I PROMESSI SPOSI, or the Betrothed Lovers; a Milanese Story of the
Seventeenth Century: as translated for the Metropolitan, from the
Italian of Alessandro Manzoni, by G. W. Featherstonhaugh. Washington:
Stereotyped and published by Duff Green. 1834. 8vo. pp. 249.
The appearance of this work strongly reminds us of the introductory
remarks with which the Edinburg Review, thirty years ago, prefaced its
annunciation of Waverley. We would gladly appropriate them, were it
fair to do so; but "honor among thieves!" Reviewers must not steal
from Reviewers; and what is it but theft, when he who borrows, can
never have anything worthy of acceptance to give in return?
We may, nevertheless, so far imitate "the grand Napoleon of the realms
of criticism," as to congratulate our readers on the appearance of a
work, which promises to be the commencement of a new style in novel
writing. Since the days of Fielding, unimitated and inimitable--and of
Smollett, between whose different productions there was scarce a
family likeness, we have had a succession of _dynasties_ reigning over
the regions of romance. We have had the Ratcliffe dynasty, the
Edgeworth dynasty, and the Scott dynasty; each, like the family of the
Cæsars, passing from good to bad, and from bad to worse, until each
has run out. Partial movements in the provinces have occasionally set
up the standard of rival aspirants: but these have soon passed away.
Heroines from the bogs, and heroes from the highlands of Scotland, or
the Polish wilds, could not maintain their pretensions, though uniting
in themselves all that is admirable both in the civilized and the
savage character. Perhaps this was the reason. We like to read of
things that may a little remind us of what we have seen in real life.
Sir Charles Grandison in the Scottish Kilt, is a startling apparition.
The younger D'Israeli has indeed, occasionally flashed upon us the
light of his capricious genius; but one of his caprices has been to
disappoint the hope that he had raised. He has shown us what he could
do, and that is all. Mr. Bulwer too, in a sort of freak of literary
radicalism, has set up for himself. He scorned to add to the number of
those who dress themselves in the cast-off habiliments of Scott; and
study, as at a glass, to make themselves like him, as if ambitious to
display their thefts. _He_ learned the craft of plagiarism in the
Spartan school, where _detection_ was the only disgrace. He would not
steal, not he, from any but "the poor man, who had nothing save one
little ewe lamb, that lay in his bosom, and was unto him as a
daughter." He would imitate none but himself, and draw from no other
models. His novels are all echoes of each other. There is hardly a
page which might not be known for his, nor a favorite character which
is not an exhibition of one of the phases of his _exquisite_ self. The
variety is between what he imagines himself to be, and what he
imagines that he might have been, had he been a cavalier of the
seventeenth century, or had circumstances made him a highwayman or a
murderer. We are aware that he denies all this, and may be unconscious
of it: but his identity can no more be mistaken than that of the
one-eyed companion of Hogarth's "idle apprentice." We are aware too,
that Mr. Bulwer is a member of a certain literary cabal, who aspire to
direct the public taste, and bring all the influence of wealth and
fashion and political connexion in aid of their pretensions. He is a
sort of literary Jack Cade. "His mouth is the law." We know that the
"amphitrion on l'on dire" is always the true amphitrion. But we never
expect to travel as caterers for a public journal. We in the south do
not do that sort of thing. We are not taught so to "raise the wind."
We are not up to perpetual motion, nor to the art of making our living
by taking our pleasure. We feel ourselves therefore under no
obligation to admire Mr. Rogers's poems, though he be a banker--nor
Mr. Bulwer's novels, nor himself, though he be a member of Parliament;
nor though his female _doublure_ Lady Blessington, "have the finest
bust," and "the prettiest foot," and be "the finest woman in London."
_We_ do not put the names of our fine women in the newspapers. The
business of female education with us, is not to qualify a woman to be
the head of a literary _coterie_, nor to figure in the journal of a
travelling coxcomb. We prepare her, as a wife, to make the home of a
good and wise and great man, the happiest place to him on earth. We
prepare her, as a mother, to form her son to walk in his father's
steps, and in turn, to take his place among the good and wise and
great. When we have done this, we have accomplished, if not _all_, at
least _the best_ that education can do. Her praise is found in the
happiness of her husband, and in the virtues and honors of her sons.
