small village near Lampsacus in Ionia. He is old, feeble, and in
poverty. Philothea watches by his side, and supports him with the
labor of her hands. Plato visits the sage of Clazomenæ in his retreat,
and brings news of the still-beloved Athens. The pestilence is
raging—the Piræus is heaped with unburied dead. Hipparete has fallen a
victim. Pericles was one of the first sufferers, but has recovered
through the skill of Hippocrates. Phidias who, after his sentence of
exile, departed with Eudora to Elis, and grew in honor among the
Eleans—is dead. Eudora still remains at his house, Elis having
bestowed upon her the yearly revenues of a farm, in consideration of
the affectionate care bestowed upon her illustrious benefactor.
Philæmon is in Persia instructing the sons of the wealthy Satrap
Megabyzus. Alcibiades is living in unbridled license at Athens. But
the visiter has not yet spoken of Paralus, the lover of Philothea.
“Daughter of Alcimenes,” he at length says, (we copy here half a page
of the volume, as a specimen of the grace of the narrative)—
“Daughter of Alcimenes, your heart reproaches me that I forbear to
speak of Paralus. That I have done so, has not been from
forgetfulness, but because I have with vain and self-defeating
prudence sought for cheerful words to convey sad thoughts. Paralus
breathes and moves, but is apparently unconscious of existence in this
world. He is silent and abstracted, like one just returned from the
cave of Trophonius. Yet beautiful forms are ever with him in infinite
variety; for his quiescent soul has now undisturbed recollection of
the divine archetypes in the ideal world, of which all earthly beauty
is the shadow.”
“He is happy, then, though living in the midst of death,” answered
Philothea. “But does his memory retain no traces of his friends?”
“One—and one only,” he replied. “The name of Philothea was too deeply
engraven to be washed away by the waters of oblivion. He seldom
speaks; but when he does you are ever in his visions. The sound of a
female voice accompanying the lyre is the only thing that makes him
smile; and nothing moves him to tears save the farewell song of
Orpheus to Eurydice. In his drawings there is more of majesty and
beauty than Phydias or Myron ever conceived; and one figure is always
there—the Pythia, the Muse, the Grace, or something combining all
these, more spiritual than either.”
The most special object of Plato's visit to Anaxagoras is the bearing
of a message from Pericles. Hippocrates has expressed a hope that the
presence of Philothea may restore, in some measure, the health and
understanding of Paralus, and the once ambitious father has sent to
beg the maiden's consent to a union with his now deeply afflicted son.
“Philothea would not leave me even if I urged it with tears,” replied
Anaxagoras, “and I am forbidden to return to Athens.”
“Pericles has provided an asylum for you, on the borders of Attica,”
answered Plato, “and the young people would soon join you after their
marriage. He did not suppose that his former proud opposition to their
loves would be forgotten; but he said hearts like yours would forgive
it all, the more readily because he was now a man deprived of power,
and his son suffering under a visitation of the gods. Alcibiades
laughed aloud when he heard of this proposition; and said his uncle
would never think of making it to any but a maiden who sees the
zephyrs run, and hears the stars sing. He spoke truth in his profane
merriment. Pericles knows that she who obediently listens to the
inward voice, will be most likely to seek the happiness of others,
forgetful of her own wrongs.”
“I do not believe the tender hearted maiden ever cherished resentment
against any living thing,” replied Anaxagoras. “She often reminds me
of Hesiod's description of Leto:
Placid to men and to immortal gods;
Mild from the first beginning of her days;
Gentlest of all in Heaven.
She has indeed been a precious gift to my old age. Simple and loving
as she is, there are times when her looks and words fill me with awe,
as if I stood in the presence of divinity.”
“It is a most lovely union when the Muses and the Charities inhabit
the same temple,” said Plato. “I think she learned of you to be a
constant worshipper of the innocent and graceful nymphs, who preside
over kind and gentle actions. But tell me, Anaxagoras, if this
marriage is declined, who will protect the daughter of Alcimenes when
you are gone?”
The philosopher replied, “I have a sister Heliodora, the youngest of
my father's flock, who is Priestess of the Sun, at Ephesus. Of all my
family, she has least {661} despised me for preferring philosophy to
gold; and report bespeaks her wise and virtuous. I have asked and
obtained from her a promise to protect Philothea when I am gone; but I
will tell my child the wishes of Pericles, and leave her to the
guidance of her own heart. If she enters the home of Paralus, she will
be to him, as she has been to me, a bounty like the sunshine.”
Philothea assents joyfully to the union, although Chrysippus, the
wealthy prince of Clazomenæ, has made her an offer of his hand.
Anaxagoras dies. His grand-daughter, accompanied by Plato, and some
female acquaintances, takes her departure for Athens, and arrives
safely in the harbor of Phalerum. No important change has occurred in
Paralus, who still shows a total unconsciousness of past events. The
lovers are, however, united. Many long passages about this portion of
the narrative are of a lofty and original beauty. The dreamy,
distraught, yet unembittered existence of the husband, revelling in
the visions of the Platonic philosophy—the anxiety of the father and
his friends—the ardent, the pure and chivalric love, with the
uncompromising devotion and soothing attentions of the wife—are
pictures whose merit will not fail to be appreciated by all whose good
opinion is of value.
Hippocrates has been informed that Tithonus, the Ethiopian, possesses
the power of leading the soul from the body, “by means of a
soul-directing wand,” and the idea arises that the process may produce
a salutary effect upon Paralus. Tithonus will be present at the
Olympian Games, and thither the patient is conveyed, under charge of
Pericles, Plato and his wife. On the route, at Corinth, a letter from
Philæmon, addressed to Anaxagoras, is handed by Artaphernes, the
Persian, to Philothea. At the close of the epistle, the writer
expresses a wish to be informed of Eudora's fate, and an earnest hope
that she is not beyond the reach of Philothea's influence. The
travellers finally stop at a small town in the neighborhood of
Olympia, and at the residence of Proclus and his wife Melissa, “worthy
simple-hearted people with whom Phidias had died, and under whose
protection he had placed his adopted daughter.” The meeting between
this maiden and Philothea is full of interest. The giddy heart of
Eudora is chastened by sorrow. Phidias had desired her marriage with
his nephew Pandœnus—but her first love is not yet forgotten. A letter
is secretly written by Philothea to Philæmon, acquainting him with the
change in the character of Eudora, and with her unabated affection for
himself. “Sometimes,” she writes, “a stream is polluted in the
fountain, and its waters are tainted through all its wanderings; and
sometimes the traveller throws into a pure rivulet some unclean thing,
which floats awhile and is then rejected from its bosom. Eudora is the
pure rivulet. A foreign strain floated on the surface, but never
mingled with its waters.”
