The publisher having sent a copy of the above work to a correspondent
in whose literary attainments, taste and discrimination we place great
confidence, received the following criticism from his pen:
I thank you for Vathek, which I have read _purely_ because you sent it
to me; otherwise it would have remained unread by me forever. I see
nothing "_sublime_" in the work; on the contrary, I was disgusted at
its impurity. A more revolting _jumble of nonsense_, _ridiculous
conceptions_, _debasing exhibitions_, and _corrupt imaginings_, I
never met with in my life. This may perhaps be somewhat redeemed by
the oriental descriptions, which were pronounced by Lord Byron, I
think, to be excellent. Or this I cannot judge; but if the book were
intended, as it seems to be, to inculcate the lesson of the impiety of
looking into matters which are too high for us, the moral loses all
its force, from the very great corruption of the characters of Vathek
and Carathis, who certainly were most justly lodged in Hell, as the
fittest place for such useless and abominable wretches. We feel no
sympathy for them, when we find them with their hearts on fire; and as
for the contrast of the happiness of Gulchenrouz, we care as little
about him, for his happiness was certainly undeserved by any thing he
had done, so far as we are made acquainted with him. There is such a
singular mixture of comic and serious, that one is at a loss to know
what the author would be at. What think you, for instance, of the game
at football? of Aboulfakir the camel, having a taste for solitude and
snorting at the sight of a dwelling, and Cafour's predilection for
pestilence? &c. &c. I am quoting now from memory, and have not the
patience to look at the book to see if I am right.
A learned English reviewer is not less severe upon this lauded
production of juvenile years. After quoting Lord Byron's eulogy upon
the work, he says--
Vathek is, indeed, without reference to the time of life when the
author penned it, a very remarkable performance; but, like most of the
works of the great poet who has thus eloquently praised it, it is
stained with some poison-spots--its inspiration is too often such as
might have been inhaled in the "Hall of Eblis." We do not allude so
much to its audacious licentiousness, as to the diabolical levity of
its contempt for mankind. The boy-author appears already to have
rubbed all the bloom off his heart; and, in the midst of his dazzling
genius, one trembles to think that a strippling of years so tender,
should have attained the cool cynicism of a _Candide_. How different
is the effect of that Eastern tale of our own days, which Lord Byron
ought not to have forgotten when he was criticising his favorite
romance. How perfectly does _Thalaba_ realize the idea demanded in the
Welsh Triad of "fulness of erudition, simplicity of language, and
purity of manners." But the critic was repelled by the purity of that
delicious creation, more than attracted by the erudition which he must
have respected, and the diction which he could not but admire:--
"The low sweet voice so musical,
That with such deep and undefined delight
Fills the surrender'd soul."
It would argue a great decline in the moral feeling of our country,
and a most adulterated literary taste, if such works as "Vathek" could
be generally admired.
* * * * *
SCRAPS, by John Collins McCabe. Richmond: J. C. Walker. 1835.
This little volume from the Richmond press, consists of various poems
and half a dozen tales and legends in prose. The pieces, though of
unequal merit, are upon the whole decidedly creditable to the author;
who is not only a young man, but as we are informed, has been denied
the advantages of a liberal education. His productions are vastly
superior to those of many a college dunce, upon whose vacant cranium
the heritage of wealth has been expended; and their author holds a
much higher grade in the scale of intellect than many of that snarling
tribe, who can discern neither talent nor genius, unless allied with
some ideal advantage or accidental distinction. We nevertheless hope
that Mr. McCabe will continue to look ahead, and contemplate the
highest standards of excellence in composition. The most acute
observation of men and things, or the most delicate perception of
poetical imagery, will avail but little without profound mental labor,
and the assiduous cultivation of taste. We select the following as a
favorable specimen of his poetry.