Her name is too sacred to be profaned by public breath. She is only
seen by that dim doubtful light, which, like "the majesty of
darkness," so much enhances true dignity. She finds her place by the
side of the "Mother of the Gracchi," and of her whom an English poet,
who well knew how to appreciate and how to praise female excellence,
has simply designated as
"SIDNEY'S SISTER, PEMBROKE'S MOTHER."
We much fear, that after all this, the author of the work before us
will have no reason to thank us for our praise. On the contrary, there
may be danger of involving him in the displeasure, which we may draw
upon ourselves from that same cabal, which has its members on both
sides of the Atlantic. "Ca me; Ca thee," is the order of the day. If
half the praise be due, which is lavished on the works that daily
issue from the press, we may live to see the writings which instructed
and delighted our youth, laid on the same shelf with Thomas Aquinas
and Duns Scotus. Men can no more read every thing than they can eat
every thing; and the _petits plats_, that are handed round
hot-and-hot, leave us no room to do honor to the roast beef of old
England, nor to the savory Virginia ham. But these are the food by
which the thews and sinews of manhood are best nourished. They at once
exercise and help digestion. Dyspepsia was not of their day. _It_ came
in with _French Gastronomy_. Are we mistaken in thinking, that we see
symptoms of a sort of intellectual dyspepsia, arising from the
incessant exhibition of the _bon bons_ and _kickshaws_ of the press?
Well! here is something that will stick by the ribs; a work of which
we would try to give a sort of outline, but that it cannot be
abridged. The machinery of the story is not intricate, but each part
is necessary to the rest. To leave anything out is to tell nothing.
It might be too much to say that this novel is, in every sense of the
word, original. The writer is obviously familiar with English
literature, and seems to have taken at least one hint from Sir Walter
Scott. The use made by that writer of the records and traditions of
times gone by, has suggested this hint. It naturally occurred to
Manzoni, a native of Italy, that much of the same sort of material was
to be found among the archives of the petty Italian states, now
blotted from the map of Europe. It is obvious that the collisions of
small states, though less interesting to the politician than those of
mighty nations, must afford more occasion for a display of individual
character, and the exercise of those passions which give romance its
highest interest. But what is known of the great and good men who
nobly acted their parts in these scenes, when the very theatre of
their acts is crushed and buried beneath the rubbish of revolution? To
drag them from beneath the ruins, and permit the world to dwell for a
moment on the contemplation of their virtues is a pious and
praiseworthy task. It is sad to think how the short lapse of two
centuries can disappoint the hope that cheered the last moments of the
patriot and the hero. "For his country he lived, for his country he
died;" his country was all to him; but his country has perished, and
his name has perished with it. With the civil wars of England we are
all familiar; and our hearts have glowed, and our tears have fallen,
in contemplating the virtues and the sufferings of those who acted in
those scenes; but, if we may credit the traditions imbodied in this
book, a contemporary history of the Italian Republics would display
characters yet more worthy of our admiration and our sympathy. The
Cardinal Borromeo is an historical character. The writer obviously
means to paint him as he was; and the annals of mankind may be
searched in vain for a more glorious example of the purity, the
enthusiasm, and the inspiration of virtue.