The efforts of Tithonus are inadequate to the effectual relief of
Paralus. We quote in full the account of the Ethiopian's attempt. Mrs.
Child is here, however, partially indebted to a statement by
Clearchus, of an operation somewhat similar to that of Tithonus,
performed either by the aid, or in the presence of Aristotle. It will
be seen that even the chimeras of animal magnetism were, in some
measure, known to the ancients. The relation of Clearchus mentions a
diviner with a spirit-drawing wand, and a youth whose soul was thereby
taken from the body, leaving it inanimate. The soul being replaced by
the aid of the magician, the youth enters into a wild account of the
events which befell him during the trance. The passage in “Philothea”
runs thus.
Tithonus stood behind the invalid and remained perfectly quiet for
many minutes. He then gently touched the back part of his head with a
small wand, and leaning over him, whispered in his ear. An unpleasant
change immediately passed over the countenance of Paralus. He
endeavored to place his hand on his head, and a cold shivering seized
him. Philothea shuddered, and Pericles grew pale, as they watched
these symptoms; but the silence remained unbroken. A second and a
third time the Ethiopian touched him with his wand, and spoke in
whispers. The expression of pain deepened; insomuch that his friends
could not look upon him without anguish of heart. Finally his limbs
straightened, and became perfectly rigid and motionless.
Tithonus, perceiving the terror he had excited, said soothingly, “O
Athenians, be not afraid. I have never seen the soul withdrawn without
a struggle with the body. Believe me it will return. The words I
whispered, were those I once heard from the lips of Plato. ‘The human
soul is guided by two horses—one white with a flowing mane, earnest
eyes, and wings like a swan, whereby he seeks to fly; but the other is
black, heavy, and sleepy-eyed—ever prone to lie down upon the earth.’
The second time I whispered, ‘Lo, the soul seeketh to ascend!’ And the
third time I said, ‘Behold, the winged separates from that which has
no wings.’ When life returns, Paralus will have remembrance of these
words.”
“Oh, restore him! restore him!” exclaimed Philothea, in tones of
agonized intreaty.
Tithonus answered with respectful tenderness, and again stood in
profound silence several minutes, before he raised the wand. At the
first touch, a feeble shivering gave indication of returning life. As
it was repeated a second and a third time, with a brief interval
between each movement, the countenance of the sufferer grew more dark
and troubled, until it became fearful to look upon. But the heavy
shadow gradually passed away, and a dreamy smile returned, like a
gleam of sunshine after storms. The moment Philothea perceived an
expression familiar to her heart, she knelt by the couch, seized the
hand of Paralus, and bathed it with her tears.
When the first gush of emotion had subsided, she said in a soft low
voice, “Where have you been, dear Paralus?” The invalid answered, “A
thick vapor enveloped me, as with a dark cloud; and a stunning noise
pained my head with its violence. A voice said to me, ‘The human soul
is guided by two horses; one white, with a flowing mane, earnest eyes,
and wings like a swan, whereby he seeks to fly; but the other is
black, heavy, and sleepy-eyed—ever prone to lie down upon the earth.’
Then the darkness began to clear away. But there was strange
confusion. All things seemed rapidly to interchange their colors and
their forms—the sound of a storm was in mine ears—the elements and the
stars seemed to crowd upon me—and my breath was taken away. Then I
heard a voice saying, ‘Lo, the soul seeketh to ascend!’ And I looked
and saw the chariot and horses, of which the voice had spoken. The
beautiful white horse gazed upward, and tossed his mane, and spread
his wings impatiently; but the black horse slept upon the ground. The
voice again said, ‘Behold, the winged separates from that which hath
no wings!’ And suddenly the chariot ascended, and I saw the white
horse on light, fleecy clouds, in a far blue sky. Then I heard a
pleasing silent sound—as if dew-drops made music as they fell. I
breathed freely, and my form seemed to expand itself with buoyant
life. All at once I was floating in the air, above a quiet lake, where
reposed seven beautiful islands, full of the sound of harps; and
Philothea slept at my side, with a garland on her head. I asked, ‘Is
{662} this the divine home whence I departed into the body?’ And a
voice above my head answered, ‘It is the divine home. Man never leaves
it. He ceases to perceive.’ Afterward, I looked downward, and saw my
dead body lying on a couch. Then again there came strange
confusion—and a painful clashing of sounds—and all things rushing
together. But Philothea took my hand, and spoke to me in gentle tones,
and the discord ceased.”
The mind of Paralus derives but a temporary benefit from the skill of
Tithonus, and even the attendance of the patient upon the Olympian
games (a suggestion of Pericles) fails of the desired effect. A
partial revival is indeed thus brought about—but death rapidly ensues.
The friends of the deceased return to Athens, accompanied by the
adopted daughter of Phidias. Philothea dies. Not many days after the
funeral ceremonies, Eudora suddenly disappears. Alcibiades is
suspected (justly) of having entrapped her to his summer residence in
Salamis. The pages which follow this event detail the rescue of the
maiden by the ingenuity of two faithful slaves, Mibra and Geta—the
discovery of her father in Artaphernes the Persian, whom she
accompanies to the court of Artaxerxes—her joyful meeting there, and
marriage with Philæmon, after refusing the proffered hand of Xerxes
himself.
In regard to the species of novel of which “_Philothea_” is no ignoble
specimen, not any powers on the part of any author can render it, at
the present day, popular. Nor is the voice of the people in this
respect, to be adduced as an evidence of corrupted taste. We have
little of purely human sympathy in the distantly antique; and this
little is greatly weakened by the constant necessity of effort in
conceiving _appropriateness_ in manners, costume, habits, and modes of
thought, so widely at variance with those around us. It should be
borne in mind that the “_Pompeii_” of Bulwer cannot be considered as
altogether belonging to this species, and fails in popularity only in
proportion as it does so belong to it. This justly admired work owes
what it possesses of attraction for the mass, to the stupendousness of
its leading event—an event so far from weakened in interest by age,
rendered only more thrillingly exciting by the obscurity which years
have thrown over its details—to the skill with which the mind of the
reader is prepared for this event—to the vigor with which it is
depicted—and to the commingling _with this event_ human passions
wildly affected thereby—passions the sternest of our nature, and
common to all character and time. By means so effectual we are hurried
over, and observe not, unless with a critical eye, those radical
defects or difficulties (coincident with the choice of epoch) of which
we have spoken above. The fine perception of Bulwer endured these
difficulties as inseparable from the groundwork of his narrative—did
not mistake them for facilities. The plot of “_Philothea_,” like that
of the Telemachus, and of the Anarcharsis, should be regarded, on the
other hand, as the mere vehicle for bringing forth the antique
“manners, costume, habits, and modes of thought,” which we have just
mentioned as at variance with a popular interest to-day. Regarding it
in this, its only proper light, we shall be justified in declaring the
book an honor to our country, and a signal triumph for our
country-women.
