So stilly is the solitude.'
But when the theme was of a more stirring order, he enjoyed
pursuing it over brake and fell, at the full speed of his
_Lieutenant_. I well remember his saying, as I rode with him
across the hills from Ashestiel to Newark one day in his
declining years: 'Oh, man, I had many a grand gallop among
these braes when I was thinking of Marmion, but a trotting
canny pony must serve me now.' His friend, Mr. Skene, however,
informs me, that many of the more energetic descriptions, and
particularly that of the battle of Flodden, were struck out
while he was in quarters again with his cavalry, in the autumn
of 1807. 'In the intervals of drilling,' he says, 'Scott used
to delight in walking his powerful black steed up and down
by himself upon the Portobello sands, within the beating of
the surge; and now and then you would see him plunge in his
spurs and go off as if at the charge, with the spray dashing
about him.' As we rode back to Musselburgh, he often came and
placed himself beside me to repeat the verses that he had been
composing during these pauses of our exercise."
We should be glad to follow the biographer through his account of
the production of 'Marmion,' and to present some of the numerous
criticisms which were received from the various personal friends
of the author. Our space, however, will not permit. The popularity
of the poem may be estimated from the fact, that more than fifty
thousand copies of the work were subsequently sold in Great Britain
alone.
Scott's personal appearance, at this period, is thus described by
Miss Seward:
"'On Friday last,' she says, 'the poetically great Walter Scott
came 'like a sun-beam to my dwelling.' This proudest boast of
the Caledonian muse is tall, and rather robust than slender,
but lame in the same manner as Mr. Hayley, and in a greater
measure. Neither the contour of his face, nor yet his features,
are elegant; his complexion healthy, and somewhat fair, without
bloom. We find the singularity of brown hair and eye-lashes,
with flaxen eyebrows, and a countenance open, ingenuous, and
benevolent. When seriously conversing, or earnestly attentive,
though his eyes are rather of a lightish gray, deep thought
is on their lids; he contracts his brow, and the rays of
genius gleam aslant from the orbs beneath them. An upper lip
too long prevents his mouth from being decidedly handsome;
but the sweetest emanations of temper and heart play about
it, when he talks cheerfully, or smiles; and in company, he
is much oftener gay than contemplative. His conversation--an
overflowing fountain of brilliant wit, apposite allusion, and
playful archness--while on serious themes it is nervous and
eloquent; the accent decidedly Scotch, yet by no means broad.
On the whole, no expectation is disappointed which his poetry
must excite in all who feel the power and graces of human
inspiration."
We pass the details of his extraordinary literary labors and
successes, to present two or three extracts, which serve to show
us the _man_. A friend of the biographer's thus compares Scott and
Jeffrey, whom he met at a dinner-party in Edinburgh:
"'There were,' he says, 'only a few people besides the two
lions--and assuredly I have seldom passed a more agreeable day.
A thousand subjects of literature, antiquities, and manners
were started; and much was I struck, as you may well suppose,
by the extent, correctness, discrimination, and accuracy of
Jeffrey's information; equally so with his taste, acuteness,
and wit in dissecting every book, author, and story that
came in our way. Nothing could surpass the variety of his
knowledge, but the easy rapidity of his manner of producing
it. He was then in his meridian. Scott delighted to draw him
out, delighted also to talk himself, and displayed, I think,
even a larger range of anecdote and illustration; remembering
every thing, whether true or false, that was characteristic
or impressive; every thing that was good, or lovely, or
lively. It struck me that there was this great difference:
Jeffrey, for the most part, entertained us, when books were
under discussion, with the detection of faults, blunders,
absurdities, or plagiarisms. Scott took up the matter where
he left it, recalled some compensating beauty or excellence
for which no credit had been allowed, and by the recitation,
perhaps, of one fine stanza, set the poor victim on his legs
again."
