_Norman Leslie. A Tale of the Present Times. New York: Published by
Harper and Brothers._
Well!--here we have it! This is _the_ book--_the_ book _par
excellence_--the book bepuffed, beplastered, and be-_Mirrored_: the
book "attributed to" Mr. Blank, and "said to be from the pen" of Mr.
Asterisk: the book which has been "about to appear"--"in press"--"in
progress"--"in preparation"--and "forthcoming:" the book "graphic" in
anticipation--"talented" _a priori_--and God knows what _in
prospectu_. For the sake of every thing puffed, puffing, and puffable,
let us take a peep at its contents!
Norman Leslie, gentle reader, a Tale of the Present Times, is, after
all, written by nobody in the world but Theodore S. Fay, and Theodore
S. Fay is nobody in the world but "one of the Editors of the New York
Mirror." The book commences with a Dedication to Colonel Herman Thorn,
in which that worthy personage, whoever he may be, is held up, in
about a dozen lines, to the admiration of the public, as "hospitable,"
"generous," "attentive," "benevolent," "kind-hearted," "liberal,"
"highly-esteemed," and withal "a patron of the arts." But the less we
say of this matter the better.
In the Preface Mr. Fay informs us that the most important features of
his story are founded on fact--that he has availed himself of certain
poetical licenses--that he has transformed character, and particularly
the character of a young lady, (oh fi! Mr. Fay--oh, Mr. Fay, fi!) that
he has sketched certain peculiarities with a mischievous hand--and
that the art of novel writing is as dignified as the art of Canova,
Mozart or Raphael,--from which we are left to infer, that Mr. Fay
himself is as dignified as Raphael, Mozart, and Canova--all three.
Having satisfied us on this head, he goes on to say something about an
humble student, with a feeble hand, throwing groupings upon a canvass,
and standing behind a curtain: and then, after perpetrating all these
impertinences, thinks it best "frankly to bespeak the indulgence of
the solemn and sapient critics." Body of Bacchus! _we_, at least, are
neither solemn nor sapient, and, therefore, do not feel ourselves
bound to show him a shadow of mercy. But will any body tell us what is
the object of Prefaces in general, and what is the meaning of Mr.
Fay's Preface in particular?
As far as we can understand the plot of Norman Leslie, it is this. A
certain family reside in Italy--"independent," "enlightened,"
"affectionate," "happy,"--and all that. Their villa, of course, stands
upon the seashore, and their whole establishment is, we are assured,
"a scene of Heaven," &c. Mr. Fay says he will not even attempt to
describe it--why, therefore, should we? A daughter of this family is
nineteen when she is wooed by a young Neapolitan, Rinaldo, of "mean
extraction, but of great beauty and talent." The lover, being a man of
suspicious character, is rejected by the parents, and a secret
marriage ensues. The lady's brother pursues the bridegroom--they
fight--and the former is killed. The father and mother die (it is
impossible to see for what purpose they ever lived) and Rinaldo flies
to Venice. Upon rejoining her husband in that city, the lady (for Mr.
Fay has not thought her worth enduing with a specific appellation)
discovers {55} him, for the first time, to be a rascal. One fine day
he announces his intention of leaving herself and son for an
indefinite time. The lady beseeches and finally threatens. "It was the
first unfolding," says she, in a letter towards the _dénouement_ of
the story, "of that character which neither he nor I knew belonged to
my nature. It was the first uncoiling of the basilisk within me, (good
Heavens, a snake in a lady's stomach!). He gazed on me incredulously,
and cooly smiled. You remember that smile--I fainted!!!" Alas! Mr.
Davy Crockett,--Mr. Davy Crockett, alas!--thou art beaten hollow--thou
art defunct, and undone! thou hast indeed succeeded in grinning a
squirrel from a tree, but it surpassed even thine extraordinary
abilities to smile a lady into a fainting fit!
"When I recovered"--continues the lady--"he was gone. It was two years
before I could trace him. At length I found he had sailed for America.
I followed him in the depth of winter--I and my child. I knew not the
name he had assumed, and I was struck mute with astonishment, in your
beautiful city, on beholding, surrounded by fair ladies, the form of
my husband, still beautiful, and still adored. You know the rest." But
as our readers may not be as well informed as the correspondent of the
fair forsaken, we will enlighten them with some farther particulars.
Rinaldo, upon leaving his _cara sposa_, had taken shipping for New
York, where, assuming the name of "Count Clairmont of the French
army," he succeeds in cutting a dash, or, in more proper parlance, in
creating a sensation, among the beaux and belles of the city of
Gotham. One fair lady, and rich heiress, Miss Flora Temple, is
particularly honored by his attentions, and the lady's mother, Mrs.