We might suspect that something of a zeal for the honor of the Romish
Church had mingled itself in the rich coloring of this picture. But
Manzoni was as much alive, as Luther himself, to the abuses of that
church. In an episode, which will be found at page fifty-eight, he
discloses some, of the precise character of which we were not hitherto
aware. We knew that something was wrong, but what that something might
be, was never certainly known. The author has unveiled the mystery. He
has withdrawn a curtain, behind which we had never been permitted to
look. We had guessed, and we had read the guesses of others; but we
never knew precisely what was there. The moral coercion, more cruel
than bodily torture, by which a poor girl, the victim of the heartless
pride of her parents, without command, without even persuasion, (for
both it seems are forbidden) is driven to the cloister, that her
brother may have more ample means to uphold his hereditary honors;
this was a thing inscrutable and inconceivable to us. In reading such
works as Mrs. Sherwood's Nun, we feel that we are dealing with
conjectures. We turn to the scene exhibited in this work, and we
_know_ it to be real life. We would gladly grace our pages with it. It
would probably be read with more interest than any thing we can say;
but it is before the public, and we have no right to discharge our
debts to our readers, by giving them what is theirs already. We will
only pray their indulgence so far as to offer a short extract, as a
specimen of the writer's power. It is a picture of some of the horrors
of the plague, as it raged in Milan in the year 1628. It may serve to
show us that the pestilence, which lately stooped upon us, was in
comparison, an angel of mercy.
The cars spoken of in the following extract, are those in which the
uncoffined bodies of the dead were borne to a common receptacle,
"naked for the most part, some badly wrapped up in dirty rags, heaped
up and folded together like a knot of serpents." The "monalti" were
men who, having had the plague, were considered exempt from future
danger, and were employed to bury the dead.
"A lady came from the threshold of one of the houses, whose aspect
announced youth advanced, but not yet passed away. Her beauty was
obscured, but not obliterated, by distress and mortal languor; that
sort of beauty, at once majestic and soft, which is so conspicuous in
the Lombard race. She walked with pain, but did not stagger; her eyes
shed no tears, but bore marks of having done so abundantly. There was,
in her grief, a something inexpressibly quiet and deep, betokening a
soul imbued and filled with it. But it was not her own appearance
alone, that in the midst of so much wretchedness, marked her
especially for commiseration, and awakened in her favor a feeling now
deadened and worn out in all hearts. She bore in her arms a girl about
nine years old,--dead, but dressed in a white frock of spotless
purity, with her hair divided in front, as if her own hands had
adorned her for a feast, long promised as the reward of her goodness.
She held her, seated on one of her arms, with her breast upon the
lady's breast; and she might have been thought to be alive, but that
her young white hand hung heavy and lifeless on one side, like
wax-work, and her head lay upon her mother's shoulder, with an air of
abandonment heavier than that of sleep. Her mother! If the resemblance
had not proclaimed the relation, the distress of the survivor
announced it too plainly.
"A coarse monalti drew near the lady, and silently offered to relieve
her from her burthen, but with an air of unwonted respect and
involuntary hesitancy. But she, with an action betokening neither
disgust nor scorn, drew back, and said, 'No; do not touch her now; I
must lay her on that car myself; take this.' She opened her hand,
showed a purse, and dropped it into his. She then continued: 'Promise
me not to take a thread from her, and to suffer no other to do so, and
to put her in the ground just as she is.'
"The monalti placed his hand on his breast, and then with an
obsequious zeal, rather like one subdued by a new and strange emotion,
than as if prompted by the unexpected gift, he busied himself to make
room on the car for the little corpse. The lady placed her there, as
on a bed, laid her straight, kissed her cold brow, spread over her a
white sheet, and then spoke for the last time. 'Adieu, Cecilia! Rest
in peace! This evening we meet again, to part no more. Pray for us, my
child, and I will pray for thee, and for the rest. You,' added she to
the monalti, 'when you pass again at vespers, will come and take me
too, and not me alone.'
"Having said this, she re-entered the house, and presently appeared at
the window, holding in her arms a still younger darling, alive, but
with the marks of death on its face. She stood, as if contemplating
the unworthy obsequies of the first, until the car moved, and while it
remained in sight, and then she disappeared. What remained, but to lay
her only surviving babe upon the bed, place herself by her side, and
die with her; even as the stately blossom, with the bud beside it on
its stem, falls before the scythe that levels all the plants in the
meadow."