Here is a picture of his fine feeling of domestic attachment:
"Mr. and Mrs. Morritt reached Edinburgh soon after this letter
was written. Scott showed them the lions of the town and its
vicinity, exactly as if he had nothing else to attend to but
their gratification; and Mr. Morritt recollects with particular
pleasure one long day spent in rambling along the Esk by Roslin
and Hawthornden,
'Where Johnson sat in Drummond's social shade,'
down to the old haunts of Lasswade."
"'When we approached that village,' says the memorandum with
which Mr. Morritt favors me, 'Scott, who had laid hold of my
arm, turned along the road in a direction not leading to the
place where the carriage was to meet us. After walking some
minutes towards Edinburgh, I suggested that we were losing the
scenery of the Esk, and, besides, had Dalkeith Palace yet to
see. 'Yes,' said he, 'and I have been bringing you where there
is little enough to be seen--only that Scotch cottage' (one
by the road side, with a small garth); 'but, though not worth
looking at, I could not pass it. It was our first country-house
when newly married, and many a contrivance we had to make it
comfortable. I made a dining-table for it with my own hands.
Look at those two miserable willow-trees on either side the
gate into the enclosure: they are tied together at the top to
be an arch, and a cross made of two sticks over them is not
yet decayed. To be sure it is not much of a lion to show a
stranger; but I wanted to see it again myself, for I assure
you that after I had constructed it, _mamma_ (Mrs. Scott)
and I both of us thought it so fine, we turned out to see it
by moonlight, and walked backwards from it to the door, in
admiration of our own magnificence and its picturesque effect.
I did want to see if it was still there: so now we will look
after the barouche, and make the best of our way to Dalkeith.'
Such were the natural feelings that endeared the Author of
Marmion and the Lay to those who 'saw him in his happier hours
of social pleasure.'"
A brief paragraph or two, descriptive of Scott's feelings when he
first called the now classic grounds of Abbotsford his own, must
close our quotations for the present:
"As my lease of this place is out, I have bought, for about
4000 pounds, a property in the neighborhood, extending along
the banks of the river Tweed for about half a mile. It is
very bleak at present, having little to recommend it but the
vicinity of the river; but as the ground is well adapted by
nature to grow wood, and is considerably various in form and
appearance, I have no doubt that by judicious plantations it
may be rendered a very pleasant spot; and it is at present
my great amusement to plan the various lines which may be
necessary for that purpose. The farm comprehends about a
hundred acres, of which I shall keep fifty in pasture and
tillage, and plant all the rest, which will be a very valuable
little possession in a few years, as wood bears a high price
among us. I intend building a small cottage for my summer
abode, being obliged by law, as well as induced by inclination,
to make this country my residence for some months every year.
This is the greatest incident which has lately taken place in
our domestic concerns; and I assure you we are not a little
proud of being greeted as _laird_ and _lady_ of _Abbotsford_.
We will give a grand gala when we take possession of it, and
as we are very _clannish_ in this corner, all the Scots in the
country, from the duke to the peasant, shall dance on the green
to the bagpipes, and drink whiskey-punch." * * * "The same week
he says to Joanna Baillie: 'My dreams about my cottage go on;
of about a hundred acres I have manfully resolved to plant from
sixty to seventy; as to my scale of dwelling, why, you shall
see my plan when I have adjusted it. My present intention is
to have only two spare bed-rooms, with dressing-rooms, each
of which will, on a pinch, have a couch-bed; but I cannot
relinquish my Border principle of accommodating all the cousins
and _duniwastles_, who will rather sleep on chairs, and on
the floor, and in the hay-loft, than be absent when folks are
gathered together; and truly I used to think Ashestiel was very
much like the tent of Paribanou, in the Arabian Nights, that
suited alike all numbers of company equally; ten people fill it
at any time, and I remember its lodging thirty-two without any
complaint."