Philothea might be introduced advantageously into our female
academies. Its purity of thought and lofty morality are
unexceptionable. It would prove an effectual aid in the study of Greek
antiquity, with whose spirit it is wonderfully imbued. We say
wonderfully—for when we know that the fair authoress disclaims all
knowledge of the ancient languages, we are inclined to consider her
performance as even wonderful. There are some points, to be sure, at
which a scholar might cavil—some perversions of the character of
Pericles—of the philosophy of Anaxagoras—the trial of Aspasia and her
friends for blasphemy, should have been held before the Areopagus, and
not the people—and we can well believe that an erudite acquaintance of
ours would storm at more than one discrepancy in the arrangement of
the symposium at the house of Aspasia. But the many egregious blunders
of Barthelemi are still fresh in our remembrance, and the difficulty
of avoiding errors in similar writings, even by the professed scholar,
cannot readily be conceived by the merely general reader.
On the other hand, these discrepancies are exceedingly few in
Philothea, while there is much evidence on every page of a long
acquaintance with the genius of the times, places, and people
depicted. As a mere tale, too, the work has merit of no common
order—and its purity of language should especially recommend it to the
attention of teachers.
SHEPPARD LEE.
_Sheppard Lee: written by himself. New York: Harper and Brothers._
Like Philothea, this novel is an original in _American_ Belles Lettres
at least; and these deviations, however indecisive, from the more
beaten paths of imitation, look well for our future literary
prospects. Thinking thus, we will be at the trouble of going through
briefly, in detail, the plot and the adventures of Sheppard Lee.
The hero relates his own story. He is born “somewhere towards the
close of the last century,” in the State of New Jersey, in one of the
oldest counties that border upon the Delaware river. His father is a
farmer in good circumstances, and famous for making good sausages for
the Philadelphia market. He has ten children besides Sheppard. Nine of
these die, however, in six years, by a variety of odd accidents—the
last expiring in a fit of laughter at seeing his brother ridden to
death by a pig. Prudence, the oldest sister, survives. The mother,
mourning for her children, becomes melancholy and dies insane.
Sheppard is sent to good schools, and afterwards to the College at
Nassau Hall, in Princeton, where he remains three years, until his
father's decease. Upon this occurrence he finds himself in possession
of the bulk of the property; his sister Prudence, who had recently
married, receiving only a small farm in a neighboring county. After
making one or two efforts to become a man of business, our hero hires
an overseer to undertake the entire management of his property.
Having now nothing to do, and time hanging heavily on his hands,
Sheppard Lee tries many experiments by way of killing the enemy. He
turns sportsman, but has the misfortune to shoot his dog the first
day, and upon the second his neighbor's cow. He breeds horses and runs
them, losing more money in a single hour than his father had ever made
in two years together. At the suggestion of his overseer he travels,
and is robbed of his baggage and money, by an intelligent gentlemanly
{663} personage from Sing-Sing. He thinks of matrimony, and is about
coming to a proposal, when his inamorata, taking offence at his
backwardness, casts her eyes upon another wooer, who has made her an
offer, and marries him upon the spot.
Upon attaining his twenty-eighth year, Mr. Lee discovers his overseer,
Mr. Aikin Jones, to be a rogue, and himself to be ruined. Prudence,
the sister, tells our hero moreover, that he has lost all the little
sense he ever possessed, while her husband is so kind as to inform him
that “he is wrong in the upper story.” A quarrel ensues and Mr. Lee is
left to bear his misfortunes alone.
In Chapter V, we have a minute description of the state of the
writer's affairs at this epoch, and it must be owned that his little
property of forty acres presented a sufficiently woe-begone
appearance. One friend, however, remains steadfast, in the person of
our hero's negro servant, Jim Jumble—an old fellow that had been the
slave of his father and was left to him in the will. This is a
crabbed, self-willed old rascal, who will have every thing his own
way. Having some scruples of conscience about holding a slave, and
thinking him of no value whatever, but, on the contrary, a great deal
of trouble, our hero decides upon setting him free. The old fellow,
however, bursts into a passion, swears he will _not_ be free, that Mr.
Lee is his master and shall take care of him, and that if he dares to
set him free he will have the law of him, “he will by ge-hosh!”
At length, in spite of even the services of Jim Jumble, our hero is
reduced to the point of despair. His necessities have compelled him to
mortgage the few miserable acres left, and ruin stares him in the
face. He attempts many ingenious devices with a view of amending his
fortune—buys lottery tickets which prove all blanks—purchases stock in
a southern gold mining company, is forced to sell out at a bad season,
and finds himself with one-fifth the sum invested—gets a new coat, and
makes a declaration to a rich widow in the neighborhood, who makes him
the laughing stock of the country for his pains—and finally turns
politician, choosing the strongest party, on the principle that the
majority must always be right. Attending a public meeting he claps his
hands and applauds the speeches with so much spirit, that he is
noticed by some of the leaders. They encourage him to take a more
prominent part in the business going on, and at the next opportunity
he makes a speech. Being on the hurrah side he receives great
applause, and indeed there is such a shouting and clapping that he is
obliged to put an end to his discourse sooner than he had intended. He
is advised to set about converting all in the neighborhood who are not
of the right way of thinking, and the post office in the village is
hinted at as his reward in case the county is gained. Mr. Lee sets
about his task valiantly, paying his own expenses, and the hurrahs
carry the day. His claim to the post-officeship is universally
admitted, but, in some way or other, the appointment is bestowed upon
one of the very leaders who had been foremost in commending the zeal
and talents of our author, and in assuring him that the office should
be his. Mr. Lee is enraged, and is upon the point of going over to the
anti-hurrahs, when he is involved in a very remarkable tissue of
adventure. Jim Jumble conceives that money has been buried by Captain
Kid, in a certain ugly swamp, called the Owl-Roost, not many rods from
an old church. The stories of the negro affect his master to such a
degree that he dreams three nights in succession of finding a treasure
at the foot of a beech-tree in the swamp. He resolves to dig for it in
good earnest, choosing midnight, at the full of the moon, as the
moment of commencing operations. On his way to the Owl-Roost at the
proper time, he passes by the burial ground of the old church, and the
wall having fallen down across his path, he strikes his ankle against
a fragment—the pain causing him to utter a groan. To his amazement
this interjection of suffering is echoed from the grave yard; a voice
screaming out in awful tones, O Lord! O Lord! and, casting his eyes
around, our hero beholds three or four shapes, whom he supposes to be
devils incarnate, dancing about among the tomb-stones. The beech-tree,
however, is finally reached in safety, and by dint of much labor a
large hole excavated among the roots. But in his agitation of mind the
adventurer plants an unlucky blow of the mattock among the toes of his
right foot, and sinking down upon the grass, “falls straightway into a
trance.”