There is a power in this to which we do not scruple to give great
praise. We regret to say that the translation has many faults. We
lament it the more, because they are obviously faults of haste. The
translator, we fear, was hungry; a misfortune with which we know how
to sympathize. The style is, for the most part, Italian, in English
words, but Italian still. This is a great fault. In some instances it
would be unpardonable. In this instance, perhaps, it is more than
compensated by a kindred excellence. In a work like this, abounding in
the untranslatable phrases of popular dialogue, it gives a quaint
raciness which is not unacceptable. It does more. Such translations
_of such works_, would soon make the English ear familiar with Italian
idioms, which once naturalized, would enrich the language. It is
already thus incalculably enriched by the poetry of Burns and the
novels of Scott. A familiarity with Shakspeare, (which is not the
English of the present day,) preserves a store of wealth which would
else be lost. The strength of a language is in the number and variety
of its idiomatic phrases. These are forms of speech which use has
rendered familiar, and emancipated from the crippling restraint of
regular grammar. They enable the speaker to be brief, without being
obscure. His meaning, eliptically expressed, is distinctly and
precisely understood. Should any other work of Manzoni fall into the
hands of Mr. Featherstonhaugh, we hope he may have time to correct
those inaccuracies of which he is doubtless sensible; but we trust he
will not consider his popular Italian idioms as among his faults.
Smollett, in his translation of Don Quixotte, through extreme
fastidiousness, threw away an opportunity of doubling the force of the
English language.
This work comes to us as the harbinger of glad tidings to the reading
world. Here is a book, equal in matter to any two of Cooper's novels,
and executed at least as well, which we receive at the moderate price
of forty-two cents! It forms one number of the Washington Library,
published monthly, at five dollars per annum. At this rate, a literary
gourmand, however greedy, may hope to satisfy his appetite for books,
without starving his children. The author has our praise, and the
translator and publisher have our thanks.
* * * * *
HORSE-SHOE ROBINSON; A Tale of the Tory Ascendency. By the Author of
'Swallow Barn.' Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard.
We have not yet forgotten, nor is it likely we shall very soon forget,
the rich simplicity of diction--the manliness of tone--the admirable
traits of Virginian manners, and the striking pictures of still life,
to be found in Swallow Barn. The spirit of imitation was, however,
visible in that book, and, in a great measure, overclouded its rare
excellence. This is by no means the case with Mr. Kennedy's new novel.
If ever volumes were entitled to be called original--these are so
entitled. We have read them from beginning to end with the greatest
attention, and feel very little afraid of hazarding our critical
reputation, when we assert that they will place Mr. Kennedy at once in
the very first rank of American novelists.
_Horse-Shoe Robinson_ (be not alarmed at the title, gentle reader!) is
a tale, or more properly a succession of stirring incidents relating
to the time of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina, during the
Revolution. It is well known that throughout the whole war this state
evinced more disaffection to the confederated government than any
other of the Union, with the exception perhaps of the neighboring
state of Georgia, where the residents on the Savannah river, being
nearly allied to the Carolinians in their habits and general
occupations, were actuated, more or less, by the same political
opinions. But we will here let the author speak for himself.
"Such might be said to be the more popular sentiment of the state at
the time of its subjugation by Sir Henry Clinton and Lord Cornwallis.
To this common feeling there were many brilliant exceptions, and the
more brilliant because they stood, as it were, apart from the
preponderating mass of public judgment.... There were heroes of this
mould in South Carolina, who entered with the best spirit of chivalry
into the national quarrel, and brought to it hearts as bold, minds as
vigorous, and arms as strong, as ever in any clime worked out a
nation's redemption. These men refused submission to their conquerors,
and endured exile, chains, and prison, rather than the yoke. Some few,
still undiscouraged by the portents of the times, retreated into
secret places, gathered their few patriot neighbors together, and
contrived to keep in awe the soldier government that now professed to
sway the land. They lived on the scant aliment furnished in the woods,
slept in the tangled brakes and secret places of the fen, exacted
contributions from the adherents of the crown, and, by rapid movements
of their woodland cavalry, and brave blows, accomplished more than
thrice their numbers would have done in ordinary warfare.... In such
encounters or _frays_, as they might rather be called, from the
smallness of the numbers concerned, and the hand to hand mode of
fighting which they exhibited, Marion, Sumpter, Horry, Pickens, and
many others had won a fame, that, in a nation of legendary or poetical
associations, would have been reduplicated through a thousand channels
of immortal verse. But alas! we have no ballads! and many men who as
well deserve to be remembered as Percy or Douglas, as Adam Bell or
Clym of the Clough, have sunk down without even a couplet epitaph upon
the rude stone, that, in some unfenced and unreverenced grave yard,
still marks the lap of earth whereon their heads were laid."
