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REPRINT FROM THE MAY NUMBER.
THE LITERATI OF NEW YORK CITY. —
NO. I.
SOME HONEST OPINIONS AT RANDOM RESPECTING THEIR
AUTORIAL
MERITS,
WITH OCCASIONAL WORDS OF PERSONALITY.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
[column 1:]
 IN
a criticism
on Bryant published in the last number of this magazine, I was at some
pains in pointing out the distinction between the popular "opinion" of
the merits of cotemporary authors and that held and expressed of them
in
private literary society. The former species of "opinion" can be
called "opinion" only by courtesy. It is the public's own, just
as
we consider a book our own when we have bought it. In general,
this
opinion is adopted from the journals of the day, and I have endeavoured
to show that the cases are rare indeed in which these journals express
any other sentiment about books than such as may be attributed directly
or indirectly to the authors of the books. The most "popular,"
the
most "successful" writers among us, (for a brief period, at least,)
are,
ninety-nine times out of a hundred, persons of mere address,
perseverance,
effrontery — in a word, busy-bodies, toadies, quacks. These
people
easily succeed in boring editors (whose attention is too often
entirely
engrossed by politics or other "business" matter) into the admission of
favourable notices written or caused to be written by interested
parties
— or, at least, into the admission of some notice where, under
ordinary
circumstances, no notice would be given at all. In this
way
ephemeral "reputations" are manufactured which, for the most part,
serve
all the purposes designed — that is to say, the putting money into the
purse of the quack and the quack's publisher; for there never was a
quack
who could be brought to comprehend the value of mere fame. Now,
men
of genius will not resort to these manœuvres, because genius involves
in
its very essence a scorn of chicanery; and thus for a time the quacks
always
get the advantage of them, both in respect to pecuniary profit and what
appears to be public esteem.
There is another point of view,
too. Your
literary
quacks court, in especial, the personal acquaintance of those
"connected
with the press." Now these latter, even when penning a voluntary,
that is to say, an uninstigated notice of the book of an acquaintance,
feel as if writing not so much for the eye of the public as for the eye
of the acquaintance, and the notice is fashioned accordingly. The
bad points of the work are slurred over and the good ones brought out
into
the best light, all this through a feeling akin to that which makes it
unpleasant to speak ill of one to one's face. In the case of men
of genius, editors, as a general [column 2:] rule,
have no such delicacy — for the simple reason that, as a general rule,
they have no acquaintance with these men of genius, a class proverbial
for shunning society.
But the very editors who hesitate at
saying in
print
an ill word of an author personally known, are usually the most frank
in
speaking about him privately. In literary society, they seem bent
upon avenging the wrongs self-inflicted upon their own
consciences. Here, accordingly, the quack is treated as he deserves —
even a little
more harshly than he deserves — by way of striking a balance. True
merit, on the same principle, is apt to be slightly overrated; but,
upon
the whole, there is a close approximation to absolute honesty of
opinion;
and this honesty is farther secured by the mere trouble to which it
puts
one in conversation to model one's countenance to a
falsehood. We place on paper without hesitation a tissue of flatteries,
to which
in
society we could not give utterance, for our lives, without either
blushing
or laughing outright.
For these reasons there exists a very
remarkable
discrepancy between the apparent public opinion of any given author's
merits
and the opinion which is expressed of him orally by those who are best
qualified to judge. For example, Mr. Hawthorne, the author of
"Twice-Told
Tales," is scarcely recognised by the press or by the public, and when
noticed at all, is noticed merely to be damned by faint praise. Now,
my own opinion of him is, that although his walk is limited and he is
fairly
to be charged with mannerism, treating all subjects in a similar tone
of
dreamy innuendo, yet in this walk he evinces extraordinary
genius,
having no rival either in America or elsewhere — and this opinion I
have
never heard gainsaid by any one literary person in the country. That
this opinion, however, is a spoken and not a written one, is referable
to the facts, first, that Mr. Hawthorne is a poor man, and,
second,
that he is not an ubiquitous quack.
Again, of Mr. Longfellow, who,
although little
quacky per se, has, through his social and literary
position as a man
of
property and a professor at Harvard, a whole legion of active quacks at
his control — of him what is the apparent popular opinion? Of
course, that he is a poetical phenomenon, as entirely without fault
as is the luxurious paper upon which his poems are invariably borne to
the public eye. In private society he is regarded with [page
290:] one voice as a poet of far more than usual ability, a
skillful artist and a well-read man, but as less remarkable in either
capacity
than as a determined imitator and a dexterous adapter of the ideas of
other
people. For years I have conversed with no literary person who
did
not entertain precisely these ideas of Professor L.; and, in fact, on
all
literary topics there is in society a seemingly wonderful coincidence
of
opinion. The author accustomed to seclusion, and mingling for the
first time with those who have been associated with him only through
their
works, is astonished and delighted at finding common to all whom he
meets
conclusions which he had blindly fancied were attained by himself alone
and in opposition to the judgment of mankind.
