Text: Edgar Allan Poe, “Review of New Books” [Text-02], Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, VI, May 1840, pp. 248-250


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[page 248:]

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

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The Duke. A Novel. By Mrs. Grey. Two Volumes. Lea and Blanchard, Philadelphia.

Mrs. Grey is an authoress of no mean ability, and “The Duke” proves it. It is a well-written and very interesting romance of real life — a story which will find its way, if we mistake not greatly, into the hearts of many a thousand fair readers. These will all take deep interest in the character of the sweet and gentle Evelyn — a portraiture of high merit. The Duke himself is especially well drawn, and the general incidents of the book are such as to induce an earnest attention in a gradual but irresistible manner. There is nothing of startling effect, but a world of rich sentiment and true pathos. This novel, upon the whole, puts us in mind of one of the finest creations of British intellect — the “Ellen Wareham” of Lady Dacre — a tale to be found in that clever writer’s “Tales of a Chaperon.” We could scarcely pay Mrs. Grey a higher compliment than this — yet a full compliment was not our design. “The Duke” has many beauties, but also many faults of a minor cast.

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Memoirs and Letters of Madame Malibran. By the Countess de Merlin. With Notices of the Progress of the Musical Drama in England. In Two Volumes. Carey and Hart, Philadelphia.

Maria Felicia Garcia, afterwards Madame Malibran, afterwards Madame De Beriot, was more fairly entitled to the proud appellation, “the queen of song,” than any cantatrice who ever lived. Upon her was lavished the enthusiastic applause of the most correct taste, and of the deepest sensibility. Human triumph, so far as regards all that is most exciting and delicious, never went beyond that which she experienced — or never but in the case of Taglioni. For what are the inane and purchased adulations which fall to the lot of the conqueror — what, even, are the extensive honors of the popular author — his far-reaching fame, his high influence, or the most devout public appreciation of his works — to that rapturous approbation, that spontaneous, instant, present, and palpable applause — those irrepressible acclamations, those eloquent sighs and tears, which the idolized Malibran at once heard, and saw, and deeply felt that she deserved? Her brief career was one gorgeous and magnificent dream — for even the many sad intervals of her grief were but dust in the balance of her glory. In the book. before us we hear much of the causes which curtailed her existence, and there seems to hang an indefinitiveness about these causes as here given — an indistinctness — which the fair memorialist tries in vain to clear up. She seems never to approach the full truth. She never reflects that the reason of her friend’s speedy decease was but a condition of her rapturous life. No thinking person, hearing her sing, would have doubted that she would die in the spring of her days. She left the world at twenty-five, having existed her thousands of years. She had crowded ages into hours. Her intense excitement was often superhuman. And it was this excessive ardor of sensibility, educated and controlled by the thinking spirit of Garcia the father, which gave to Malibran, in the end, a dominion over the souls of her audience, such as no mere human artist will ever, perhaps, exercise again.

The memoirs now published by the Countess de Merlin, an intimate friend of the cantatrice, belong to the best order of biography, and convey a vivid picture of their subject. We conscientiously recommend them as the most interesting reminiscences of the day. They abound in just reflection, and amusing anecdote; evincing, moreover, a poetical, as well as an artistical, sense of music and song. The first volume is prefaced by a well-written sketch of the progress of the Italian opera in England, previous to the debut of Garcia, runs through the life of the songstress, and ends with her decease. The second is more discursive, enters fully into random detail, embraces a minute account of the death and funeral, with many letters and other memorials, concluding with a memorandum of the English opera in general, and critical notices of the performances of Malibran on the British stage. Both are highly entertaining.

In the progress of the memoir the heroine is, of course, frequently brought into juxta-position with celebrated rivals; yet in fact Pasta alone had any claim to equality, and even here there are few points of analogy. The difference between the two favorites was obvious. Pasta was every thing which mere art could effect — always correct, always graceful. But, being compact of art, she was invariably the same. The depth of expression which formed one of the principal charms of her singing, was due, however, to something apart from artificiality — to an irregularity in the tones of her voice. Her lower notes were somewhat dull and harsh, but deeply indicative of vehement passion, and undoubtedly only the more effective from their wild contrast with the clear, sweet, upper ones. It has often been observed that the guttural melody of transition, from the voce di petto to [page 249:] the voce di testa, is productive of a profound sense of melancholy — and it was the extent of this transition, in Pasta, which brought about her most thrilling effects.

