country and received a wound in the head, is pensioned and discharged.
He becomes a poacher, and educates his son (the hero of the tale and
also named Joseph) to the same profession. A pedler, called Byres, is
about to betray the father, who avenges himself by shooting him. The son
takes the burden of the crime upon himself, and flees the country. A
reward is offered for his apprehension—a reward which one Furness, a
schoolmaster, is very anxious to obtain. This Furness dogs the footsteps
of our hero, much as Fagin, the Jew, dogs those of Oliver Twist, forcing
him to quit place after place, just as he begins to get comfortably
settled. In thus roaming about, little Joseph meets with all kinds of
outrageously improbable adventures; and not only this, but the reader is
bored to death with the outrageously improbable adventures of every one
with whom little Joseph comes in contact. Good fortune absolutely besets
him. Money falls at his feet wherever he goes, and he has only to stoop
and pick it up. At length he arrives at the height of prosperity, and
thinks he is entirely rid of Furness, when Furness re-appears. That
Joseph should, in the end, be brought to trial for the pedler’s murder
is so clearly the author’s design, that he who runs may read it, and we
naturally suppose that his persecutor, Furness, is to be the instrument
of this evil. We suppose also, of course, that in bringing this
misfortune upon our hero, the schoolmaster will involve himself in ruin,
in accordance with the common ideas of poetical justice. But
no;—Furness, being found in the way, is killed off, accidentally,
having lived and plotted to no ostensible purpose, through the better
half of the book. Circumstances that have nothing to do with the story
involve Joseph in his trial. He refuses to divulge the real secret of
the murder, and is sentenced to transportation. The elder Rushbrook, in
the meantime, has avoided suspicion and fallen heir to a great property.
Just as his son is about to be sent across the water, some of Joe’s
friends discover the true state of affairs, and obtain from the father,
who is now conveniently upon his death-bed, a confession of his guilt.
Thus all ends well—if the word _well_ can be applied in any sense to
trash so ineffable—the father dies, the son is released, inherits the
estate, marries his lady-love, and prospers in every possible and
impossible way.
We have mentioned the imitation of Fagin. A second plagiarism is feebly
attempted in the character of one Nancy, a trull, who is based upon the
Nancy of Oliver Twist—for Marryatt is not often at the trouble of
diversifying his thefts. This Nancy changes her name three or four
times, and so in fact do each and all of the _dramatis personæ_. This
changing of name is one of the bright ideas with which the author of
“Peter Simple” is most pertinaciously afflicted. We would not be bound
to say how many aliases are borne by the hero in this instance—some
dozen perhaps.
The novels of Marryatt—his later ones at least—are evidently written
to order, for certain considerations, and have to be delivered within
certain periods. He thus finds it his interest to _push on_. Now, for
this mode of progress, _incident_ is the sole thing which answers. One
incident begets another, and so on _ad infinitum_. There is never the
slightest necessity for pausing; especially where no plot is to be cared
for. _Comment_, in the author’s own person, upon what is transacting, is
left entirely out of question. There is thus none of that _binding_
power perceptible, which often gives a species of unity (the unity of
the writer’s individual thought) to the most random narrations. All
works composed as we have stated Marryatt’s to be composed, will be run
on, _incidentally_, in the manner described; and, notwithstanding that
it would seem at first sight to be otherwise, yet it is true that no
works are so insufferably tedious. These are the novels which we read
with a hurry exactly consonant and proportionate with that in which they
were indited. We seldom leave them unfinished, yet we labor through to
the end, and reach it with unalloyed pleasure.
The _commenting_ force can never be safely disregarded. It is far better
to have a dearth of incident, with skilful observations upon it, than
the utmost variety of event, without. In some previous review we have
observed (and our observation is borne out by analysis), that it was the
deep sense of the want of this binding and commenting power, in the old
Greek drama, which gave rise to the chorus. The chorus came at length to
supply, in some measure, a deficiency which is inseparable from dramatic
action, and represented the expression of _the public_ interest or
sympathy in the matters transacted. The successful novelist must, in the
same manner, be careful to bring into view his _private_ interest,
sympathy, and opinion, in regard to his own creations.