In the series of papers which I now
propose, my
design
is, in giving my own unbiased opinion of the literati (male
and
female) of New York, to give at the same time, very closely if not with
absolute accuracy, that of conversational society in literary circles.
It must be expected, of course, that, in innumerable particulars, I
shall
differ from the voice, that is to say, from what appears to be the
voice
of the public — but this is a matter of no consequence whatever.
New York literature may be taken as a
fair
representation
of that of the country at large. The city itself is the focus of
American letters. Its authors include, perhaps, one-fourth of all
in America, and the influence they exert on their brethren, if
seemingly
silent, is not the less extensive and decisive. As I shall have
to
speak of many individuals, my limits will not permit me to speak of
them
otherwise than in brief; but this brevity will be merely consistent
with
the design, which is that of simple opinion, with little of
either
argument or detail. With one or two exceptions I am well
acquainted
with every author to be introduced, and I shall avail myself of the
acquaintance
to convey, generally, some idea of the personal appearance of all who,
in this regard, would be likely to interest the readers of the
magazine. As any precise order or arrangement seems unnecessary and may
be
inconvenient,
I shall maintain none. It will be understood that, without
reference
to supposed merit or demerit, each individual is introduced absolutely
at random.
——
GEORGE BUSH.
The Reverend George Bush is
Professor of
Hebrew
in the University of New York, and has long been distinguished for the
extent and variety of his attainments in oriental literature; indeed,
as
an oriental linguist it is probable that he has no equal among
us.
He has published a great deal, and his books have always the good
fortune
to attract attention throughout the civilized world. His
"Treatise
on the Millennium" is, perhaps, that of his earlier compositions by
which
he is most extensively as well as most favourably known. Of late
days he has created a singular commotion in the realm of theology by
his
"Anastasis, or the Doctrine of the Resurrection: in which it is shown
that
the Doctrine of the Resurrection of the Body is not sanctioned by
Reason
or Revelation." This work has been zealously attacked, and as zealously
defended by the professor and his friends. There can be no doubt
that, up to this period, the Bushites have had the best of the
battle. The "Anastasis" is lucidly, succinctly, vigorously and
logically
written,
and proves, in my opinion, everything that it attempts — provided we
admit
the imaginary axioms from which it starts; and this is as much as can
be
well said of any theological disquisition under the sun. It might
be hinted, too, in reference as well to Professor Bush as to his
opponents, "que la plupart del sectes ont raison dans une bonne
partie de ce
qu'elles
avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles nient." A subsequent work on
"The Soul," by the author of "Anastasis," has made nearly as much noise
as the "Anastasis" itself.
Taylor, who wrote so ingeniously "The
Natural
History
of Enthusiasm," might have derived many a valuable hint from the study
of Professor Bush. No man is more ardent in his theories; and
these
latter are neither few nor commonplace. He is a Mesmerist and a
Swedenborgian
— has lately been engaged in editing Swedenborg's works, publishing
them
in numbers. He converses with fervour, and often with
eloquence.
Very probably he will establish an independent church.
He is one of the most amiable men in
the world,
universally
respected and beloved. His frank, unpretending simplicity of
demeanour,
is especially winning.
In person, he is tall, nearly six
feet, and
spare,
with large bones. His countenance expresses rather benevolence
and
profound earnestness than high intelligence. The eyes are
piercing;
the other features, in general, massive. The forehead,
phrenologically,
indicates causality and comparison, with deficient ideality — the
organization
which induces strict logicality from insufficient premises. He
walks
with a slouching gait and with an air of abstraction. His dress
is
exceedingly plain. In respect to the arrangement about his study,
he has many of the Magliabechian habits. He is, perhaps,
fifty-five
years of age, and seems to enjoy good health.
——
GEORGE H.
COLTON.
Mr. Colton is noted as the
author of
"Tecumseh,"
and as the originator and editor of "The American Review," a Whig
magazine
of the higher (that is to say, of the five dollar) class. I must
not be understood as meaning any disrespect to the work. It
is, in my opinion, by far the best of its order in this country, and is
supported in [page 291:] the way of contribution
by
many of the very noblest intellects. Mr. Colton, if in nothing
else,
has shown himself a man of genius in his successful establishment of
the
magazine within so brief a period. It is now commencing its
second
year, and I can say, from my own personal knowledge, that its
circulation
exceeds two thousand — it is probably about two thousand five hundred.