T., fired with the idea of her daughter becoming a real countess,
makes no scruple of encouraging his addresses. Matters are in this
position when the wife of the adventurer arrives in New York, and is
quite bewildered with astonishment upon beholding, one snowy day, her
beloved Rinaldo sleighing it to and fro about the streets of New York.
In the midst of her amazement she is in danger of being run over by
some horses, when a certain personage, by name Norman Leslie, but who
might, with equal propriety, be called Sir Charles Grandison, flies to
her assistance, whisks herself and child up in the very nick of time,
and suddenly rescues them, as Mr. Fay has it, "from the very jaws of
Death"--by which we are to understand from the very hoofs of the
horses. The lady of course swoons--then recovers--and then--is
excessively grateful. Her gratitude, however, being of no service just
at that moment, is bottled up for use hereafter, and will no doubt,
according to established usage in such cases, come into play towards
the close of the second volume. But we shall see.
Having ascertained the address of Rinaldo, _alias_ the Count
Clairmont, the lady, next morning, is successful in obtaining an
interview. Then follows a second edition of entreaties and threats,
but, fortunately for the nerves Of Mrs. Rinaldo, the Count, upon this
occasion, is so forbearing as not to indulge in a smile. She accuses
him of a design to marry Miss Temple, and he informs her that it is no
concern of hers--that she is not his wife, their marriage having been
a feigned one. "She would have cried him through the city for a
villain," (Dust ho!--she should have advertised him) but he swears
that, in that case, he will never sleep until he has taken the life of
both the lady and her child, which assurance puts an end to the
debate. "He then frankly confesses"--says Mrs. Rinaldo, in the letter
which we have before quoted,--"that his passion for Miss Temple was
only a mask--he loved her not. _Me_ he said he loved. It was his
intention to fly when he could raise a large sum of money, and he
declared that I should be his companion." His designs, however, upon
Miss Temple fail--that lady very properly discarding the rascal.
Nothing daunted at this mishap our Count proceeds to make love to a
certain Miss Rosalie Romain, and with somewhat better success. He
prevails upon her to fly, and to carry with her upon her person a
number of diamonds which the lover hopes to find sufficient for his
necessities. He manages also to engage Mrs. Rinaldo (so we must call
her for want of a better name) in his schemes.
It has so happened that for some time prior to these occurrences,
Clairmont and Norman Leslie, the hero of the novel, have been sworn
foes. On the day fixed for Miss Romain's elopement, that young lady
induces Mr. Leslie to drive her, in a gig, a short distance out of
town. They are met by no less a personage than Mrs. Rinaldo herself,
in another gig, and driving (_proh pudor!_) through the woods _sola_.
Hereupon Miss Rosalie Romain very deliberately, and to the great
astonishment, no doubt, of Mr. Leslie, gets out of that gentleman's
gig, and into the gig of Mrs. Rinaldo. Here's plot! as Vapid says in
the play. Our friend Norman, finding that nothing better can be done,
turns his face towards New York again, where he arrives, in due time,
without farther accident or adventure. Late the same evening Clairmont
sends the ladies aboard a vessel bound for Naples, and which is to
sail in the morning--returning himself, for the present, to his hotel
in Broadway. While here he receives a horse-whipping from Mr. Leslie
on account of certain insinuations in disparagement of that
gentleman's character. Not relishing this treatment he determines upon
revenge, and can think of no better method of accomplishing it than
the directing of public suspicion against Mr. Leslie as the murderer
of Miss Romain--whose disappearance has already created much
excitement. He sends a message to Mrs. Rinaldo that the vessel must
sail without him, and that he would, by a French ship, meet them on
their landing at Naples. He then flings a hat and feathers belonging
to Miss Romain upon a stream, and her handkerchief in a
wood--afterwards remaining some time in America to avert suspicion
from himself. Leslie is arrested for the murder, and the proofs are
damning against him. He is, however, to the great indignation of the
populace, acquitted, Miss Temple appearing to testify that she
actually saw Miss Romain subsequently to her ride with Leslie. Our
hero, however, although acquitted, is universally considered guilty,
and, through the active malice of Clairmont, is heaped with every
species of opprobrium. Miss Temple, who, it appears, is in love with
him, falls ill with grief: but is cured, after all other means have
failed, by a letter from her lover announcing a reciprocal
passion--for the young lady has hitherto supposed him callous to her
charms. Leslie himself, however, takes it into his head, at this
critical juncture, to travel; and, having packed up his baggage, does
actually forget himself so far as to go {56} a-Willising in foreign
countries. But we have no reason to suppose that, goose as the young
gentleman is, he is silly enough to turn travelling correspondent to
any weekly paper. In Rome, having assumed the _alias_ of Montfort, he
meets with a variety of interesting adventures. All the ladies die for
him: and one in particular, Miss Antonia Torrini, the only child of a
Duke with several millions of piastres, and a palace which Mr. Fay
thinks very much like the City Hall in New York, absolutely throws
herself _sans ceremonie_ into his arms, and meets--tell it not in
Gath!--with a flat and positive refusal.