We have spoken of “The Poacher” at greater length than we intended; for
it deserves little more than an announcement. It has the merit of a
homely and not unnatural simplicity of style, and is not destitute of
pathos: but this is all. Its English is excessively slovenly. Its events
are monstrously improbable. There is no adaptation of parts about it.
The truth is, it is a pitiable production. There are twenty young men of
our acquaintance who make no pretension to literary ability, yet who
could produce a better book _in a week_.
* * * * *
_Life of Petrarch._ By Thomas Campbell, Esq., _Author of The
Pleasures of Hope_, etc. etc. _Complete in one volume.
Philadelphia: Carey and Hart._
We are not among those who regard the genius of Petrarch as a subject
for enthusiastic admiration. The characteristics of his poetry are not
traits of the highest, or even of a high order; and in accounting for
his fame, the discriminating critic will look rather to the
circumstances which surrounded the man, than to the literary merits of
the pertinacious sonnetteer. Grace and tenderness we grant him—but
these qualities are surely insufficient to establish his poetical
apotheosis.
In other respects he is entitled to high consideration. As a patriot,
notwithstanding some accusations which have been rather urged than
established, we can only regard him with approval. In his republican
principles; in his support of Rienzi at the risk of the displeasure of
the Colonna family; in his whole political conduct, in short, he seems
to have been nobly and disinterestedly zealous for the welfare of his
country. But Petrarch is most important when we look upon him as the
bridge by which, over the dark gulf of the middle ages, the knowledge of
the old world made its passage into the new. His influence on what is
termed the revival of letters was, perhaps, greater than that of any man
who ever lived; certainly far greater than that of any of his immediate
contemporaries. His ardent zeal in recovering and transcribing the lost
treasures of antique lore cannot be too highly appreciated. But for him,
many of our most valued classics might have been numbered with Pindar’s
hymns and dithyrambics. He devoted days and nights to this labor of
love; snatching numerous precious books from the very brink of oblivion.
His judgment in these things was strikingly correct, while his
erudition, for the age in which he lived, and for the opportunities he
enjoyed, has always been a subject of surprise.
Upon the whole, therefore, it is not so very wonderful that Petrarch has
had many biographers. Much, to be sure, of the excessive comment upon
his character may be traced to the generating influence of biography in
itself. One life as surely begets another as a sum at compound interest
doubles itself in a certain space of time. Each personal friend of the
hero is anxious to prove a stricter intimacy with him than that enjoyed
by the personal friend who wrote before. Contemporary contradictions
thus arise, which it is left for posterity to reconcile. In the private
library of the French King, at the Louvre, there exists a _Petrarchian
Library_, consisting of nine hundred volumes illustrative of the life of
the poet. It was collected by Professor Marsand of Padua, and a quarto
catalogue of it was, not many years ago, published at Milan. The _best_
biography of Petrarch, after the one which now lies before us, is no
doubt that of the Abbé de Sade. This prelate, proud of a descent from
Laura, consumed the greater part of his life in toilsome journeys,
seeking material for a life of her lover. He was unquestionably the most
accomplished foreigner who wrote on the affairs of Italy in the
fourteenth century. His account of Petrarch has been made the chief
basis of Mr. Campbell’s present work. We are sorry to see, moreover,
that the author of “The Pleasures of Hope” has followed his authority
even in the matter of wholesale vituperation of all previous writers
upon the subject. De Sade abuses the whole Italian nation, accusing it,
_en masse_, of gross ignorance in respect to our poet. Mr. Campbell
abuses the whole Italian nation and De Sade. Not only this, but he is at
great pains to be bitter upon Archdeacon Coxe, who had bequeathed to the
Library of the British Museum a MS. Life of Petrarch. Of this MS. Mr.
Colburn, it seems, caused a copy to be taken, and, intending it for
publication, requested Mr. Campbell to act as editor. Mr. C. consented,
“surrounded himself with as many books connected with the subject as he
could obtain, and applied assiduously to the study of Italian
literature, which he had neglected for many years.”
Having done all this, our editor sat down to his task of arrangement and
revision. But the Coxe-Petrarchan MSS. appear to have defied his powers.