* * * * *
"One feature that belonged to this unhappy state of things in Carolina
was the division of families. Kindred were arrayed against each other
in deadly feuds, and not unfrequently brother took up arms against
brother, and sons against their sires. A prevailing spirit of
treachery and distrust marked the times. Strangers did not know how
far they might trust to the rites of hospitality, and many a man laid
his head upon his pillow, uncertain whether his fellow lodger might
not invade him in the secret watches of the night, and murder him in
his slumbers. All went armed, and many slept with pistols or daggers
under their pillows. There are tales told of men being summoned to
their doors or windows at midnight by the blaze of their farm yards,
to which the incendiary torch had been applied, and shot down, in the
light of the conflagration, by a concealed hand. Families were obliged
to betake themselves to the shelter of the thickets and swamps, when
their own homesteads were dangerous places. The enemy wore no colors,
and was not to be distinguished from friends either by outward guise
or speech. Nothing could be more revolting than to see the symbols of
peace thus misleading the confident into the toils of war--nor is it
possible to imagine a state of society characterized by a more
frightful insecurity."
It will here be seen at a glance that the novelist has been peculiarly
fortunate in the choice of an epoch, a scene and a subject. We
sincerely think that he has done them all the fullest justice, and has
worked out, with these and with other materials, a book of no ordinary
character. We do not wish to attempt any analysis of the story
itself--or that connecting chain which unites into one proper whole
the varied events of the novel. We feel that in so doing, we should,
in some measure, mar the interest by anticipation; a grievous sin too
often indulged in by reviewers, and against which, should we ever be
so lucky as to write a book, we would protest with all our hearts. But
we may be allowed a word or two. The principal character in the novel,
upon whom the chief interest of the story turns, and who, in
accordance with the right usage of novel writing, should be considered
the hero, and should have given a title to the book, is Brevet Major
Arthur Butler of the continental army, to whose acquaintance we are
first introduced about two o'clock in the afternoon of a day towards
the end of July, 1780. But Mr. K. has ventured, at his own peril, to
set at defiance the common ideas of propriety in this important
matter, and, not having the fear of the critic before his eyes, has
thought it better to call his work by the name of a very singular
personage, whom all readers will agree in pronouncing worthy of the
honor thus conferred upon him. The writer has also made another
innovation. He has begun at the beginning. We all know this to be an
unusual method of procedure. It has been too, for some time past, the
custom, to delay as long as possible the main interest of a novel--no
doubt with the very laudable intention of making it the more intense
when it does at length arrive. Now for our own parts we can see little
difference in being amused with the beginning or with the end of a
book, but have a decided preference for those rare volumes which are
so lucky as to amuse us throughout. And such a book is the one before
us. We enter _at once_ into the spirit and meaning of the author--we
are introduced _at once_ to the prominent characters--and we go with
them _at once_, heart and hand, in the various and spirit-stirring
adventures which befall them.
Horse-Shoe Robinson, who derives his nick-name of Horse-Shoe (his
proper _prænomen_ being Galbraith)--from the two-fold circumstance of
being a blacksmith, and of living in a little nook of land hemmed in
by a semi-circular bend of water, is fullly entitled to the character
of "an original." He is the life and soul of the drama--the bone and
sinew of the book--its very breath--its every thing which gives it
strength, substance, and vitality. Never was there a rarer fellow--a
more laughable blacksmith--a more gallant Sancho. He is a very prince
at an ambuscade, and a very devil at a fight. He is a better edition
of Robin Hood--quite as sagacious--not half so much of a coxcomb--and
infinitely more moral. In short, he is the man of all others we should
like to have riding by our side in any very hazardous expedition.