Malibran, with all the sense of a profound art, rendered this sense subservient to nature. As an actress she scarcely ever had an equal, yet her great success arose from the apparent absence of acting. She seemed borne away, and, in a great degree was so, by an intense enthusiasm. The powerful impression she produced arose from a conviction of her extreme sensibility. It is beyond the reach of art to imbue either air or recitative with more impassioned expression than was hers. Her utterance of the romance in Otello — the tone with which she occasionally gave the words Sul mio sasso in the Capuletti — we may defy any one to forget who ever had the exquisite pleasure of hearing them. Of her lower tones no sound in nature can convey the remotest idea. Her voice embraced three complete octaves, extending from the contralto D to the upper soprano D, and while sufficiently powerful to fill the immense San Carlos, could execute with the minutest precision every difficulty of vocal composition — ascending and descending scales, fiorituri, or cadences. Every one must remember the electrical effect site was wont to produce, in the Sonnambula, in the words of the finale,

Ah! non guinge uman pensiero

Al contento ond ’lo sou piena.

She here altered the original phrase of Bellini so as to let her voice come down to the tenor G, then, by a rapid transition, sprang up an interval of two octaves, striking the G above the treble stave. Her Sonnambula altogether was a study for the musical artist — a combination of the highest scientific skill with the most delicious singing and the most impassioned yet finished acting. We saw nothing here of the certainly sweet but somewhat tiresome monotony of Pasta. The Amina of Malibran was indeed an embodiment of all the poet’s brightest dreams, and in this character she awakened the whole world of thought and feeling, as if by a spell, to the very highest sense of musical and intellectual enjoyment.

The merely private anecdotes related in these volumes of the sensitive and vivacious woman are very entertaining, and strongly characteristic. Among other good things it is told that one evening she felt rather annoyed at the general prejudice expressed by the company then present against all English vocal composition, the opinion being altogether in favor of foreign music; some even going so far as to assert that nothing could be good the air of which was entirely and originally of English extraction. She in vain endeavored to maintain that all countries possess, though of course in unequal degrees, many ancient melodies peculiarly their own; that nothing could exceed the beauty of the Scottish, Irish, Welsh, or even some of the old English airs. She then named many compositions of the best British composers, Bishop, Barnett, Lee, Horn, ect., [[sic]] declaring her belief that if she were to produce one of Bishop’s or of Horn’s ballads, as the work of a Signor Vescovo, or Cuerno, thus Italianizing and Espagnolizing the names, it would be received with rapture. In the midst of the discussion she volunteered a new Spanish sung, composed, as she said, by a Don Chocarreria. She commenced; the greatest attention prevailed; she touched the notes lightly, introducing variations on repeating the symphony, and with a serious feeling, though a slight smile might be traced on her lips, began: —

Maria tràyga un cahlero

De aqua, Llàma levanté

Maria pon tu caldero

Ayamos nuestro tè, etc., ect. [[etc.]]

She finished; plaudits resounded, and the air was quoted as a farther example of the superiority of foreign talent to English. The cantatrice assented, and agreed to yield to the general argument of the company, if the music which had just been played adagio should be found equally beautiful when played presto. She then sung it presto, and it was immediately recognised, to the consternation of all present, as an old English nursery song, very popular to be sure, but not precisely of the highest class. Our readers of Spanish will understand that

Maria tràyga un caldero

Means nothing more than

Molly put the kettle on.

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The Utility of Classical Studies. An Address. By N. C. Brooks, A. M. The Uncertainty of Literary Fame. A Poem. By C. W. Thomson, Esq. Pronounced before the Philamanthaen Society of Pennsylvania College, at Gettysburg, Pa., on the Anniversary, February 14th, 1840. Published by the Society.