Among other persons whom he encounters is a monk Ambrose, a painter
Angelo, another painter Ducci, a Marquis Alezzi, and a Countess D.,
which latter personage he is convinced of having seen at some prior
period of his life. For a page or two we are entertained with a
prospect of a conspiracy, and have great hopes that the principal
characters in the plot will so far oblige us as to cut one another's
throats: but (alas for human expectations!) Mr. Fay having clapped his
hands, and cried "Presto!--vanish!" the whole matter ends in smoke,
or, as our author beautifully expresses it, is "veiled in impenetrable
mystery."
Mr. Leslie now pays a visit to the painter Ducci, and is astonished at
there beholding the portrait of the very youth whose life he saved,
together with that of his mother, from the horses in New York. Then
follows a series of interesting ejaculations, among which we are able
to remember only "horrible suspicion!" "wonderful development!" "alack
and alas!" with some two or three others. Mr. Leslie is, however,
convinced that the portrait of the boy is, as Mr. F. gracefully has
it, "inexplicably connected with his own mysterious destiny." He pays
a visit to the Countess D., and demands of her if she was, at any
time, acquainted with a gentleman called Clairmont. The lady very
properly denies all knowledge of that character, and Mr. Leslie's
"mysterious destiny" is in as bad a predicament as ever. He is however
fully convinced that Clairmont is the origin of all evil--we do not
mean to say that he is precisely the devil--but the origin of all Mr.
Leslie's evil. Therefore, and on this account, he goes to a
masquerade, and, sure enough, Mr. Clairmont, (who has not been heard
of for seven or eight years,) Mr. Clairmont (we suppose through Mr.
L's "mysterious destiny") happens to go, at precisely the same time,
to precisely the same masquerade. But there are surely no bounds to
Mr. Fay's excellent invention. Miss Temple, of course, happens to be
at the same place, and Mr. Leslie is in the act of making love to her
once more, when the "inexplicable" Countess D. whispers into his ear
some ambiguous sentences in which Mr. L. is given to understand that
he must beware of all the Harlequins in the room, one of whom is
Clairmont. Upon leaving the masquerade, somebody hands him a note
requesting him to meet the unknown writer at St. Peter's. While he is
busy reading the paper he is uncivilly interrupted by Clairmont, who
attempts to assassinate him, but is finally put to flight. He hies,
then, to the rendezvous at St. Peter's, where "the unknown" tells him
St. Peter's won't answer, and that he must proceed to the Coliseum. He
goes--why should he not?--and there not only finds the Countess D. who
turns out to be Mrs. Rinaldo, and who now uncorks her bottle of
gratitude, but also Flora Temple, Flora Temple's father, Clairmont,
Kreutzner, a German friend from New York, and, last but not least,
Rosalie Romain herself; all having gone there, no doubt, at three
o'clock in the morning, under the influence of that interesting young
gentleman Norman Leslie's "most inexplicable and mysterious destiny."
Matters now come to a crisis. The hero's innocence is established, and
Miss Temple falls into his arms in consequence. Clairmont, however,
thinks he can do nothing better than shoot Mr. Leslie, and is about to
do so, when he is very justly and very dexterously knocked in the head
by Mr. Kreutzner. Thus ends the Tale of the Present Times, and thus
ends the most inestimable piece of balderdash with which the common
sense of the good people of America was ever so openly or so
villainously insulted.