So marked and immediate a success has never been attained by any of our
five dollar magazines, with the exception of "The Southern Literary
Messenger,"
which, in the course of nineteen months, (subsequent to the seventh
from
its commencement,) attained a circulation of rather more than five
thousand.
I cannot conscientiously call Mr.
Colton a good
editor,
although I think that he will finally be so. He improves
wonderfully
with experience. His present defects are timidity and a lurking
taint
of partiality, amounting to positive prejudice (in the vulgar sense)
for
the literature of the Puritans. I do not think, however, that he
is at all aware of such prepossession. His taste is rather
unexceptionable
than positively good. He has not, perhaps, sufficient fire within
himself
to appreciate it in others. Nevertheless, he endeavours to
do so, and in this endeavour is not inapt to take opinions at
secondhand
— to adopt, I mean, the opinions of others. He is nervous,
and a very trifling difficulty disconcerts him, without getting the
better
of a sort of dogged perseverance, which will make a thoroughly
successful
man of him in the end. He is (classically) well educated.
As a poet he has done better things
than
"Tecumseh,"
in whose length he has committed a radical and irreparable error,
sufficient
in itself to destroy a far better book. Some portions of it are
truly
poetical; very many portions belong to a high order of eloquence;
it is invariably well versified, and has no glaring defects, but, upon
the whole, is insufferably tedious. Some of the author's shorter
compositions, published anonymously in his magazine, have afforded
indications
even of genius.
Mr. Colton is marked in his personal
appearance.
He is probably not more than thirty, but an air of constant thought
(with
a pair of spectacles) causes him to seem somewhat older. He is
about
five feet eight or nine in height, and fairly proportioned — neither
stout
nor thin. His forehead is quite intellectual. His mouth has
a peculiar expression difficult to describe. Hair light and
generally
in disorder. He converses fluently and, upon the whole, well, but
grandiloquently, and with a tone half tragical [[,]] half pulpital.
In character he is in the highest
degree
estimable,
a most sincere, high-minded and altogether honourable man. He is
unmarried.
——
N. P. WILLIS.
Whatever may be thought of Mr.
Willis's [column
2:] talents, there can be no doubt about the fact that, both
as an author and as a man, he has made a good deal of noise in the
world
— at least for an American. His literary life, in especial, has been
one
continual émeute; but then his literary character
is
modified or impelled in a very remarkable degree by his personal
one. His success (for in point of fame, if of nothing else, he has
certainly
been successful) is to be attributed, one-third to his mental ability
and
two-thirds to his physical temperament — the latter goading him into
the
accomplishment of what the former merely gave him the means of
accomplishing.
At a very early age Mr Willis seems
to have
arrived
at an understanding that, in a republic such as ours, the mere man
of letters must ever be a cipher, and endeavoured, accordingly, to
unite
the éclat of the litterateur with that of the
man
of fashion or of society. He "pushed himself," went much into the
world, made friends with the gentler sex, "delivered" poetical
addresses,
wrote "scriptural" poems, traveled, sought the intimacy of noted women,
and got into quarrels with notorious men. All these things served
his purpose — if, indeed, I am right in supposing that he had any
purpose
at all. It is quite probable that, as before hinted, he acted
only
in accordance with his physical temperament; but be this as it may, his
personal greatly advanced, if it did not altogether establish his
literary
fame. I have often carefully considered whether, without the physique
of which I speak, there is that in the absolute morale
of
Mr.
Willis which would have earned him reputation as a man of letters, and
my conclusion is, that he could not have failed to become noted in some
degree under almost any circumstances, but that about
two-thirds
(as
above stated) of his appreciation by the public should be attributed to
those adventures which grew immediately out of his animal
constitution.
He received what is usually regarded
as a "good
education"
— that is to say, he graduated at college; but his education, in the
path
he pursued, was worth to him, on account of his extraordinary savoir
faire, fully twice as much as would have been its value in any
common
case. No man's knowledge is more available, no man has exhibited
greater tact in the seemingly casual display of his
wares. With him, at least, a little learning is no dangerous
thing. He possessed at one time, I believe, the average quantum of
American
collegiate
lore — "a little Latin and less Greek," a smattering of physical and
metaphysical
science, and (I should judge) a very little of the mathematics
—
but all this must be considered as mere guess on my
part. Mr. Willis speaks French with some fluency, and Italian not quite
so
well.
Within the ordinary range of belles
lettres authorship,
he has evinced much versatility. If called on to designate him by
any general literary title, I might term him a magazinist — for his
compositions
have invariably the species of effect, with the brevity which
the
magazine demands. We [page 292:] may view
him
as a paragraphist, an essayist, or rather "sketcher," a tale writer and
a poet.