Both as a poet and writer of prose Mr. Brooks has been long known to the public. His numerous tales, essays, and addresses are familiar things. His “Scriptural Anthology” placed him in the front [page 250:] rank of the finest intellects of the country, and several of the pieces which composed it would have done honor to any pen of the day. Excellent as this collection was, however, its best poems have been surpassed by some later ones of its author, and, among the many American effusions to which we might point with pride, we really know of nothing superior to the “Obsequies of Shelley” first published in “The Gift” for 1830. These stanzas evince powers of a noble order, and in all that regards the minor morals of literature, may be cited as a model. In especial, the stately and well balanced march of the rhythm tells of a ear finely attuned to the delicacies of melody. We seldom meet with finer lines than these —

From his meridian throne the eye of day

Beheld the kindlings of the funeral fire

Where, like a war-worn Roman chieftain, lay,

Upon his pyre,

The poet of the broken heart and lyre.

The Address lately delivered at Gettysburg embodies many of its author’s customary excellences, and, although upon a subject somewhat hackneyed, is an essay of merit. Its style is elaborate and ornate, but particularly correct — betokening a chastened taste and a critical feeling. With the general arguments of the thesis we only partially accord, and with some of its detached positions we totally disagree. For example — “I consider the study of the languages superior to any other mental exercise in disciplining the mind.” The end or object of mental discipline, does not, in the proposition of Mr. B., enter sufficiently, we think, into the estimate of that discipline itself — but we cannot now commence a discussion. In his denial of imperfections and errors of style to the Greek of the Old and New Testaments, the essayist is completely carried away by his enthusiasm for these writings.

The poem by Charles West Thomson — a name familiar to all, and especially so to the readers of the “Gentleman’s Magazine” — is in every respect worthy of the fine taste and talents of the author. Would our limits permit, there is nothing would give us greater pleasure than to copy it entire. The argument — the uncertainty of literary reputation — is made out with skill — the versification is sweet and forcible — the whole every thing that the most ardent admirers of the writer could expect or desire. We never saw a difficult task more cleverly executed. The composer of a fine poem, upon a stated occasion, gives evidence of a far more than ordinary power.

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The Florist’s Guide, containing Practical Directions for the Cultivation of Annual, Biennial, and Perennial Flowering Plants, of different classes, Herbaceous and Shrubbery, Bulbous, Fibrous, and Tuberous-rooted; including the Double Dahlia; with a Monthly Calendar, containing Instructions for the management of Green House Plants throughout the year. T. Bridgeman, New York. Hirst and Dreer, Philadelphia.

This is indisputably one of the best directories to Flora’s beauties that can be placed in the hands of an amateur gardener. There is no ostentatious humbug in the development of botanical knowledge, no diffuse spread of scientific details and technicalities, written to gratify the scribbler’s vanity, and confuse the tyro, rather than instruct. We have some knowledge of horticulture, and can safely recommend this unpretending volume to the attention of our readers. Messrs. Hirst and Dreer are well known as superior florists, and the insertion of their name in the title page is a sufficient guarantee of the work’s utility.

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Frank; or Dialogues between a Father and Son on the subject of Agriculture, Husbandry, and Rural Affairs. By the author of “The Yellow Shoe-strings.” First Series. Kay and Brother, Philadelphia.

We have committed an oversight which causes us no little vexation in not having before noticed these excellent “Dialogues” — but the accident (for it is purely such) is mainly attributable to the unobtrusive and unpretending form in which they are given to the public. Their pamphleted good things have lain buried and perdus — for six or seven weeks we believe — under a huge pile of mere lumber done up in boards. But although “Frank” has come to light at a late hour we do not the less cordially shake him by the hand.

Mr. James Pedder, its author, is well known in England, as the composer of one of the most popular juvenile books of the clay, “The Yellow Shoe-strings” — three words familiar in nursery annals. To indite a really good work of this kind is a task often attempted in vain by men of high literary eminence. In truth the qualifications for success depend not a little upon a clear head, but still more upon a a [[sic]] warm heart. Mr. P. now edits “The Farmer’s Cabinet” of this city.


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Notes:

These items were attributed to Poe by Hull. The review of Memoirs of Madame Malibran may be considered Poe’s with considerable certainty as he repeated many of the same sentences in his “Marginalia” for December of 1844.

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[S:0 - BGM, 1840] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Criticism - Review of New Books [Text-02]