We do not mean to say that there is positively _nothing_ in Mr. Fay's
novel to commend--but there is indeed very little. One incident is
tolerably managed, in which, at the burning house of Mr. Temple,
Clairmont anticipates Leslie in his design of rescuing Flora. A
cotillon scene, too, where Morton, a simple fop, is frequently
interrupted in his attempts at making love to Miss Temple, by the
necessity of forward-twoing and _sachezing_, (as Mr. Fay thinks proper
to call it) is by no means very bad, although savoring too much of the
farcical. A duel story told by Kreutzner is really good, but
unfortunately not original, there being a Tale in the _Diary of a
Physician_, from which both its matter and manner are evidently
borrowed. And here we are obliged to pause; for we can positively
think of nothing farther worth even a qualified commendation. The
plot, as will appear from the running outline we have given of it, is
a monstrous piece of absurdity and incongruity. The characters _have
no character_; and, with the exception of Morton, who is, (perhaps)
amusing, are, one and all, vapidity itself. No attempt seems to have
been made at individualization. All the good ladies and gentlemen are
demi-gods and demi-goddesses, and all the bad are--the d--l. The hero,
Norman Leslie, "that young and refined man with a leaning to poetry,"
is a great coxcomb and a great fool. What else must we think of a
_bel-esprit_ who, in picking up a rose just fallen from the curls of
his lady fair, can hit upon no more appropriate phrase with which to
make her a presentation of the same, than "Miss Temple, you have
dropped your rose--allow me!"--who courts his mistress with a "Dear,
dear Flora, how I love you!"--who calls a _buffet_ a _bufet_, an
_improvisatore_ an _improvisitore_--who, before bestowing charity, is
always ready with the canting question if the object be
_deserving_--who is everlastingly talking of his foe "sleeping in the
same red grave with himself," as if American sextons made a common
practice of burying two people together--and, who having not a sous in
his pocket at page 86, pulls out a handful at page 87, although he has
had no opportunity of obtaining a copper in the interim?
As regards Mr. Fay's _style_, it is unworthy of a school-boy. The
"Editor of the New York Mirror" has either never seen an edition of
Murray's Grammar, or he has been a-Willising so long as to have
forgotten his vernacular language. Let us examine one or two of his
sentences at random. Page 28, vol. i. "He {57} was doomed to wander
through the _fartherest_ climes alone and branded." Why not say at
once _fartherertherest_? Page 150, vol. i. "Yon kindling orb should be
hers; and that faint spark close to its side should teach her how dim
and yet how near my soul was to her own." What is the meaning of all
this? Is Mr. Leslie's soul dim to her own, as well as near to her
own?--for the sentence implies as much. Suppose we say "should teach
her how dim was my soul, and yet how near to her own." Page 101, vol.
i. "You are both right and both wrong--you, Miss Romain, to judge so
harshly of all men who are not versed in the easy elegance of the
drawing room, and your father in too great lenity towards men of
sense, &c." This is really something new, but we are sorry to say,
something incomprehensible. Suppose we translate it. "You are both
right and both wrong--you, Miss Romain, _are both right and wrong_ to
judge so harshly of all not versed in the elegance of the
drawing-room, &c.; and your father _is both right and wrong_ in too
great lenity towards men of sense."--Mr. Fay, have you ever visited
Ireland in your peregrinations? But the book is full to the brim of
such absurdities, and it is useless to pursue the matter any farther.
There is not a single page of Norman Leslie in which even a school-boy
would fail to detect at least two or three gross errors in Grammar,
and some two or three most egregious sins against common-sense.
We will dismiss the "Editor of the Mirror" with a few questions. When
did you ever know, Mr. Fay, of any prosecuting attorney behaving so
much like a bear as _your_ prosecuting attorney in the novel of Norman
Leslie? When did you ever hear of an American Court of Justice
objecting to the testimony of a witness on the ground that the said
witness _had an interest_ in the cause at issue? What do you mean by
informing us at page 84, vol. i, "that you _think_ much faster than
you write?" What do you mean by "_the wind roaring in the air_?" see
page 26, vol. i. What do you mean by "an _unshadowed_ Italian girl?"
see page 67, vol. ii. Why are you always talking about "stamping of
feet," "kindling and flashing of eyes," "plunging and parrying,"
"cutting and thrusting," "passes through the body," "gashes open in
the cheek," "sculls cleft down," "hands cut off," and blood gushing
and bubbling, and doing God knows what else--all of which pretty
expressions may be found on page 88, vol. i.? What "mysterious and
inexplicable destiny" compels you to the so frequent use, in all its
inflections, of that euphonical dyssyllable _blister_? We will call to
your recollection some few instances in which you have employed it.
Page 185, vol. i. "But an arrival from the city brought the fearful
intelligence in all its _blistering_ and naked details." Page 193,
vol. i. "What but the glaring and _blistering_ truth of the charge
would select him, &c." Page 39, vol. ii. "Wherever the winds of heaven
wafted the English language, the _blistering_ story must have been
echoed." Page 150, vol. ii. "Nearly seven years had passed away, and
here he found himself, as at first, still marked with the _blistering_
and burning brand." Here we have a _blistering_ detail, a _blistering_
truth, a _blistering_ story, and a _blistering_ brand, to say nothing
of innumerable other blisters interspersed throughout the book. But we
have done with Norman Leslie,--if ever we saw as silly a thing, may we
be ---- blistered.