“If any one” says he, “suspects me of dealing unfairly with the
Archdeacon, let him go to the Library of the British Museum and peruse
the work in question—his skepticism will find its reward. He will agree
with me that the Coxeian MS. is placed in a wrong part of the Museum. It
should not be in the library, but among the bottled abortions of
anatomy, or the wooden visages of the South Sea idols.” Mr. Campbell’s
kind offer of permitting any skeptic to satisfy himself by going to the
Museum and “_perusing_” a huge book which he has just declared to be
unfit for perusal, puts us much in mind of the candor of the Munchausens
and Ferdinand Mendez Pintos, who, telling incredible tales of lands at
the South Pole or mountains in the moon, confound all doubters with a
request to proceed and satisfy themselves by personal inspection.
One thing is certainly _very_ strange:—that Mr. Campbell did not think
of looking at “the Coxe-Petrarchan MS.” in the first place—in the
beginning of things—before “surrounding himself with as many books as
he could obtain,” and especially before “applying himself assiduously to
the study of Italian literature, which he had neglected for many years.”
He would have saved himself much trouble, and the Archdeacon might have
been spared some abuse.
What particularly surprises us in this volume—a large and handsomely
printed octavo—is _its slovenliness of style_. Such a charge as this
has never before been urged against the author of “Hohenlinden.” In
general he is scrupulously correct. The Archdeacon seems to have
bewildered his brains in unsettling his temper. What are we to make of
such phraseology as this, occurring in the very second sentence of the
work?—“It was known that the Rev. Archdeacon Coxe had bequeathed to the
Library of the British Museum a MS. Life of the Poet which _he_ had
written.” Here “_he_” implies the Poet, but is intended to imply the
Archdeacon. Such misconstructions are abundant. We observe, also, far
more serious defects—defects of _tone_. These sentences, for instance,
are in shockingly bad taste—“The most skilful physicians stood aghast
at this disease, (the plague.) The charlatan rejoiced at it, _unless it
attacked himself_, because it put quackery on a par with skill; and
compassionate women _assisted both physicians and quacks in doing no
good to their patients ... This was a dance of the king of terrors over
the earth, and a very rapid one._” Attempts at humor on such subjects
are always exceedingly _low_.
Nor can the general handling of the theme of the book be said to be well
done. The biographer has swallowed the philosopher. While we are
sometimes interested in personal details, we more frequently regret the
want of a comprehensive analysis of the poet’s character, and of the age
in which he lived. The book has no doubt filled, in a certain
unsatisfactory manner, a blank in our biographical literature—since the
authorities referred to can scarcely be termed accessible—but, upon the
whole, it is unworthy Thomas Campbell—still less is it worthy Petrarch.
We cannot say with Crébillon—
—————_un dessein si funeste,_
_S’il n’est digne d’Atrée, est digne de Thyeste._
* * * * *
_The Idler in France._ By the Countess of Blessington. _Two
Volumes. Philadelphia: Carey and Hart._
The Countess of Blessington has never risen in any of her literary
attempts above the merit of an amusing gossiper; and “The Idler in
France” is an excellent gossiping book, and no more. Still, this is
saying a good deal for it as times go.
The work is made up of adventures, reminiscences, trumpery philosophy,
criticism in a small way, scandal, and heterogeneous chit-chat—the
whole interwoven, in the most random manner conceivable, into an account
of a tour in France made many years ago by her ladyship. “Patch Work” is
a title which would have exactly suited the volumes, and it is a pity
that Captain Hall has anticipated it.
The anecdotes, _et cetera_, are by no means confined to France, but
often relate to things in general, happening in no particular place.
Throughout, there is much vivacity and no little amusement. Some of the
scandal, if not _nice_, is exceedingly piquant, and many of the humorous
points are really good.
The Countess tells an old story of the Princesse de Talleyrand, which
will better bear repetition than _some_ of the novelties of the work.
