to make her way alone to New
York,
with the object of restoring to him who had abandoned her, some tokens
he had given her of his love — an act which her disordered fancy
assures
her will effect in her own person a disenthralment from passion. Her
piety, her madness and her beauty, stand her in stead of the lion
of
Una, and she reaches the city in safety. In that portion of the
narrative
which embodies this journey are some passages which no mind unimbued
with
the purest spirit of poetry could have conceived, and they have often
made
me wonder why Miss Sedgwick has never written a poem.
I have already alluded to her
usual
excellence
of style; but she has a very peculiar fault — that of discrepancy
between
the words and character of the speaker — the fault, indeed, more
properly
belongs to the depicting of character itself.
For example, at page 38, vol.
1, of "The
Linwoods:
" —
" 'No more of
my contempt
for
the Yankees, Hal, an' thou lovest me," replied Jasper. "You
remember
Æsop's advice to Crœsus at the Persian court ? ' [["]]
" 'No, I am
sure I do
not.
You have the most provoking way of resting the lever by which you bring
out your own knowledge, on your friend's ignorance.' "
Now all this is pointed,
(although the last
sentence would have been improved by letting the words "on your
friend's
ignorance" come immediately after "resting,") but it is by no means the
language of schoolboys — and such are the speakers.
Again, at page 226, vol. 1, of
the same
novel:
—
" 'Now, out on
you, you
lazy,
slavish loons !' cried Rose. 'Cannot you see these men are raised
up to fight for freedom for more than themselves ? If the
chain
be broken at one end, the links will fall apart sooner or later.
When you see the sun on the mountain top, you may be sure it will shine
into the deepest valleys before long.' "
Who would suppose this graceful
eloquence
to [column
2:] proceed from the mouth of a negro woman ?
Yet
such is Rose.
Again, at page 24, vol. 1, same
novel
: —
" 'True, I
never saw her;
but
I tell you, young lad, that there is such a thing as seeing the shadow
of things far distant and past, and never seeing the realities, though
they it be that cast the shadows.' ''
Here the speaker is an old
woman who, a few
sentences before, has been boasting of her proficiency in "tellin'
fortins."
I might object, too, very
decidedly to the
vulgarity of such a phrase as "I put in my oar," (meaning, "I joined in
the conversation,") when proceeding from the mouth of so well-bred a
personage
as Miss Isabella Linwood. These are, certainly, most remarkable
inadvertences.
As the author of many books
— of
several
absolutely bound volumes in the ordinary "novel" form of auld lang
syne,
Miss Sedgwick has a certain adventitious hold upon the attention of the
public, a species of tenure that has nothing to do with literature
proper
— a very decided advantage, in short, over her more modern rivals whom
fashion and the growing influence of the want of an
international
copyright law have condemned to the external insignificance of the
yellow-backed
pamphleteering.
We must permit, however,
neither this
advantage
nor the more obvious one of her having been one of our pioneers, to
bias the critical judgment as it makes estimate of her abilities in
comparison
with those of her present cotemporaries. She has neither
the
vigor of Mrs. Stephens nor the vivacious grace of Miss Chubbuck, nor
the
pure style of Mrs. Embury, nor the classic imagination of Mrs. Child,
nor
the naturalness of Mrs. Annan, nor the thoughtful and suggestive
originality
of Miss Fuller; but in many of the qualities mentioned she excels, and
in no one of them is she particularly deficient. She is an author
of marked talent, but by no means of such decided genius as would
entitle
her to that precedence among our female writers which, under the
circumstances
to which I have alluded, seems to be yielded her by the voice
of
the public.
Strictly speaking, Miss
Sedgwick is not one
of the literati of New York city, but she passes here about
half
or rather more than half her time. Her home is Stockbridge,
Massachusetts.
Her family is one of the first in America. Her father, Theodore
Sedgwick
the elder, was an eminent jurist and descended from one of Cromwell's
major-generals.
Many of her relatives have distinguished themselves in various ways.
She is about the medium height,
perhaps a
little
below it. Her forehead is an unusually fine one; nose of a
slightly
Roman curve; eyes dark and piercing; mouth well-formed and remarkably
pleasant
in its expression. The portrait in "Graham's Magazine" is by no
means
a likeness, and, although the hair is represented as curled, (Miss
Sedgwick [page
132:] at present wears a cap — at least most usually,) gives
her the air of being much older than she is.
Her manners are those of a
high-bred woman,
but her ordinary manner vacillates, in a singular way, between
cordiality
and a reserve amounting to hauteur.
——
LEWIS
GAYLORD CLARK.
Mr. Clark is known
principally as
the
twin brother of the late Willis Gaylord Clark, the poet, of
Philadelphia,
with whom he has often been confounded from similarity both of person
and
of name. He is known, also, within a more limited circle, as one
of the editors of "The Knickerbocker Magazine," and it is in this
latter
capacity that I must be considered as placing him among literary
people. He writes little himself, the editorial scraps which usually
appear in
fine type at the end of "The Knickerbocker" being the joint composition
of a great variety of gentlemen (most of them possessing shrewdness and
talent) connected with diverse journals about the city of New
York.