In the first capacity he fails. His points,
however good when deliberately wrought, are too recherchés to
be put hurriedly before the public eye. Mr. W. has by no means
the readiness which the editing a newspaper
demands. He
composes
(as did Addison, and as do many of the most brilliant and seemingly dashing
writers of the present day,) with great labour and
frequent erasure
and interlineation. His MSS., in this regard, present a very singular
appearance,
and indicate the vacillation which is, perhaps, the leading
trait
of his character. A newspaper, too, in its longer articles — its
"leaders"
— very frequently demands argumentation, and here Mr. W. is remarkably
out of his element. His exuberant fancy leads him over
hedge
and ditch — anywhere from the main road; and, besides, he is far too
readily
self-dispossessed. With time at command, however, his great tact
stands him instead of all argumentative power, and enables him to
overthrow
an antagonist without permitting the latter to see how he is
overthrown. A fine example of this "management" is to be found in Mr.
W.'s reply to
a very inconsiderate attack upon his social standing made by one of the
editors of the New York "Courier and Inquirer." I have always regarded
this reply as the highest evidence of its author's ability as a
masterpiece
of ingenuity, if not of absolute genius. The skill of the whole
lay
in this — that, without troubling himself to refute the charges
themselves
brought against him by Mr. Raymond, he put forth his strength in
rendering
them null, to all intents and purposes, by obliterating, incidentally
and
without letting his design be perceived, all the impression these
charges were calculated to convey. But this reply can be called a
newspaper article only on the ground of its having appeared in a
newspaper.
As a writer of "sketches," properly
so called,
Mr.
Willis is unequaled. Sketches — especially of society — are his forte,
and they are so for no other reason than that they
afford him the
best
opportunity of introducing the personal Willis — or, more distinctly,
because
this species of composition is most susceptible of impression from his
personal character. The degagé tone of this kind
of
writing, too, best admits and encourages that fancy which Mr.
W.
possesses in the most extraordinary degree; it is in fancy that he
reigns
supreme: this, more than any one other quality, and, indeed, more than
all his other literary qualities combined, has made him what
he
is.* It is this which gives him [column 2:]
the
originality, the freshness, the point, the piquancy, which appear to be
the immediate, but which are, in fact, the mediate sources of his
popularity.
* As, by
metaphysicians and in
ordinary
discourse, the word fancy is used with very little
determinateness
of meaning, I may be pardoned for repeating here what I have elsewhere
said on this topic. I shall thus be saved much misapprehension in
regard to the term—one which will necessarily be often employed in the
course of this series.
"Fancy," says the
author of "Aids
to
Reflection," (who aided reflection to much better purpose in his
"Genevieve")
— "fancy combines — imagination creates." This was intended and has
been
received as a distinction, but [column 2:] it is a
distinction without a difference — without a difference even of
degree.
The fancy as nearly creates as the imagination, and neither at
all.
Novel conceptions are merely unusual combinations. (The mind of
man
can imagine nothing which does not really exist; if it could, it would
create not only ideally but substantially, as do the thoughts of
God.
It may be said, "We imagine a griffin, yet a griffin does not exist."
Not
the griffin, certainly, but its component parts. It is no more
than
a collation of known limbs, features, qualities. Thus with all
which
claims to be new, which appears to be a creation of the intellect — all
is re-soluble into the old. The wildest effort of the mind cannot
stand the test of this analysis.
Imagination, fancy,
fantasy and
humour,
have in common the elements combination and novelty. The
imagination
is the artist of the four. From novel arrangements of old forms
which
present themselves to it, it selects such only as are harmonious; the
result,
of course, is beauty itself — using the word in its most
extended
sense and as inclusive of the sublime. The pure imagination
chooses, from either beauty or deformity, only the most
combinable
things
hitherto uncombined; the compound, as a general rule, partaking in
character
of sublimity or beauty in the ratio of the respective sublimity or
beauty
of the things combined, which are themselves still to be considered as
atomic — that is to say, as previous combinations. But, as often
analogously happens in physical chemistry, so not unfrequently does it
occur in this chemistry of the intellect, that the admixture of two
elements
will result in a something that shall have nothing of the quality of
one
of them — or even nothing of the qualities of either. The range
of
imagination is thus unlimited. Its materials extend throughout
the
universe. Even out of deformities it fabricates that beauty which
is at once its sole object and its inevitable test But, in general, the
richness of the matters combined, the facility of discovering
combinable
novelties worth combining, and the absolute "chemical combination" of
the completed mass, are the particulars to be regarded in our estimate
of imagination. It is this thorough harmony of an imaginative
work
which so often causes it to be undervalued by the undiscriminating,
through
the character of obviousness which is superinduced. We
are
apt to find ourselves asking why it is that these combinations have
never been imagined before.