Upon recovering from this trance, Mr. Lee finds himself in a very
singular predicament. He feels exceedingly light and buoyant, with the
power of moving without exertion. He sweeps along without putting his
feet to the ground, and passes among shrubs and bushes without
experiencing from them any hindrance to his progress. In short, he
finds himself to be nothing better than a ghost. His dead body is
lying quietly beside the excavation under the beech-tree. Mr. Lee is
entirely overcome with horror at his unfortunate condition, and runs,
or rather flies, instinctively to the nearest hut for assistance. But
the dogs, at his approach, run howling among the bushes, and the only
answer he receives from the terrified family is the discharge of a
blunderbuss in his face. Returning in despair to the beech-tree and
the pit, he finds that his body has been taken away. Its disappearance
throws him into a phrenzy, and he is about to run home and summon old
Jim Jumble to the rescue, when he hears a dog yelping and whining in a
peculiarly doleful manner, at some little distance down in the meadow.
Coming to a place in the edge of the marsh where are some willow
trees, and an old worn fence, he there discovers to his extreme
surprise, the body of a certain well-to-do personage, Squire
Higginson. He is lying against the fence, stone dead, with his head
down, and his heels resting against the rails, and looking as if,
while climbing, he had fallen down and broken his neck.
Our hero pities the condition of Mr. Higginson, but being only a
ghost, has no capacity to render him assistance. In this dilemma he
begins to moralize upon the condition of Mr. H. and of himself. The
one has no body—the other no soul. “Why might not I”—says, very
reasonably, the ghost of Mr. Lee, “Why might not I—that is to say my
spirit—deprived by an unhappy accident of its natural dwelling—take
possession of a tenement which there remains no spirit to claim, and
thus, uniting interests together, as two feeble factions unite
together in the political world, become a body possessing life,
strength, and usefulness? Oh, that I might be Squire Higginson!”
The words are scarcely out of his mouth, before our hero feels himself
vanishing, as it were, into the dead man's nostrils, “into which his
spirit rushes like a {664} breeze,” and the next moment he finds
himself John Hazlewood Higginson, Esquire, to all intents and
purposes—kicking the fence to pieces in a lusty effort to rise upon
his feet, and feeling as if he had just tumbled over it. We must here
give a couple of pages in the words of the author.
“God be thanked,” I cried, dancing about as joyously as the dog, “I am
now a respectable man with my pockets full of money. Farewell then,
you poor miserable Sheppard Lee! you raggamuffin! you poor wretched
shote! you half-starved old sand-field Jersey Kill-Deer! you vagabond!
you beggar! you Dicky Dout! with the wrong place in your upper story!
you are now a gentleman and a man of substance, and a happy dog into
the bargain. Ha! ha! ha!” and here I fell a laughing out of pure joy;
and giving my dog Ponto a buss, as if that were the most natural act
in the world, and a customary way of showing my satisfaction, I began
to stalk towards my old ruined house, without exactly knowing for what
purpose, but having some vague idea about me, that I would set old Jim
Jumble and his wife Dinah to shouting and dancing; an amusement I
would willingly have seen the whole world engaged in at that moment.
I had not walked twenty yards, before a woodcock that was feeding on
the edge of the marsh, started up from under my nose, when clapping my
gun to my shoulder, I let fly at him, and down he came.
“Aha, Ponto,” said I, “when did I ever fail to bring down a woodcock?
Bring it along, Ponto, you rascal—Rum-te, ti, ti! rum-te, ti, ti!” and
I went on my way singing for pure joy, without pausing to recharge or
to bag my game. I reached my old house, and began to roar out, without
reflecting that I was now something more than Sheppard Lee, “Hillo!
Jim Jumble, you old rascal! get up and let me in.”
“What you want, hah?” said old Jim, poking his head from the garret
window of the kitchen, and looking as sour as a persimmon before
frost. “Guess Massa Squire Higginson drunk, hah? What you want? Spose
I'm gwyin to git up afo sunrise for notin, and for any body but my
Massa Sheppard?”
“Why you old dog,” said I, in a passion, “I am your Master Sheppard;
that is, your Master John Hazlewood Higginson, Esquire; for as for
Sheppard Lee, the Jersey kill-deer, I've finished him, you rascal;
you'll never see him more. So get down and let me into the house, or
I'll——”
“You will hah?” said Jim, “you will _what?_”
“I'll shoot you, you insolent scoundrel!” I exclaimed in a rage—as if
it were the most natural thing in the world for me to be in one; and
as I spoke I raised my piece; when “bow-wow-wow!” went my old dog
Bull, who had not bitten a man for two years, but who now rushed from
his kennel under the porch, and seized me by the leg.
“Get out Bull, you rascal,” said I, but he only bit the harder; which
threw me into such a fury, that I clapped the muzzle of my gun to his
side, and having one charge remaining, blew him to pieces.
“Golla-matty!” said old Jim, from the window, whence he had surveyed
the combat; “golla-matty!—shoot old Bull!”
And with that the black villain snatched up the half of a brick, which
I suppose he kept to daunt unwelcome visiters, and taking aim at me,
he cast it so well as to bring it right against my left ear, and so
tumbled me to the ground. I would have blown the rascal's brains out,
in requital of this assault, had there been a charge left in my piece,
or had he given me time to reload; but as soon as he had cast the
brick, he ran from the window, and then reappeared, holding out an old
musket, that I remembered he kept to shoot wild ducks and muskrats in
the neighboring marsh with. Seeing this formidable weapon, and not
knowing but that the desperado would fire upon me, I was forced to
beat a retreat, which I did in double quick time, being soon joined by
my dog Ponto, who had fled, like a coward, at the first bow-wow of the
bull-dog, and saluted in my flight by the amiable tones of Dinah, who
now thrust her head from the window, beside Jim's, and abused me as
long as I could hear.