Denon was to dine at Talleyrand’s at a time when the Baron’s work on
Egypt was the common topic in Paris. The Prince wished the Princess to
read a few pages of the book, that she might be able to say some words
of compliment to the author. He consequently ordered his librarian to
send the work to her apartment on the morning of the day of the dinner;
but unfortunately also commanded that a copy of Robinson Crusoe should
be sent to a young _protégée_ of hers who resided in the hotel. Denon’s
work, by mistake, was given to Mademoiselle, and Crusoe to the Princess,
who, at dinner, expressed graciously to the Baron the delight she had
received from his publication, and propounded many anxious inquiries
after the fate of his poor man, Friday!
Upon such subjects as are embraced in the following passages, the
Countess is particularly at home:—
“I observe a difference in the usages _de mœurs_ at Paris, and
in those of London, of which an ignorance might lead to give
offence. In England, a lady is expected to bow to a gentleman
before he presumes to do so to her, thus leaving her the choice
of acknowledging his acquaintance, or not; but in France it is
otherwise, for a man takes off his hat to every woman whom he
has ever met in society, although he does not address her,
unless she encourages him to do so.
“In Paris, if two men are walking or riding together, and one of
them bows to a lady of his acquaintance, the other also takes
off his hat, as a mark of respect to the lady known to his
friend, although he is not acquainted with her. The mode of
salutation is also much more deferential towards women in France
than in England. The hat is held a second longer off the head,
the bow is lower, and the smile of recognition is more
_aimable_, by which I mean, that it is meant to display the
pleasure experienced by the meeting.
“It is true that the really well bred Englishmen are not to be
surpassed in good manners by those of any other country; but all
are not such; and I have seen instances of men in London
acknowledging the presence of ladies, by merely touching,
instead of taking off, their hats when bowing to them; and
though I accounted for this solecism in good breeding by the
belief that it proceeded from the persons practising it wearing
wigs, I discovered that there was not even so good an excuse as
the fear of deranging them, and that their incivility proceeded
from ignorance or _nonchalance_, while the glum countenance of
him who bowed betrayed rather a regret for the necessity of
touching his beaver, than a pleasure at meeting her for whom the
salute was intended.”
The French phrases with which the book is interspersed have not been
read, in proof, with sufficient care, and many awkward blunders occur.
At page 100, vol. I, for example, we have “_Le jeu né vaut pas la
chandelle_,” and at page 234, of the same volume, “_Que voulezvous,
sire-chacun a son vingt Mars?_”
* * * * *
_The World in a Pocket-Book, or Universal Popular Statistics,
Embracing the Commerce, Agriculture, Revenue, Government,
Manufactures, Population, Army, Navy, Religions, Press,
Geography, History, Remarkable Features and Events, Navigation,
Inventions, Discoveries and Genius of every Nation on the
Globe_, etc. etc. By W. H. Crump. _J. Dobson: Philadelphia._
Mr. Crump, the author of this little work, is sufficiently well known to
the reading public; and we need scarcely say that the “World in a
Pocket-Book” is all that it professes to be. Several years have been
occupied in its compilation. It will be found an exceedingly convenient
manual—embracing a wonderful variety of useful and entertaining
matter—the _utile_, nevertheless, prevailing very much, as is right,
over the _dulce_. The title well explains the character of the book. We
have never seen so much really useful information compressed into the
same limits. The public is indebted to Mr. Crump for this little volume,
and we hope he may be repaid for the patient research and labor bestowed
upon it.
* * * * *
_Lives of Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of Italy._ By Mrs.
Shelley, Sir D. Brewster, James Montgomery, _and others. Two
volumes: Philadelphia: Lea and Blanchard._
The lives embraced in these volumes are those of Dante, Petrarch,
Boccaccio, Lorenzo de Medici, Bojardo, Berni, Ariosto, Machiavelli,
Galileo, Guicciardini, Vittoria Colonna, Guarini, Tasso, Chiabrera,
Tassoni, Marini, Filicaja, Metastasio, Goldoni, Alfieri, Monti, and Ugo
Foscolo. We have no clue to the names of the respective writers—but the
biographies are, without exception, well written—although at times
their brevity is annoying. As a whole, the work is not only interesting,
but of value.
* * * * *
[Illustration: LATEST FASHIONS, SEPTEMBER, 1841. FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE]
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and
typesetting errors have been corrected without note.
[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 3, September 1841_, George R.
Graham, Editor]