Now, when this
question does
not
occur, when the harmony of the combination is comparatively
neglected,
and when, in addition to the element of novelty, there is introduced
the
sub-element of unexpectedness — when, for example, matters are
brought
into combination which not only have never been combined, but whose
combination
strikes us as a difficulty happily overcome, the result then
appertains
to the fancy, and is, to the majority of mankind, more grateful than
the
purely harmonious one — although, absolutely, it is less beautiful (or
grand) for the reason that it is less harmonious.
Carrying its errors
into excess —
for,
however enticing, they are errors still, or nature lies —
fancy
is at length found infringing upon the province of fantasy.
The votaries of this latter delight not only in novelty and
unexpectedness
of combination, but in the avoidance of
proportion.
The result is, therefore, abnormal, and, to a healthy mind, affords
less
of pleasure through its novelty than of pain through its
incoherence.
When, proceeding a step farther, however, fancy seeks not merely
disproportionate
but incongruous or antagonistic elements, the effect is rendered more
pleasurable
by its greater positiveness; [page 293, bottom:]
there is a merry effort of truth to shake from her that which is no
property
of hers, and we laugh outright in recognizing humour.
The four faculties in question seem to
me all of
their
class; but when either fancy or humour is expressed to gain an end, is
pointed at a purpose — whenever either becomes objective in place of
subjective,
then it becomes, also, pure wit or sarcasm, just as the purpose is
benevolent
or malevolent.
[page 293, top:]
In tales (written with
deliberation for
the
magazines), he has shown greater constructiveness than I
should
have given him credit for had I not read his compositions of this order
— for in this faculty all his other works indicate a singular
deficiency.
The chief charm even of these tales, however, is still referable to fancy.
As a poet, Mr. Willis is not
entitled, I think,
to
so high a rank as he may justly claim through his prose; and this for
the
reason that, although fancy is not inconsistent with any of the demands
of those classes of prose compositions which he has attempted, and,
indeed,
is a vital element of most of them, still it is at war (as will be
understood
from what I have said in the foot note) with that purity and perfection
of beauty which are the soul of the poem proper. I wish
to
be understood as saying this generally of our author's poems.
In
some instances, seeming to feel the truth of my proposition,
(that
fancy should have no place in the loftier poesy,) he has denied it a
place,
as in "Melanie" and his Scriptural pieces; but, unfortunately, he has
been
unable to supply the void with the true imagination, and these poems
consequently
are deficient in vigour, in stamen. The Scriptural
pieces
are quite "correct," as the French have it, and are much admired by a
certain
set of readers, who judge of a poem, not by its effect on themselves,
but
by the effect which they imagine it might have upon themselves
were
they not unhappily soulless, and by the effect which they take it for
granted
it does have upon others. It cannot be denied, however,
that
these pieces are, in general, tame, or indebted for what force they
possess
to the Scriptural passages of which they are merely paraphrastic. I
quote
what, in my own opinion and in that of nearly all my friends, is really
the truest poem ever written by Mr. Willis.
"UNSEEN SPIRITS.
"The shadows lay along Broadway,
'Twas near the twilight
tide,
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride
—
Alone walked she, yet viewlessly
Walked spirits at her
side.
"Peace charmed the street beneath
her feet,
And honour charmed the
air,
And all astir looked kind on her
And called her good as
fair —
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.
"She kept with care her beauties
rare
From lovers warm and
true, [column
2:]
For her heart was cold to all but
gold,
And the rich came not to
woo.
Ah, honoured well are charms to sell
When priests the selling
do !
"Now, walking there was one more
fair —
A slight girl, lily-pale,
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail
—
'Twixt want and scorn she walked
forlorn,
And nothing could avail.
"No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world's peace
to pray —
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved
in air,
Her woman's heart gave
way;
And the sin forgiven by Christ in
heaven,
By man is cursed alway." |
There is about this little poem (evidently written
in haste and through impulse) a true imagination. Its
grace,
dignity and pathos are impressive, and there is more in it of
earnestness,
of soul, than in anything I have seen from the pen of its
author. His compositions, in general, have a taint of worldliness, of
insincerity.
The identical rhyme in the last stanza is very noticeable, and the
whole finale is feeble. It would be improved by
making the last
two lines precede the first two of the stanza.
In classifying Mr. W.'s writings I
did not think
it worth while to speak of him as a dramatist, because, although he has
written plays, what they have of merit is altogether in their character
of poem. Of his "Bianca Visconti " I have little to say; — it
deserved
to fail, and did, although it abounded in eloquent passages.