Our hero finds that in assuming the body of Squire Higginson, he has
invested himself with a troublesome superfluity of fat—that he has
moreover a touch of the asthma—together with a whizzing, humming, and
spinning in the head. One day, while gunning, these infirmities prove
more than usually inconvenient, and he is upon the point of retreating
to the village to get his dinner, when a crowd of men make their
appearance, and setting up a great shout, begin to run towards him at
full speed. Hearing them utter furious cries, and perceiving a
multitude of dogs in company, he is seized with alarm and makes for
the woods. He is overtaken however, charged with the murder of
Sheppard Lee, and committed by Justice Parkins—a mass of evidence
appearing against him, among which that of Jim Jumble is not the least
important, who swears that the prisoner came to his house, shot his
bull-dog, threatened to blow his brains out, and bragged that he had
“just finished Mr. Lee.”
In this dilemma our hero relates the whole truth to the prosecuting
attorney, and is considered a madman for his pains. The body of
Sheppard Lee, however, not appearing, the prisoner is set at liberty,
and takes his way to Philadelphia in the charge of some new friends
appertaining to him as John Hazlewood Higginson, Esquire. He finds
himself a rich brewer, living in Chestnut Street, and the possessor of
lands, houses, stocks, and Schuylkill coal-mines in abundance. He is
troubled nevertheless with inveterate gout, and a shrew of a wife, and
upon the whole he regrets his former existence as plain Sheppard Lee.
Just opposite our brewer's residence is the dwelling of Mr. Periwinkle
Smith, an aristocrat, wealthy or supposed to be so, although some
rumors are abroad touching mortgages. He has an only daughter, and
among her frequent visitors is one Isaac Dulmer Dawkins, Esq., a young
dandy of the first water, tall, slim, whiskered, mustached, of pure
blood, and living on his wits. This personage is often noted by our
hero, upon his passage to and from the house of Mr. Smith. Suddenly
his visits are discontinued—a circumstance which the brewer has soon
an opportunity of explaining to his satisfaction. Going to the
Schuylkill for the purpose of drowning himself, and thus putting an
end at once to the gout and the assiduities of Mrs. Higginson, our
hero is surprised at finding himself anticipated in his design by I.
Dulmer Dawkins, Esq. who leaps into the river at the very spot
selected for his own suicide. In his exertions to get Mr. D. out, he
is seized with apoplexy—reviving partially from which, he discovers a
crowd attempting to resuscitate the dandy.
“I could maintain,” says our hero, “my equanimity no longer. In the
bitterness of my heart I muttered, almost aloud, and as sincerely as I
ever muttered any thing in my life, ‘I would I were this addle-pate
Dawkins, were it only to be lying as much like a drowned rat as he!’ I
had not well grumbled the last word, before a sudden fire flashed
before my eyes, a loud noise like the roar of falling water passed
through my head, and I lost all sensation and consciousness.”
{665} As I. Dulmer Dawkins, our friend finds himself beset by the
duns, whom he habitually puts off by suggestions respecting a rich
uncle, of whose very existence he is sadly in doubt. Having ceased to
pay attention to Miss Smith, upon hearing the rumors about the
mortgages, it appears that he was jilted in turn by a Miss Betty
Somebody, and thus threw himself into the river in despair. His
adventures are now various and spirited, but his creditors grow
importunate, and vow they will be put off no longer with the old story
of the rich uncle, when an uncle, and a rich one, actually appears
upon the tapis. He is an old vulgar fool, and I. Dulmer Dawkins,
Esquire, is in some doubts about the propriety of allowing his claim
to relationship, but finally consents to introduce the old quiz, son
and daughter, into fashionable society, upon considering the pecuniary
advantages to himself. With this end he looks about for a house, and
learns that the residence of Periwinkle Smith is for sale. Upon
calling upon that gentleman however, he is treated very civilly
indeed, being shown the door, after having sufficiently ascertained
that the rumors about the mortgages should have been construed _in
favor_ of Mr. Smith—that he is a richer man than ever, and that his
fair heiress is upon the point of marriage with a millionaire from
Boston. He now turns his attention to his country cousin, Miss Patty
Wilkins, upon finding that the uncle is to give her forty thousand
dollars. At the same time, lest his designs in this quarter should
fail, he makes an appointment to run off with the only daughter of a
rich shaver, one Skinner. The uncle Wilkins has but little opinion of
I. Dulmer Dawkins, and will not harken to his suit at all. In this
dilemma our hero resorts to a trick. He represents his bosom friend
and ally, Mr. Tickle, as a man of fashion and property, and sets him
to making love to Miss Patty, in the name of himself, I. Dulmer. The
uncle snaps at the bait, but the ally is instructed to proceed no
farther without a definite settlement upon Miss Patty of the forty
thousand dollars. The uncle makes the settlement and matters proceed
to a crisis—Mr. Tickle pleasing himself with the idea of cheating his
bosom friend I. Dulmer, and marrying the lady himself. A farce of very
pretty finesse now ensues, which terminates in Miss Patty's giving the
slip to both lovers, bestowing her forty thousand dollars upon an old
country sweetheart, Danny Baker, and in I. Dulmer's finding, upon
flying, as a dernier resort, to the broker's daughter, that she has
already run away with Sammy, Miss Patty Wilkins' clodhopper brother.
Driven to desperation by his duns, our hero escapes from them by dint
of hard running and takes refuge, without asking permission, in the
sick chamber of old Skinner, the shaver. Finding the old gentleman
dead, he takes possession of his body forthwith, leaving his own
carcase on the floor.
The adventures in the person of Abram Skinner are full of interest. We
have many racy details of stock-jobbing and usury. Some passages, of a
different nature are well written. The miser has two sons, and his
parsimony reduces them to fearful extremity. The one involves him
deeply by forgery; and the other first robs his strong box, and
afterwards endeavors to murder him.
It may be supposed that the misery now weighing me to the earth was as
much as could be imposed upon me; but I was destined to find before
the night was over that misery is only comparative, and that there is
no affliction so positively great, that greater may not be
experienced. In the dead of the night, when my woes had at last been
drowned in slumber, I was aroused by feeling a hand pressing upon my
bosom; and starting up I saw, for there was a taper burning upon a
table hard by, a man standing over me, holding a pillow in his hand,
which, the moment I caught sight of him, he thrust into my face, and
there endeavored to hold it, as if to suffocate me.
The horror of death endowed me with a strength not my own, and the
ruffian held the pillow with a feeble and trembling arm. I dashed it
aside, leaped up in the bed, and beheld in the countenance of the
murderer the features of the long missing and abandoned son, Abbot
Skinner.
His face was white and chalky, with livid stains around the eyes and
mouth, the former of which were starting out of their orbits in a
manner ghastly to behold, while his lips were drawn asunder and away
from his teeth, as in the face of a mummy. He looked as if
horror-struck at the act he was attempting; and yet there was
something devilish and determined in his air that increased my terror
to ecstacy. I sprang from the bed, threw myself on the floor, and,
grasping his knees, besought him to spare my life. There seemed indeed
occasion for all my supplications. His bloated and altered visage, the
neglected appearance of his garments and person, and a thousand other
signs, showed that the whole period of his absence had been passed in
excessive toping, and the murderous and unnatural act which he
meditated, manifested to what a pitch of phrenzy he had arrived by the
indulgence.
