"She upward heaved her mighty bones
And rived both wall and gray marble-stones."
Jamieson had the true instinct of a translator, though his own verses
defy the stanchest reader; and, reasoning by analogy, Dr. Prior's
translations are so bad that he ought to be capable of very good
original poetry.
However, with all its defects, Dr. Prior's book is of value for the
information it gives. Under the dead ribs of his translations the reader
familiar with old ballads can create a life for himself, and can form
some conception of the spirit and strength of the originals.
Mr. Chambers's pamphlet is one that we should hardly have expected from
the editor of the best collection of ballads in the language before
that of Professor Child. Directly in the teeth of all probability, he
attributes the bulk of the _romantic_ Scottish ballads to Lady Wardlaw,
who wrote "Hardyknute." This is one of those theories (like that of Lord
Bacon being the author of Shakspeare's plays) which cannot be argued,
but which every one familiar with the subject challenges peremptorily.
Without going very deeply into the matter, Mr. Norval Clyne has put in
a clever plea in arrest of judgment. The truth is, that, in the present
state of our knowledge, "Hardyknute" could not pass muster as an antique
better than "Vortigern," or the poems of "Master Rowley"; and the notion
that Lady Wardlaw could have written "Sir Patrick Spens" will not hold
water better than a sieve, when we consider how hopelessly inferior are
the imitations of old ballads written by Scott, with fifty times her
familiarity with the originals, and a man of genius besides.
* * * * *
_Miss Gilbert's Career_. An American Story. By J.G. HOLLAND. New York:
Charles Scribner.
There is scarcely a more hazardous experiment for any novelist than "a
novel with a purpose." If the moral does not run away with the story, it
is in most cases only because the author's lucky star has made the moral
too feeble, in spite of his efforts, to do that or anything else,--in
other words, because his book has fortunately defeated its own object.
That any clever girl will be kept from the perilous paths of authorship
by the warnings, however strongly inculcated, of any novel whatever, we
are not prepared to assert: we venture to say no one will be deterred by
the history of Miss Fanny Gilbert. If a woman's happiness is to be found
in love, and not in fame, the question nevertheless recurs,--What is she
to do before the love comes? Our author only shows that his heroine's
restless unhappiness was owing to her having to wait for her heart to be
awakened: to prove what he desires to prove, he should demonstrate that
it was owing to her having adopted authorship during the time of her
waiting. During that time, Miss Fanny Gilbert wrote novels, and was
unhappy: would she have been happy, if, in the interval, she had
chronicled small beer? And even admitting that her authorship caused her
unhappiness, we can scarcely believe Dr. Holland prepared to say, after
having allowed his heroine a real talent, as one condition of the
problem, that she ought to have concealed that talent in the decorous
napkin of silence.
What the moral loses the story gains. Our author has lost nothing of
that genuine love of Nature, of that quick perception of the comic
element in men and things, of that delightful freshness and liveliness,
which threw such a charm about the former writings of Timothy Titcomb.
No story can be pronounced a failure which has vivacity and interest;
and the volume before us adds to vivacity and interest vigorous sketches
of character and scenery, droll conversation and incidents, a frequent
and kindly humor, and, underlying all, a true, earnest purpose, which
claims not only approval for the author, but respect for the man.
Dr. Holland describes admirably whatever he has himself seen.
Unfortunately, he has not seen his hero or his heroine. About Arthur
Blague there is nothing real or distinctive. There is a life and reality
in many scenes of his experience; but the central figure of the group
stands conventional and inanimate,--the ordinary walking gentleman of
the stage,--the stereo-typed hero of the novel,--hero only by virtue of
his finally marrying the heroine. The one merit of the delineation--that
it is a portrait of a delicate Christian gentleman--is sadly marred by
the vulgar smartness of Arthur's repartees with the scampish New-Yorker.
A victory in such a contest was by no means necessary to vindicate the
hero's superiority; and if he so far forgot himself as to engage at all
in the degrading warfare, a defeat would have been more creditable. His
retorts are undeniably smart; but "smartness" is the attribute of a
"fellow," not of a "gentleman."
Miss Fanny Gilbert is a warm-hearted, high-spirited girl, clever and
ambitious, and disposed at first to look contemptuously on poor Arthur,
whose humble labors appear in most dingy and sordid colors, when
contrasted with the fair Fanny's gorgeous dreams. She is not a very
fascinating nor a very real heroine; but she is better than most of our
heroines, and some of her experiences are very pleasantly told.
Arthur's miserly employer is very good, and his shrewd friend Cheek is
capitally drawn. It was a peculiarly happy thought to make Cheek into
a railroad-conductor, and finally into a "gentlemanly and efficient"
superintendent. Nothing else would have suited his character half so
well. The business-like religionists, Moustache and Breastpin, are not
so good as the author meant to have them. The young bookseller is very
well done, and Dr. Gilbert very natural and lifelike. The story of the
Doctor's awakened interest in his daughter's success, and of his journey
to New York, is very well told. We like especially the lesson which
the triumphant authoress, in the full glory of her fame, receives,
on finding that her father sets a higher value on his son's least
achievement than on his daughter's highest success,--that, however a
woman may deserve a man's place, the world will never award it to her.
It would have been more effective, however, if Dr. Holland had not been
quite so anxious that no one should fail to perceive the moral,--if
he had had a little more confidence in his readers. But we can give
unqualified praise to the scene between Miss Gilbert and the little
crippled boy, which is one of the most beautiful and touching pictures
ever yet presented.
It is a real satisfaction to find a book which one may venture to
criticize fearlessly, knowing that it will bear the test,--especially
at present, when one needs be as chary of trying any book fairly as
Don Quixote was of proving his unlucky helmet. And an additional
satisfaction is caused by the fact, that the book, not only in origin,
but in essence, is American from cover to cover.