"Tortesa" abounded in the same, but had a great many dramatic points
well calculated to tell with a conventional
audience. Its
characters,
with the exception of Tomaso, a drunken buffoon, had no character at
all,
and the plot was a tissue of absurdities, inconsequences and
inconsistencies;
yet I cannot help thinking it, upon the whole, the best play ever
written
by an American.
Mr. Willis has made very few attempts
at
criticism,
and those few (chiefly newspaper articles) have not impressed me with a
high idea of his analytic abilities, although with a very high
idea
of his taste and discrimination.
His style proper may be
called
extravagant, bizarre, pointed, epigrammatic without being
antithetical,
(this
is very rarely the case,) but, through all its whimsicalities,
graceful,
classic and accurate. He is very seldom to be caught
tripping
in the minor morals. His English is correct; his most
outrageous
imagery is, at all events, unmixed.
Mr. Willis's career has naturally
mace him
enemies
among the envious host of dunces whom he has outstripped in the race
for
fame; and these his personal manner (a little tinctured with reserve, brusquerie,
or even haughtiness) is by no means adapted to
conciliate. He has
innumerable
warm friends, however, and is himself a warm friend. He is impulsive,
generous,
bold, impetuous, vacillating, irregularly energetic — apt to be hurried
into error, but incapable of deliberate wrong. [page 294:]
He is yet young, and, without being
handsome, in
the ordinary sense, is a remarkably well-looking man. In height
he
is, perhaps, five feet eleven, and justly proportioned. His
figure
is put in the best light by the ease and assured grace of his
carriage. His whole person and personal demeanour bear about them the
traces of
"good
society." His face is somewhat too full, or rather heavy, in its lower
portions. Neither his nose nor his forehead can be defended; the latter
would puzzle phrenology. His eyes are a dull bluish gray, and
small.
His hair is of a rich brown, curling naturally and luxuriantly.
His
mouth is well cut; the teeth fine; the expression of the smile
intellectual
and winning. He converses little, well rather than
fluently,
and in a subdued tone. The portrait of him published about three
years ago in "Graham's Magazine," conveys by no means so true an idea
of
the man as does the sketch (by Lawrence) inserted as frontispiece to a
late collection of his poems. He is a widower, and has one child,
a daughter.
——
WILLIAM M.
GILLESPIE.
Mr. William M. Gillespie
aided Mr. Park
Benjamin,
I believe, some years ago, in the editorial conduct of "The New World,"
and has been otherwise connected with the periodical press of New York.
He is more favourably known, however, as the author of a neat volume
entitled
"Rome as Seen by a New Yorker" — a good title to a good book. The
endeavour to convey Rome only by those impressions which would
naturally
be made upon an American, gives the work a certain air of originality —
the rarest of all qualities in descriptions of the Eternal City. The
style is pure and sparkling, although occasionally flippant and dilletantesque.
The love of remark is much in the usual way — selon
les
règles
— never very exceptionable, and never very profound.
Mr. Gillespie is not unaccomplished,
converses
readily
on many topics, has some knowledge of Italian, French, and, I believe,
of the classical tongues, with such proficiency in the mathematics as
has
obtained for him a professorship of civil engineering at Union College,
Schenectady.
In character he has much general
amiability, is
warm-hearted,
excitable, nervous. His address is somewhat awkward, but
"insinuating
" from its warmth and vivacity. Speaks continuously and rapidly,
with a lisp which, at times, is by no means unpleasing; is fidgety, and
never knows how to sit or to stand, or what to do with his hands and
feet,
or his hat. In the street [[he]] walks irregularly, mutters to
himself,
and, in general, appears in a state of profound abstraction.
In person he is about five feet seven
inches
high,
neither stout nor thin, angularly proportioned; eyes large and dark
hazel,
hair dark and curling, an illformed nose, fine teeth, and a smile of
peculiar [column 2:] sweetness; nothing
remarkable about the
forehead. The general expression of the countenance when in
repose
is rather unprepossessing, but animation very much alters its
character. He is probably thirty years of age — unmarried.
——
CHARLES F.
BRIGGS.
Mr. Briggs is better known as
Harry
Franco,
a nom de plume assumed since the publication, in the
"Knickerbocker
" of his series of papers called "Adventures of Harry Franco." He also
wrote for the "Knickerbocker " some articles entitled "The Haunted
Merchant,"
and from time to time subsequently has been a contributor to that
journal.
The two productions just mentioned have some merit. They depend for
their
effect upon the relation in a straightforward manner, just as one would
talk, of the most commonplace events — a kind of writing which, to
ordinary
and especially to indolent intellects, has a very observable
charm. To cultivated or to active minds it is in an equal degree
distasteful,
even when claiming the merit of originality. Mr. Briggs's manner,
however, is an obvious imitation of Smollett, and, as usual with
imitation,
produces an unfavourable impression upon those conversant with the
original.