We think Mr. K. has been particularly successful in the delineation of
his female characters; and this is saying a great deal at a time when,
from some unaccountable cause, almost every attempt of the kind has
turned out a failure. Mildred Lindsay, in her confiding love, in her
filial reverence, in her heroic espousal of the revolutionary cause,
not because she approved it, but because it was her lover's, is an
admirable and--need we say more?--a truly _feminine_ portrait. Then
the ardent, the eager, the simple-minded, the generous and the devoted
Mary Musgrove! Most sincerely did we envy John Ramsay, the treasure of
so pure and so exalted an affection!
With the exception of now and then a careless, or inadvertent
expression, such for instance, as the word _venturesome_ instead of
_adventurous_, no fault whatever can be found with Mr. Kennedy's
style. It varies gracefully and readily with the nature of his
subject, never sinking, even in the low comedy of some parts of the
book, into the insipid or the vulgar; and often, very often rising
into the energetic and sublime. Its general character, as indeed the
general character of all that we have seen from the same pen, is a
certain unpretending simplicity, nervous, forcible, and altogether
devoid of affectation. This is a style of writing above all others to
be desired, and above all others difficult of attainment. Nor is it to
be supposed that by simplicity we imply a rejection of ornament, or of
a proper use of those advantages afforded by metaphorical
illustration. A style professing to disclaim such advantages would be
anything but simple--if indeed we might not be tempted to think it
very silly. We have called the style of Mr. K. a style simple and
forcible, and we have no hesitation in calling it, at the same time,
richly figurative and poetical. We have opened the pages at random for
an illustration of our meaning, and have no difficulty in finding one
precisely suited to our purpose. Let us turn to vol. i. page
112.--"The path of invasion is ever a difficult road when it leads
against a united people. You mistake both the disposition and the
means of these republicans. They have bold partizans in the field, and
eloquent leaders in their senates. The nature of the strife sorts well
with their quick and earnest tempers; and by this man's play of war we
breed up soldiers who delight in the game. Rebellion has long since
marched beyond the middle ground, and has no thought of retreat. What
was at first the mere overflow of popular passion has been hardened
into principle--_like a fiery stream of lava which first rolls in a
flood, and then turns into stone_."
While we are upon the subject of style, we might as well say a word or
two in regard to _punctuation_. It seems to us that the volumes before
us are singularly deficient in this respect--and yet we noticed no
fault of this nature in Swallow Barn. How can we reconcile these
matters? Whom are we to blame in this particular, the author, or the
printer? It cannot be said that the point is one of no importance--it
is of very great importance. A slovenly punctuation will mar, in a
greater or less degree, the brightest paragraph ever penned; and we
are certain that those who have paid the most attention to this
matter, will not think us hypercritical in what we say. A too frequent
use of the _dash_ is the besetting sin of the volumes now before us.
It is lugged in upon all occasions, and invariably introduced where it
has no business whatever. Even the end of a sentence is not sacred
from its intrusion. Now there is no portion of a printer's fount,
which can, if properly disposed, give more of strength and energy to a
sentence than this same _dash_; and, for this very reason, there is
none which can more effectually, if improperly arranged, disturb and
distort the meaning of every thing with which it comes in contact. But
not to speak of such disturbance or distortion, a fine taste will
intuitively avoid, even in trifles, all that is unnecessary or
superfluous, and bring nothing into use without an object or an end.