As I grasped his knees, he put his hand into his bosom, and drew out a
poniard, a weapon I had never before known him to carry; at the sight
of which I considered myself a dead man. But the love of life still
prevailing, I leaped up, and ran to a corner of the room, where I
mingled adjurations and entreaties with loud screams for assistance.
He stood as if rooted to the spot for a moment; then dropping his
horrid weapon, he advanced a few paces, clasped his hands together,
fell upon his knees, and burst into tears, and all the while without
having uttered a single word. But now, my cries still continuing, he
exclaimed, but with a most wild and disturbed look—“Father I won't
hurt you, and pray dont hurt _me!_”
Horrors such as these induce our hero to seek a new existence. Filling
his pockets with money, he sets off in search of a corpse of which to
take possession. At length, when nearly exhausted, a drunken fellow,
apparently dead, is found lying under a shed. Transferring the money
from his own person to that of the mendicant, he utters the usual
wish, once, twice, thrice—and in vain. Horribly disconcerted, and
dreading lest his charm should have actually deserted him, he begins
to kick the dead man with all the energy he has left. At this
treatment the corpse suddenly becomes animated, knocks our hero down
with a whiskey jug, and makes off with the contents of his pockets,
being a dozen silver spoons, and four hundred dollars in money. This
accident introduces us to the acquaintance of a genuine
philanthropist, Mr. Zachariah Longstraw, and this gentleman being at
length murdered by a worthy ex-occupant of Sing-Sing, to whom he had
been especially civil, our hero reanimates his body with excessive
pleasure at his good fortune. The result is that he finds himself
cheated on all sides, is arrested for debt, and is entrapped by a
Yankee pedlar and carried off to the South as a tit-bit for the
anti-abolitionists. On the route he ascertains (by accidently
overhearing a conversation) that the missing body of Sheppard Lee,
which {666} disappeared in so mysterious a manner from the side of the
pit at the Owl-Roost, was carried off by one Dr. Feuerteufel, a
German, who happened to be in search of subjects for dissection, and
whose assistants were the dancing spectres in the church yard, which
so terribly disconcerted our hero when on his way to the beech-tree.
He is finally about to be hung, when a negro who was busied in
preparing the gallows, fortunately breaks his neck in a fall, and our
adventurer takes possession of his body forthwith.
In his character of Nigger Tom, Mr. Lee gives us some very excellent
chapters upon abolition and the exciting effects of incendiary
pamphlets and pictures, among our slaves in the South. This part of
the narrative closes with a spirited picture of a negro insurrection,
and with the hanging of Nigger Tom.
Our hero is revived, after execution, by the galvanic battery of some
medical students, and having, by his sudden display of life,
frightened one of them to death, he immediately possesses himself of
his person. As Mr. Arthur Megrim, he passes through a variety of
adventures, and fancies himself a coffee-pot, a puppy, a chicken, a
loaded cannon, a clock, a hamper of crockery ware, a joint stock, a
Greek Demi-God and the Emperor of France. Dr. Feurteufel now arrives
in the village with a cargo of curiosities for exhibition—among which
are some mummies. In one of them our hero recognizes the identical
long missed body of Sheppard Lee.
The sight of my body thus restored to me, and in the midst of my
sorrow and affliction, inviting me back, as it were, to my proper
home, threw me into an indescribable ferment. I stretched out my arms,
I uttered a cry, and then rushing forward, to the astonishment of all
present, I struck my foot against the glass case with a fury that
shivered it to atoms—or at least the portion of it serving as a door,
which, being dislodged by the violence of the blow, fell upon the
floor and was dashed to pieces. The next instant, disregarding the
cries of surprise and fear which the act occasioned, I seized upon the
cold and rigid hand of the mummy, murmuring “Let me live again in my
own body, and never—no! never more in another's!” Happiness of
happiness! although, while I uttered the word, a boding fear was on my
mind, lest the long period the body had remained inanimate, and more
especially the mummifying process to which it had been subjected,
might have rendered it unfit for further habitation, I had scarcely
breathed the wish before I found myself in that very body, descending
from the box which had so long been its prison, and stepping over the
mortal frame of Mr. Arthur Megrim, now lying dead on the floor.
Indescribable was the terror produced among the spectators by this
double catastrophe—the death of their townsman, and the revival of the
mummy. The women fell down in fits, and the men took to their heels;
and a little boy who was frightened into a paroxysm of devotion,
dropped on his knees, and began fervently to exclaim
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
In short, the agitation was truly inexpressible, and fear distracted
all. But on no countenance was this passion (mingled with a degree of
amazement) more strikingly depicted than on that of the German Doctor,
who, thus compelled to witness the object of a thousand cares, the
greatest and most perfect result of his wonderful discovery, slipping
off its pedestal and out of his hands, as by a stroke of enchantment,
stared upon me with eyes, nose and mouth, speechless, rooted to the
floor, and apparently converted into a mummy himself. As I stepped
past him, however, hurrying to the door, with a vague idea that the
sooner I reached it the better, his lips were unlocked, and his
feelings found vent in a horrible exclamation—“Der tyfel!” which I
believe means the devil—“Der tyfel! I have empalm him too well!”
Sheppard Lee now makes his way home into New Jersey (pursued however
the whole way by the German Doctor, crying “Mein Gott! Ter Tyfel! and
stop mine mummy!”) and is put to bed and kindly nursed after his
disaster by his sister Prudence and her husband. It now appears (very
ingeniously indeed) that, harassed by his pecuniary distress, our hero
fell into a melancholy derangement, and upon cutting his foot with the
mattock, as related, was confined to bed, where his wonderful
transmigrations were merely the result of delirium. At least this is
the turn given to the whole story by Prudence. Mr. Lee, however,
although he partially believes her in the right, has still a shadow of
doubt upon the subject, and has thought it better to make public his
own version of the matter, with a view of letting every body decide
for himself.