It is a common failing, also, with imitators, to out-Herod Herod in
aping
the peculiarities of the model, and too frequently the faults are more
pertinaciously exaggerated than the merits. Thus, the author of
"Harry
Franco" carries the simplicity of Smollett to insipidity, and his
picturesque
low-life is made to degenerate into sheer vulgarity. A fair idea
of the general tone of the work may be gathered from the following
passage:
—
" 'Come, colonel,'
said the
gentleman,
slapping me on the shoulder, 'what'll you take ?'
" 'Nothing, I thank
you,' I
replied;
'I have taken enough already.'
" 'What! don't
you
liquorate
?'
"I shook my head, for
I did not
exactly
understand him.
" 'Don't drink,
hey ?'
" 'Sometimes,' I
answered.
" 'What!
temperance
man
? — signed a pledge ?'
" 'No, I have not
signed a pledge
not
to drink.'
" 'Then you shall
take a horn —
so
come along.'
"And so saying he
dragged me up
to
the bar.
" 'Now, what'll you
take — julep,
sling,
cocktail or sherry cobbler ?'
" 'Anything you
choose,' I
replied,
for I had not the most remote idea what the drinks were composed of
which
he enumerated.
" 'Then give us a
couple of
cocktails,
barkeeper,' said the gentleman; 'and let us have them as quick as you
damn
please, for I am as thirsty as the great desert of Sahara which old
Judah
Paddock traveled over.' "
If Mr. Briggs has a forte, it
is a
Flemish
fidelity that omits nothing, whether agreeable or disagreeable; but I
cannot
call this forte a virtue. He has also some humour, but
nothing
of an original character. Occasionally he has written good
things. [page 295:] A magazine article
called "Dobbs
and his Cantelope" was quite easy and clever in its way; but the way is
necessarily a small one. Now and then he has attempted criticism,
of which, as might be expected, he made a farce. The
silliest
thing of this kind ever penned, perhaps, was an elaborate attack of his
on Thomas Babington Macaulay, published in "The Democratic Review;" —
the force of folly could no farther go. Mr. Briggs has
never
composed in his life three consecutive sentences of grammatical
English.
He is grossly uneducated.
In connection with Mr. John Bisco he
was the
originator
of the late "Broadway Journal" — my editorial association with that
work
not having commenced until the sixth or seventh number, although I
wrote
for it occasionally from the first. Among the principal papers
contributed
by Mr. B. were those discussing the paintings at the last
exhibition
of the Academy of Fine Arts in New York. I may be permitted to
say
that there was scarcely a point in his whole series of criticisms on
this
subject at which I did not radically disagree with him. Whatever
taste he has in art is, like his taste in letters, Flemish.
Mr. Briggs's personal appearance is
not
prepossessing.
He is about five feet six inches in height, somewhat slightly framed,
with
a sharp, thin face, narrow and low forehead, pert-looking nose, mouth
rather
pleasant in expression, eyes not so good, gray and small, although
occasionally
brilliant. In dress he is apt to affect the artist, priding
himself
especially upon his personal acquaintance with artists and his general
connoisseurship. He is a member of the Art Union. He walks with a
quick, nervous step. His address is quite good, frank and
insinuating. His conversation has now and then the merit of humour, but
he has a
perfect
mania for contradiction, and it is impossible to utter an uninterrupted
sentence in his hearing. He has much warmth of feeling, and is not a
person
to be disliked, although very apt to irritate and annoy. Two of
his
most marked characteristics are vacillation of purpose and a passion
for
being mysterious. His most intimate friends seem to know nothing
of his movements, and it is folly to expect from him a direct answer
about
anything. He has, apparently, traveled; pretends to a knowledge
of
French (of which he is profoundly ignorant); has been engaged in an
infinite
variety of employments, and now, I believe, occupies a lawyer's office
in Nassau street. He is married, goes little into society, and
seems
about forty years of age.
——
WILLIAM
KIRKLAND.
Mr. William Kirkland —
husband of the
author
of "A New Home" — has written much for the magazines, but has made no
collection
of his works. A series of "Letters from Abroad" have been among
his
most popular compositions. He was in [column 2:]
Europe for some time, and is well acquainted with the French language
and
literature, as also with the German. He aided Dr. Turner in
the late translation of Von Raumer's "America," published by the
Langleys.