Speaking of a species of his visitors at this time--'the go-about
folks, who generally pay their score one way or other'--he says:
"I never heard of a stranger that utterly baffled all
efforts to engage him in conversation, excepting one whom an
acquaintance of mine met in a stage-coach. My friend, who
piqued himself on his talents for conversation, assailed this
tortoise on all hands, but in vain, and at length descended to
expostulation. 'I have talked to you, my friend, on all the
ordinary subjects--literature, farming, merchandise--gaming,
game-laws, horse-races--suits at law--politics, and swindling,
and blasphemy, and philosophy; is there any one subject that
you will favor me by opening upon?' The wight writhed his
countenance into a grin: 'Sir,' said he, 'can you say any thing
clever about _bend-leather_?' There, I own, I should have
been as much nonplussed as my acquaintance; but upon any less
abstruse subject, I think, in general, something may be made
of a stranger, worthy of his clean sheets, and beef-steak, and
glass of port."
We shall resume our notice of these admirable Memoirs, as they appear
in the successive 'parts' of the American edition. 'Part Four' is in
course of publication, and will soon be issued.
EDITORS' TABLE.
'SISTE 'VIATOR!'--But a little while ago, we published in these pages
a brief tribute to the memory of a gifted and distinguished female
contributor to the poetical department of this Magazine; and it now
becomes our painful duty to record the recent demise of another child
of song, with whom our readers have not unfrequently held pleasant
communion. We gather from a letter before us, from an attentive
literary friend, now in Massachusetts, that J. HUNTINGTON BRIGHT,
ESQ. died recently at Manchester, (Miss.,) at the early age of
thirty-three. He was the only son of JONATHAN BRIGHT, ESQ., of Salem,
(Mass.) Early in life he came to this city, where he resided until
the death of his parents, when he removed to Albany, and subsequently
to Norfolk, (Va.,) where he married. Last autumn he sailed for
New-Orleans; and, soon after his arrival, was induced to ascend the
Mississippi, to take part in an important mercantile interest at
Manchester, a new town, hewn but recently from the forest. Here,
undue exposure to the night air brought on the fever of the country;
and in this cheerless frontier region, away from his kindred and
friends, after an illness of a few hours, he yielded up his gentle
spirit. There is an irrepressible melancholy in the thought, that one
so open to all the tender influences of affection, should breathe
his last far from the endearments of home, and lay his bones among
strangers. Yet, to adopt a stanza of a charming fragment written by
him for the KNICKERBOCKER:
'Yet it matters not much, when the bloom is fled,
And the light is gone from the lustrous eye,
And the sensitive heart is cold and dead,
Where the mouldering ashes are left to lie:
It matters not much, if the soaring mind,
Like the flower's perfume, is exhaled to heaven,
That its earthly shroud should be cast behind,
To decay, wherever a place is given.'
Mr. BRIGHT, under the signature of 'VIATOR,' has contributed many
gems of pure feeling, imbued with the true spirit of poetry, to the
fugitive literature of the day. The 'Albany Argus' gave to the world
many of his choicest effusions, previous to his appearance before our
readers. Of his later efforts, it is unnecessary to speak. They will
recommend themselves to every affectionate and sympathetic heart, not
less by the graces of composition, than the spirit which pervades
them. When the depressing influences which have so seriously affected
the book-market shall cease to be operative, we hope to see a volume
of poetry collated from the literary remains of Mr. BRIGHT; and we
cannot doubt that it will be well received by the public at large,
as it will certainly be most acceptable to his numerous friends and
admirers.
We are confident that Mr. BRIGHT was capable of even higher and more
sustained flights than characterize any of the fine productions
which he has given to the public. There was promise of _varied_
endowments, too, of which we had scarcely deemed him possessed. Parts
of the 'Vision of Death,' published in these pages, would have done
no discredit to our best poets. The reader will recall its wild,
German-like air, from the opening stanzas:
'The moon rode high in the Autumn sky,
The stars waned cold and dim,
While hoarsely the mighty Oregon
Pealed his eternal hymn;
And the prairie-grass bent its seedy heads
Far over the river's brim.
'An impulse I might not defy,
Constrained my footsteps there;
When through the gloom a red eye burned
With a fixed and steady glare,
And a huge misshapen form of mist
Loom'd in the midnight air.'