We do not wish to dwell upon this thing, or to make it of more
consequence than necessary. We will merely adduce an example of the
punctuation to which we have alluded. Vide page 138, vol. i. "Will no
lapse of time wear away this abhorred image from your memory?--Are you
madly bent on bringing down misery on your head?--I do not speak of my
own suffering.--Will you forever nurse a hopeless attachment for a man
whom, it must be apparent to yourself, you can never meet
again?--Whom, if the perils of the field, the avenging bullet of some
loyal subject, do not bring him merited punishment,--the halter may
reward, or, in his most fortunate destiny, disgrace, poverty, and
shame pursue:--Are you forever to love that man?"--
Would not the above paragraph read equally as well thus: "Will no
lapse of time wear away this abhorred image from your memory? Are you
madly bent on bringing down misery on your head? I do not speak of my
own suffering. Will you forever nurse a hopeless attachment for a man
whom, it must be apparent to yourself, you can never meet again--whom,
if the perils of the field, the avenging bullet of some loyal subject,
do not bring him merited punishment, the halter may reward, or, in his
more fortunate destiny, disgrace, poverty and shame pursue? Are you
forever to love that man?"
The second of Mr. K's volumes is, from a naturally increasing interest
taken in the fortunes of the leading characters, by far the most
exciting. But we can confidently recommend them both to the lovers of
the forcible, the adventurous, the stirring, and the picturesque. They
will not be disappointed. A high tone of morality, healthy and
masculine, breathes throughout the book, and a rigid--perhaps a too
scrupulously rigid poetical justice is dealt out to the great and
little villains of the story--the Tyrrells, the Wat Adairs, the
Currys, and the Habershams of the drama. In conclusion, we prophecy
that Horse-Shoe Robinson will be eagerly read by all classes of
people, and cannot fail to place Mr. Kennedy in a high rank among the
writers of this or of any other country. We regret that the late
period of receiving his book will not allow us to take that extended
notice of it which we could desire.
* * * * *
JOURNAL--By FRANCES ANNE BUTLER. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard.
[Presented to the Editor of the Messenger, by Mr. C. Hall.]
Perhaps no book has, for many years, been looked for, long previous to
its publication, with such intense curiosity, as this record of Miss
Fanny Kemble's observations and opinions of men and women, manners and
customs, in the United States. We say Miss Fanny Kemble's
opinions--for while bearing that name, most of those opinions were
formed. Under that name she was hailed in this country, as the
inheritress of the genius of Mrs. Siddons, whose fame is connected in
the minds of Americans with all that is noble, and majestic, and
powerful in the dramatic art. Under that name she received the
admiration of thousands, was made a sharer of the hospitality of many
of the most distinguished citizens of the country--and received a
homage to which nothing but the highest genius, and the purest moral
worth could have entitled her. It is not therefore as Mrs. Frances
Anne Butler, the wife of an American citizen, that we look upon her in
her character of authoress--but as the favorite actress, applauded to
the echo, surfeited with flattery, and loaded with pecuniary
rewards.[1] It is impossible to consider this book in any other than a
personal point of view. Its very form forbids our separating the
author from the work--the opinions and sentiments, from the individual
who utters them. The idea of both exist in an indivisible
amalgamation. Nor we fear, will it be possible for nine-tenths of her
readers to weigh a single expression of Fanny Kemble the authoress,
unmingled with the idea of Fanny Kemble the actress, the star--the
"observed of all observers." Hence this Journal will have an effect
probably far beyond the anticipations of its writer. It will not only
be looked upon as the test of Mrs. Butler's ability as an author; but
it will, whether justly or not, convey to the thousands who have
already perused, and the tens of thousands who will hereafter peruse
it, a picture of her character and dispositions. The picture may, and
doubtless will be an exaggerated one--few _pictures_ are otherwise;
but still it will be received as true, because the outlines have been
traced by the original herself. We are sorry to say that the
"counterfeit resemblance" of the fair authoress, presented by her
book, displays many harsh and ill-favored lineaments, and the traces
of passions which we could wish did not disfigure its many noble and
magnanimous features. Mrs. Butler cannot claim for herself the
immunity which she awards with great justice to poetical writers, of a
distinction between their _real_ and their _written_ sentiments.[2] If
this book contains as we suppose, the faithful transcripts of her
daily observations and opinions, revised long after they were penned,
and thus exhibiting her true, unexaggerated impressions, by them must
she be judged--and in passing judgment upon her work, a candid critic
will find much, very much, to admire and approve, and much also to
censure and condemn.