One of his best magazine papers appeared in "The Columbian" — a review
of the London Foreign Quarterly for April, 1844. The arrogance,
ignorance
and self-glorification of the Quarterly, with its gross injustice
towards
everything un-British, were severely and palpably exposed, and its
narrow
malignity shown to be especially mal-à-propos in a
journal
exclusively devoted to foreign concerns, and therefore presumably
imbued
with something of a cosmopolitan spirit. An article on "English
and
American Monthlies" in Godey's Magazine, and one entitled "Our English
Visitors," in "The Columbian," have also been extensively read and
admired. A valuable essay on "The Tyranny of Public Opinion in the
United
States,"
(published in "The Columbian" for December, 1845,) demonstrates the
truth
of Jefferson's assertion, that in this country, which has set the world
an example of physical liberty, the inquisition of popular sentiment
overrules
in practice the freedom asserted in theory by the laws. "The
West,
the Paradise of the Poor," and "The United States' Census for 1830,"
the
former in "The Democratic Review," the latter in "Hunt's Merchants'
Magazine,"
with sundry essays in the daily papers, complete the list of Mr.
Kirkland's
works. It will be seen that he has written little, but that little is
entitled
to respect, for its simplicity and the evidence which it affords of
scholarship
and diligent research. Whatever Mr. Kirkland does is done
carefully. He is occasionally very caustic, but seldom without cause.
His
style
is vigorous, precise, and, notwithstanding his foreign acquirements,
free
from idiomatic peculiarities.
Mr. Kirkland is beloved by all who
know him; in
character
mild, unassuming, benevolent, yet not without becoming energy at
times;
in person rather short and slight; features indistinctive; converses
well
and zealously, although his hearing is defective.
——
JOHN W.
FRANCIS.
Doctor Francis, although by
no means a littérateur, cannot well be omitted in an
account of the New York literati. In his capacity
of physician and medical lecturer he is
far too
well
known to need comment. He was the pupil, friend and partner of
Hossack
— the pupil of Abernethy — connected in some manner with everything
that
has been well said or done medicinally in America. As a medical
essayist
he has always commanded the highest respect and attention. Among the points
he has made at various times, I may mention
his
Anatomy of Drunkenness, his views of the Asiatic Cholera, his analysis
of the Avon [page 296:] waters of the state, his
establishment
of the comparative immunity of the constitution from a second attack of
yellow fever, and his pathological propositions on the changes wrought
in the system by specific poisons through their assimilation —
propositions
remarkably sustained and enforced by recent discoveries of Liebig.
In unprofessional letters Doctor
Francis has also
accomplished much, although necessarily in a discursive
manner.
His biography of Chancellor Livingston, his Horticultural Discourse,
his
Discourse at the opening of the new hall of the New York Lyceum of
Natural
History, are (each in its way) models of fine writing, just
sufficiently
toned down by an indomitable common sense. I had nearly forgotten
to mention his admirable sketch of the personal associations of Bishop
Berkeley, of Newport.
Doctor Francis is one of the old
spirits of the
New
York Historical Society. His philanthropy, his active, untiring
beneficence
will forever render his name a household word among the truly Christian
of heart. His professional services and his purse are always at
the
command of the needy; few of our wealthiest men have ever contributed
to
the relief of distress so bountifully — none certainly with greater
readiness
or with warmer sympathy.
His person and manner are richly
peculiar.
He is short and stout, probably five feet five in height, [column
2:] limbs of great muscularity and strength, the whole frame
indicating prodigious vitality and energy — the latter is, in fact, the
leading trait in his character. His head is large, massive — the
features in keeping; complexion dark florid; eyes piercingly bright;
mouth
exceedingly mobile and expressive; hair gray, and worn in matted locks
about the neck and shoulders — eyebrows to correspond, jagged and
ponderous. His age is about fifty-eight. His general appearance is such
as to
arrest
attention.
His address is the most genial that
can be
conceived,
its bonhommie irresistible. He speaks in a loud, clear,
hearty
tone, dogmatically, with his head thrown back and his chest out; never
waits for an introduction to anybody; slaps a perfect stranger on the
back
and cells him "Doctor" or "Learned Theban;" pats every lady on the
head
and (if she be pretty and petite) designates her by some such
title
as "My Pocket Edition of the Lives of the Saints." His conversation
proper
is a sort of Roman punch made up of tragedy, comedy, and the broadest
of
all possible farce. He has a natural, felicitous flow of talk,
always
overswelling its boundaries and sweeping everything before it right and
left. He is very earnest, intense, emphatic; thumps the table
with
his fist; shocks the nerves of the ladies. His forte, after
all, is humour, the richest conceivable — a compound of Swift,
Rabelais,
and the clown in the pantomime. He is married.
R. Hoyt
John W. Francis
Geo. H. Coltom
Wm. M. Gillespie
N. P. Willis
Geo. Bush
Anna Cora Mowatt
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