It is only in some such manner, as might be supposed, that so amusing
and
so heterogeneous a medley of chit-chat could be put together. Were
a little more pains taken in elevating the tone of this
"Editors'
Table," (which its best friends are forced to admit is at present a
little
Boweryish,) I should have no hesitation in commending it in general as
a very creditable and very entertaining specimen of what may be termed
easy writing and hard reading.
It is not, of course, to be
understood from
anything I have here said, that Mr. Clark does not occasionally
contribute
editorial matter to the magazine. His compositions, however, are
far from numerous, and are always to be distinguished by their style,
which
is more "easily to be imagined than described." It has its merit,
beyond
doubt, but I shall not undertake to say that either "vigor," "force" or
"impressiveness" is the precise term by which that merit should be
designated.
Mr. Clark once did me the honor to review my poems, and — I forgive
him.
"The Knickerbocker" has been
long
established,
and seems to have in it some important elements of success. Its
title,
for a merely local one, is unquestionably good. Its contributors
have usually been men of eminence. Washington Irving was at one
period
regularly engaged. Paulding, Bryant, Neal, and several others of nearly
equal note have also at various times furnished articles, although none
of these gentlemen, I believe, continue their communications. In
general, the contributed matter has been praiseworthy; the printing,
paper,
and so forth, have been excellent, and there certainly has been no lack
of exertion in the way of what is termed "putting the work before the
eye
of the public;" still some incomprehensible incubus has seemed [column
2:] always to sit heavily upon it, and it has never
succeeded
in attaining position among intelligent or educated readers.
On
account of the manner in which it is necessarily edited, the work is
deficient
in that absolutely indispensable element, individuality. As
the editor has no precise character, the magazine, as a matter of
course,
can have none. When I say "no precise character," I mean that Mr.
C., as a literary man, has about him no determinateness, no
distinctiveness,
no saliency of point; — an apple, in fact, or a pumpkin, has more
angles.
He is as smooth as oil or a sermon from Doctor Hawks; he is noticeable
for nothing in the world except for the markedness by which he is
noticeable
for nothing.
What is the precise circulation
of "The
Knickerbocker"
at present I am unable to say; it has been variously stated at from
eight
to eighteen hundred subscribers. The former estimate is no doubt
too low, and the latter, I presume, is far too high. There are,
perhaps,
some fifteen hundred copies printed.
At the period of his brother's
decease, Mr.
Lewis G. Clark bore to him a striking resemblance, but within the last
year or two there has been much alteration in the person of the editor
of the "Knickerbocker." He is now, perhaps, forty-two or three, but
still
good-looking. His forehead is, phrenologically, bad — round and what is
termed "bullety." The mouth, however, is much better, although the
smile
is too constant and lacks expression; the teeth are white and
regular.
His hair and whiskers are dark, the latter meeting voluminously beneath
the chin. In height Mr. C. is about five feet ten or
eleven,
and in the street might be regarded as quite a "personable man;" in
society
I have never had the pleasure of meeting him. He is married, I
believe.
——
ANNE C.
LYNCH.
Miss Anne Charlotte Lynch
has
written
little; — her compositions are even too few to be collected in volume
form.
Her prose has been, for the most part, anonymous — critical papers in
"The
New York Mirror" and elsewhere, with unacknowledged contributions to
the
annuals, especially "The Gift," and "The Diadem," both of Philadelphia.
Her "Diary of a Recluse," published in the former work, is, perhaps,
the
best specimen of her prose manner and ability. I remember, also,
a fair critique on Fanny Kemble's poems; — this appeared in
"The
Democratic Review."
In poetry, however, she has
done better,
and
given evidence of at least unusual talent. Some of her
compositions
in this way are of merit, and one or two of excellence. In the
former
class I place her "Bones in the Desert," published in "The Opal " for
1846,
her "Farewell to Ole Bull," first printed in "The Tribune," and one or
two of her sonnets — not forgetting some graceful and [page
133:]
touching lines on the death of Mrs. Willis. In the latter class I
place two noble poems, "The Ideal" and "The Ideal Found." These should
be considered as one, for each is by itself imperfect. In
modulation
and vigor of rhythm, in dignity and elevation of sentiment, in
metaphorical
appositeness and accuracy, and in energy of expression, I really do not
know where to point out anything American much superior to them. Their
ideality is not so manifest as their passion, but I think it an
unusual
indication of taste in Miss Lynch, or (more strictly) of an intuitive
sense
of poetry's true nature, that this passion is just sufficiently subdued
to lie within the compass of the poetic art, within the limits of the
beautiful. A step farther and it might have passed them. Mere passion,
however
exciting, prosaically excites; it is in its very essence homely, and
delights
in homeliness: but the [column 2:] triumph
over passion,
as so finely depicted in the two poems mentioned, is one of the purest
and most idealizing manifestations of moral beauty.
In character Miss Lynch is
enthusiastic,
chivalric,
self-sacrificing, "equal to any Fate," capable of even martyrdom in
whatever
should seem to her a holy cause — a most exemplary daughter. She
has her hobbies, however, (of which a very indefinite idea of "duty" is
one,) and is, of course, readily imposed upon by any artful person who
perceives and takes advantage of this most amiable failing.
In person she is rather above
the usual
height,
somewhat slender, with dark hair and eyes — the whole countenance at
times
full of intelligent expression. Her demeanor is dignified,
graceful,
and noticeable for repose. She goes much into literary society. |
|
|
|
|
|