We must regard “Sheppard Lee,” upon the whole, as a very clever, and
not altogether unoriginal, _jeu d'esprit_. Its incidents are well
conceived, and related with force, brevity, and a species of
_directness_ which is invaluable in certain cases of narration—while
in others it should be avoided. The language is exceedingly unaffected
and (what we regard as high praise) exceedingly well adapted to the
varying subjects. Some fault may be found with the conception of the
metempsychosis which is the basis of the narrative. There are two
general methods of telling stories such as this. One of these methods
is that adopted by the author of Sheppard Lee. He conceives his hero
endowed with some idiosyncracy beyond the common lot of human nature,
and thus introduces him to a series of adventure which, under ordinary
circumstances, could occur only to a plurality of persons. The chief
source of interest in such narrative is, or should be, the contrasting
of these varied events, in their influence upon a character
_unchanging_—except as changed by the events themselves. This fruitful
field of interest, however, is neglected in the novel before us, where
the hero, very awkwardly, partially loses, and partially does not
lose, his identity, at each transmigration. The sole object here in
the various metempsychoses seem to be, merely the depicting of seven
different conditions of existence, and the enforcement of the very
doubtful moral that every person should remain contented with his own.
But it is clear that both these points could have been more forcibly
shown, without any reference to a confused and jarring system of
transmigration, by the mere narrations of seven different individuals.
All deviations, especially wide ones, from nature, should be justified
to the author by some specific object—the object, in the present case,
might have been found, as above-mentioned, in the opportunity afforded
of depicting widely-different conditions of existence actuating _one_
individual.
A second peculiarity of the species of novel to which Sheppard Lee
belongs, and a peculiarity which is _not_ rejected by the author, is
the treating the whole narrative in a jocular manner throughout
(inasmuch as to say “I know I am writing nonsense, but {667} then you
must excuse me for the very reason that I know it”) or the solution of
the various absurdities by means of a dream, or something similar. The
latter method is adopted in the present instance—and the idea is
managed with unusual ingenuity. Still—having read through the whole
book, and having been worried to death with incongruities (allowing
such to exist) until the concluding page, it is certainly little
indemnification for our sufferings to learn that, in truth, the whole
matter was a dream, and that we were very wrong in being worried about
it at all. The damage is done, and the apology does not remedy the
grievance. For this and other reasons, we are led to prefer, in this
kind of writing, the _second_ general method to which we have alluded.
It consists in a variety of points—principally in avoiding, as may
easily be done, that _directness_ of expression which we have noticed
in Sheppard Lee, and thus leaving much to the imagination—in writing
as if the author were firmly impressed with the truth, yet astonished
at the immensity, of the wonders he relates, and for which,
professedly, he neither claims nor anticipates credence—in minuteness
of detail, especially upon points which have no immediate bearing upon
the general story—this minuteness not being at variance with
indirectness of expression—in short, by making use of the infinity of
arts which give verisimilitude to a narration—and by leaving the
result as a wonder not to be accounted for. It will be found that
_bizzarreries_ thus conducted, are usually far more effective than
those otherwise managed. The attention of the author, who does not
depend upon explaining away his incredibilities, is directed to giving
them the character and the luminousness of truth, and thus are brought
about, unwittingly, some of the most vivid creations of human
intellect. The reader, too, readily perceives and falls in with the
writer's humor, and suffers himself to be borne on thereby. On the
other hand what difficulty, or inconvenience, or danger can there be
in leaving us uninformed of the important facts that a certain hero
_did not_ actually discover the elixir vitæ, _could not_ really make
himself invisible, and _was not_ either a ghost in good earnest, or a
bonâ fide Wandering Jew?
HAZLITT'S REMAINS.
_Literary Remains of the Late William Hazlitt, with a Notice of his
Life by his Son, and Thoughts on his Genius and Writings, by E. L.
Bulwer, M. P. and Mr. Sergeant Talfourd, M. P. New York: Saunders and
Otley._
There is a piquancy in the personal character and literary reputation
of Hazlitt, which will cause this book to be sought with avidity by
all who read. And the volume will fully repay a perusal. It embraces a
Biographical Sketch of Mr. H. by his son; “Some Thoughts on his
Genius” by Bulwer; “Thoughts on his Intellectual Character,” by
Sergeant Talfourd; a few words of high compliment contained in a
Letter to Southey from Charles Lamb; a Sonnet, by Sheridan Knowles, on
Bewick's portrait of the deceased; six other sonnets to his memory, by
“a Lady;” and twenty-two Essays by Hazlitt himself, and constituting
his “Literary Remains.” The volume is embellished with a fine head of
the Essayist, engraved by Marr, from a drawing by Bewick.
William Hazlitt, upon his decease in 1830, was 52 years old. He was
the youngest son of the Reverend William Hazlitt, a dissenting
Minister of the Unitarian persuasion. At the age of nine he was sent
to a day-school in Wern, and some of his letters soon after this
period evince a singular thirst for knowledge in one so young. At
thirteen, his first literary effort was made, in the shape of an
epistle to the “Shrewsbury Chronicle.” This epistle is signed in Greek
capitals _Eliason_, and is a decently written defence of Priestley, or
rather an expression of indignation at some outrages offered to the
Doctor at Birmingham. It speaks of little, however, but the
school-boy. At fifteen, he was entered as a student at the Unitarian
College, Hackney, with a view to his education as a dissenting
minister, and here his mind first received a bias towards
philosophical speculation. Several short essays were written at this
time—but are lost. Some letters to his father, however, which are
printed in the present volume, give no evidence of more than a very
ordinary ability. At seventeen, he left College (having abandoned all
idea of the Ministry) and devoted himself to the study of painting as
a profession—prosecuting his metaphysical reading at spare moments. At
eighteen, he commenced the first rough sketch of a treatise “On the
Principles of Human Action.” At twenty, accident brought him
acquainted with Coleridge, whose writings and conversation had, as
might be expected, great influence upon his subsequent modes of
thought. At twenty-four, during the short peace of Amiens, he visited
Paris with a view of studying the works of art in the Louvre. Some
letters to his father written at this period, are given in the volume
before us. They relate principally to the progress of his own studies
in art, and are not in any manner remarkable. After spending a year in
Paris he returned to London, abandoned, in despair, the pencil for the
pen, and took up his abode temporarily, with his brother John, in
Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury. His treatise “On the Principles of
Human Action,” a work upon which he seems to have greatly prided
himself, (perhaps from early associations) was now completed, after
eight years of excessive labor. He was not, however, successful in
finding a publisher until a year afterwards—he being then
twenty-eight. This was in 1805. In 1806, he published a pamphlet with
the title of “Free Thoughts on Public Affairs.” In 1807, he abridged
to one volume Tucker's large work in seven—the “Light of Nature,” and
wrote for Messrs. Longman and Co. a “Reply to Malthus's Works on
Population.” In 1808, he married Miss Stoddart, sister of the present
Chief Justice of Malta. By this lady, who still lives, he had several
children, all of whom died in early childhood, except the Editor of
these “Remains.” Shortly after his marriage, he went to live at
Winterslow, in Wiltshire. An English Grammar, written about this
period, was published some years afterwards. In 1808, he also
published a compilation, entitled “The Eloquence of the British
Senate, being a selection of the best Speeches of the most
distinguished Parliamentary Speakers, from the beginning of the reign
of Charles I to the present time.” We are told also, that in the
autumn of this same year he was “engaged in preparing for publication
his ‘Memoirs of Holcroft’”—the first seventeen chapters of this work
were written by Holcroft himself. {668} In 1811, Mr. Hazlitt removed
to London and “tenanted a house once honored in the occupation of
Milton.” In 1813, he delivered at the Russell Institution, a series of
“Lectures upon the History and Progress of English Philosophy.”