* * * * *
Upon what tender filaments the fabric of existence hangs! Death, an
unseen spectre, walked by the far-travelling poet's side; and when
he deemed the journey of life but just begun, '_Siste Viator!_' rang
in his dying ear. Well did Sir Thomas Browne exclaim, 'Our life is
indeed but short, a very dream; and while we look about, eternity is
at hand!'
Mr. BRIGHT has left an amiable and accomplished wife, with two
pledges of an affectionate union. May the blessing of the widow and
the fatherless be theirs, in full fruition!--and may consolation in
bereavement be found in the reflection, that, to use the beautiful
language of the dear departed,
'Though his bowed head be with Death's blossoms decked,
Warm in the smile of God his spirit walks erect.'
THE DEBUT OF MISS HILDRETH.
'And smooth success be strew'd before thy feet.'--ANTONY AND
CLEOPATRA.
AT the close of the late summer season, at the Park Theatre, a young
lady from Massachusetts, of about the age of eighteen years, made her
'first appearance on any stage,' as the play-bills phrase it, in the
character of 'The Wife of Mantua.'
We learn from authentic sources, that this was by no means the
ordinary case of a stage-struck-heroine, gratifying a long-indulged
desire to dash upon the boards, with the fond anticipation of
achieving immortal renown at a stroke. Nor was it necessity which
drove the _débutante_ to the choice of a profession, in which every
department is so full of toil, and often of unrequited labor and
suffering. Of good family, and having an excellent education, she
was early smitten with the love of poetry, especially that of the
better and the elder bards; and contracted a habit of reading aloud,
which developed, gradually, the talent of expressive and forcible
recitation, to a degree which astonished and deeply interested her
friends. This talent, strengthened with her increasing knowledge of
books and its exercise, led her to think of the histrionic profession
as one congenial with her feelings, and enabling her to give such
utterance to her appreciations of her favorite poets, as would
gratify her own ambition, and that of her friends for her. But of the
stage she knew literally nothing, even when this idea found a place
in her imagination. She had seen only two or three plays performed,
and had gleaned no lessons in the art from any fields but those of
her own mind and fancy; and from these, we are happy to predict, she
will yet reap an abundant harvest of success and renown.
Having taken some lessons in 'stage business' of one of the most
accomplished actresses on the Park boards, and recited some passages,
as a specimen of her powers, in the presence of the manager, she was
permitted a trial, and chose the night of Mr. Chippendale's Benefit
for her _début_. She had never seen the character she was to appear
in performed, and never fully rehearsed the part, until the very
day she came out: and even then, it was hastily rehearsed, and with
reference less to the language than the positions, attitudes, etc.,
of the different characters. Thus, and thus only prepared, she came
before a crowded house, to make her first attempt.
Her fine figure, expressive face, and tasteful attire, joined with
her modest mien, and graceful, dignified carriage, struck the
audience very favorably, and she was received with cheering applause.
Soon, to these recommendations she added a clear, distinct and
well-modulated voice, the first articulations of which, though low
and somewhat timidly tremulous, proved the signal for a repetition of
the plaudits of the audience. As the play proceeded, she gained more
confidence, though still somewhat constrained, as was quite obvious,
by the novelty of her situation, and soon began to give abundant
evidence of her right to claim still higher praise, in the fine
appreciation of the character she was personating, and in the truth
to nature which marked her readings.
Miss Hildreth's performance of Marianna was of course purely an
original one. She had been no play-goer, had seen no acting of any
consequence, and had never witnessed the representation of 'The
Wife.' Her faults were only those which the judicious advice of
experienced friends, added to careful study, and a close but not
servile observation of good models, will be found fully adequate to
remove. These are simply, ignorance of stage-business, and of the
magic art of by-play, a knowledge of which comes slowly, with the
gradual growth of confidence, and that experience of the stage which
a long acquaintance with it gives, and which enables the histrion to
think not of the audience, but of the character he is personating. In
her perfect understanding of the language set down for her, in the
appropriateness of her gesticulation, attitudes, and articulation,
while actually reading her own part, she evinced the possession of
all the primary and fundamental materials of an actress of the first
order; and she has only to work them judiciously, to convince the
world, ere long, that ours has not been an erroneous estimate of her
abilities.
A contemporary critic has objected to Miss Hildreth's performance
of 'Marianna,' that she stood with her arms by her side until her
cue was given, when, he concedes, she went through the part allotted
to her creditably. This objection, it will be seen, refers to her
'by-play.' We have already touched on this point; and in support of
the criticism, would instance the interview of 'Marianna' with St.
Pierre, when they discourse of their own native Switzerland. There
was none of that exquisite aside-play, (so to speak,) representing
the enthusiastic interest which the Swiss girl is supposed to feel
in the eloquent descant of her countryman upon its beauties; a
feature which gives such a fascinating charm to the personation of
the character by Ellen Tree. And was this to be expected, under the
circumstances? The whole scene was new to the young _débutante_. Like
ourselves, she too was a looker-on, during that beautiful apostrophe,
(never better uttered than then, by Charles Mason,) and in short, was
interested, as we were, in all the progress of 'the swelling act;'
seemingly forgetting that she was to act while he was acting, and
listening even as we were listening, until her cue was given; and
then, wherein did she fail?
Certainly, not in the modest yet firm narration of her love-prompted
journey from her mountain-home to Mantua, nor in the trial scene
before the usurping duke, when, to save herself from brutal
violation, she awes the assembled court by threatening 'the slightest
motion of her little hand,' as it held the poisoned vial to her lips.
Nor in the scenes with her confessor, when she so indignantly spurns
the imputation of disloyalty to her lord, and creeps, child-like, to
crave accustomed kindness from her ghostly friend, whose mind has
been poisoned by a villain's arts against her; nor in the interview
with St. Pierre, while she is giving utterance to the heart-felt
joy which fills her bosom upon meeting with her countryman; nor,
lastly, in the camp scene, where she so nobly refuses to go back
to the trusting bosom of her lord, until he had proved that trust
well-founded. We might give more particular citations of natural
and striking points in her performance of all these scenes, but we
forbear. Certainly, we repeat, in none of these was there aught that
looked like failure, so far as her reading and action were concerned;
and in this opinion we are confirmed by the concurrent testimony
of many of the most distinguished members of the profession, who
witnessed the début.
With great confidence, then, do we predict a brilliant career for
this young lady, in the profession she has adopted, if she be only
true to herself, and uses aright the talents she possesses. Careful
study, observation, experience, and 'careful study,' after all, and
with all the rest, will realize the fondest hopes of her friends, and
the proudest of her own most ambitious anticipations.
J. F. O.
PARK THEATRE.--If an exception to the influence of that mighty
incubus which has borne so heavily upon all trades, business,
corporations, and professions, were demanded, the Park Theatre, in
its undisturbed prosperity, would be selected as the most prominent.
Whether from their old love of the drama, or from a desire to
divert their thoughts from the misery that surrounded them without,
they have sought a refuge in the gay illusions of the mimic scene
within, the theatre has, through the entire period of this pecuniary
pestilence, met with constant support from a suffering public. And
it is well that such has been the case. It is far better that the
mind, depressed with care, and racked with continued anxiety, should
seek, in such rational recreation as the Theatre affords, a healthy
relief, than by shutting out, in gloomy despondency, all amusement
or relaxation, make its great grief to grow by what it feeds upon.
Varied attractions have, during the past season, followed each other
in quick succession. Bright and particular stars have shot their
glories across the theatrical horizon, to the wonder of many, and the
admiration of all. New plays, of every variety of the drama, have
been brought forward, some to receive the stamp of approval, and
others of condemnation. Débutantes have strutted their hour, some
giving promise of growing excellence, and others of quick oblivion.
So far, so good. The establishment has been growing rich, and the
public have been satisfied with these _prominent_ evidences of its
desire to maintain its old renown.