Shortly after this he became connected with the public press. For a
short time he was engaged with the “Morning Chronicle” as a
Parliamentary Reporter—but relinquished the occupation on account of
ill health. He afterwards wrote political and theatrical criticisms
for the “Champion,” the “Morning Chronicle,” the “Examiner,” and the
“Times.” It was about this period, if we understand his biographer,
that the collection of Essays appeared called “The Round Table.” Of
these, forty were written by Mr. Hazlitt, and twelve by Leigh Hunt. In
1818, his Theatrical Criticisms were collected and published under the
title of “A view of the English Stage.” In this year also, he
delivered at the Surrey Institution a series of Lectures on the “Comic
Writers, and the Poets of England,” and on the “Dramatic Literature of
the age of Elizabeth.” These were subsequently published in single
volumes under their respective titles. In 1819, the whole of his
Political Essays appeared in one volume. His next published work was
the “Characters of Shakspeare's Plays.” In 1823, Mr. Hazlitt was
divorced from his wife under the law of Scotland—shortly before this
epoch having given to the world “Liber Amoris,” a publication for many
reasons to be regretted. In this same year appeared a “Critical
Account of the Principal Picture Galleries of England”—also the first
series of “Table-Talk,” in two volumes, consisting of Essays on
various subjects, a few of which had previously appeared in the
“London Magazine.” In 1824, Mr. H. married Isabella, widow of Lieut.
Col. Bridgewater, a lady of some property; proceeding, after the
wedding, on a tour through France and Italy. “Notes” of this journey
appeared in the “Morning Chronicle,” and were afterwards collected in
a volume. In 1825, appeared the second series of “Table-Talk,” and the
“Spirit of the Age,” a series of criticisms on the more prominent
literary men then living. In 1826, the “Plain Speaker” was published,
and another edition of the “Table-Talk.” At this period, and for some
years previous, Mr. Hazlitt was a frequent contributor to the
“Edinburgh Review,” the “New Monthly,” “Monthly,” and “London”
Magazines, and other periodicals. In 1829, he published “Selections
from the British Poets,” and in 1830, “Northcote's Conversations,” the
“Life of Titian,” (in which Mr. Northcote had a large share, and whose
name, indeed, appeared as author on the title-page) and his chief
work, “The Life of Napoleon,” in four volumes. In August of this year
he was attacked by a species of cholera, and on the 18th of September
he died. We are indebted for the facts in this naked outline of Mr.
Hazlitt's life, principally to the memoir by his son in the volume
before us. The Memoir itself bears upon its face so obvious and indeed
so very natural an air of the most enthusiastic filial affection and
admiration, that we are forced to place but little reliance upon the
critical opinions it advances.
The “Thoughts on the Genius of William Hazlitt,” by Mr. Bulwer, differ
in many striking points from the “Thoughts” by Sergeant Talfourd, on
his “Intellectual Character.” We give the preference unhesitatingly to
the noble paper of Talfourd—a brilliant specimen of accurate thinking
and fine writing. The article of Bulwer, indeed, seems to be a
compulsory thing—an effort probably induced by earnest
solicitation—and no labor of love. Hazlitt, moreover, was personally
unknown to him. Sergeant Talfourd, on the contrary, appears to write
with a vivid interest in the man, and a thorough knowledge of his
books. Nothing more fully than is here said, need be said, on the
character, on the capacities, or on the works of Hazlitt, and nothing
possibly _can_ be said more happily or more wisely.
Of the Essays which constitute the body of the book before us, all
have a relative—most of them a very high positive value. To American
readers Hazlitt is principally known, we believe, as the Dramatic
Critic, and the Lecturer on the Elder Poetry of England. Some of the
papers in the present volume will prove the great extent and
comprehensiveness of his genius. One on the “Fine Arts” especially,
cannot fail of seizing public attention. Mr. Hazlitt discourses of
Painting, as Chorley of Music. Neither have been equalled in their
way. A fine passage of Hazlitt's on the _ideal_ commences thus—
The _ideal_ is not a negative, but a positive thing. The leaving out
the details or peculiarities of an individual face does not make it
one jot more ideal. To paint history is to paint nature as answering
to a general, predominant, or preconceived idea in the mind, of
strength, beauty, action, passion, thought, &c.; but the way to do
this is not to leave out the details, but to incorporate the general
idea with the details; that is, to show the same expression actuating
and modifying every movement of the muscles, and the same character
preserved consistently through every part of the body. Grandeur does
not consist in omitting the parts, but in connecting all the parts
into a whole, and in giving their combined and varied action; abstract
truth or ideal perfection does not consist in rejecting the
peculiarities of form, but in rejecting all those which are not
consistent with the character intended to be given, and in following
up the same _general idea_ of softness, voluptuousness, strength,
activity, or any combination of these, through every ramification of
the frame. But these modifications of form or expression can only be
learnt from nature, and therefore the perfection of art must always be
sought in nature.
“The Fight” will show clearly how the writer of true talent can
elevate even the most brutal of themes. The paper entitled “My first
acquaintance with Poets,” and that headed “Of Persons one would wish
to have seen,” have a personal interest apart from the abilities of
the writer. The article “On Liberty and Necessity,” that “On Locke's
Essay on the Human Understanding,” and that “On the Definition of
Wit,” bear with them evidence of a truth but little understood, and
very rarely admitted—that the reasoning powers never exist in
perfection unless when allied with a very high degree of the
imaginative faculty. In this latter respect, Hazlitt (who knew and
acknowledged the fact) is greatly deficient. His argumentative pieces,
therefore, rarely satisfy any mind, beyond that of the mere logician.
As a critic—he is perhaps unequalled. Altogether he was no ordinary
man. In the words of Bulwer, it may justly be said—that “a complete
collection of his works is all the monument he demands.”
The illness of both Publisher and Editor will, we hope, prove a
sufficient apology for the delay in the issue of the present number,
and for the omission of many promised notices of new books.