[Footnote 1: We are far from wishing to convey the idea that a popular
actor of real merit is in any way placed under obligation, (especially
such an obligation as would render it improper or ungrateful for him
to speak with freedom of the communities of which his audiences formed
parts,) by the pecuniary benefits received from the public for the
exhibition of his talents. Mrs. Butler has, we think, settled that
question in her book; and it will be better for both the audiences and
the actors, whenever differences arise between them, to consider each
other on the footing of equality, which she points out as the
equitable and common-sense relation of the two parties. Nothing can be
more rational than the following:
"It may not be amiss here to say one word with regard to the
_gratitude_ which audiences in some parts of the world claim from
actors, and about which I have lately heard a most alarming out-cry.
Do actors generally exercise their profession to please themselves and
gratify their own especial delight in self-exhibition? Is that
profession in its highest walks one of small physical exertion and
fatigue, (I say nothing of mental exertion) and in its lower paths is
it one of much gain, glory, or ease? Do audiences, on the other hand,
use to come in crowds to play-houses to see indifferent performers?
and when there do they out of pure charity and good-will, bestow their
applause as well as their money upon tiresome performers?--I will
answer these points as far as regards myself, and therein express the
gratitude which I feel towards the frequenters of theatres. I
individually disliked my profession, and had neither pride nor
pleasure in the exercise of it. I exercised it as a matter of
necessity, to earn my bread,--and verily it was in the sweat of my
brow. The parts which fell to my lot were of a most laborious nature,
and occasioned sometimes violent mental excitement, always immense
physical exertion, and sometimes both. In those humbler walks of my
profession, from whose wearisomeness I was exempted by my sudden favor
with the public, I have seen, though not known, the most painful
drudgery,--the most constant fatigue,--the most sad contrast between
real cares and feigned merriments,--the most anxious penurious and
laborious existence imaginable. For the part of my question which
regarded the audiences, I have only to say, that I never knew, saw,
heard or read of any set of people who went to a play-house to see
what they did not like; this being the case it never occurred to me
that our houses were full but as a necessary consequence of our own
attraction, or that we were applauded, but as the result of our own
exertions. I was glad the houses were full, because I was earning my
livelihood, and wanted the money; and I was glad the people applauded
us, because it is pleasant to please, and human vanity will find some
sweetness in praise, even when reason weighs its worth most justly."
Vol. ii. pp. 109-110.]
[Footnote 2: "Moore talks about Byron's writing with the same pen full
of ink, 'Adieu, adieu, my native land,' and 'Hurra, Hodgson, we are
going.' It proves nothing, except what I firmly believe, that we must
not look for the real feelings of writers to their works--or rather
that what they give us, and what we take for heart feeling, is head
weaving--a species of emotion engendered somewhere betwixt the bosom
and the brain, and bearing the same proportion of resemblance to
reality that a picture does--that is--like feeling, but not
feeling--like sadness, but not sadness--like what it appears, but not
indeed that very thing: and the greater a man's power of thus
producing _sham realities_, the greater his qualification for being a
poet." _Journal_, vol. i., pp. 21-22.]
We have read Mrs. Butler's work with untiring interest--indeed the
vivacity of its style, the frequent occurrence of beautiful
descriptions, of just and forcible observations, and many sound views
of the condition of society in this country--the numerous
characteristic anecdotes, and some most discriminating criticisms of
actors and acting, must stamp her work as one of no ordinary merit.
And these attractions in a great measure neutralize, although they
cannot redeem, her innumerable faults of language, her sturdy
prejudices, her hasty opinions, and her ungenerous sarcasms--These
abound in the Journal, and yet it is more than probable that her
censorious spirit has to a great extent been suppressed, as almost
every page is studded with asterisks, indicating, we may presume, that
her sins of hasty censure have been greatly diminished to the public
eye, by the saving grace of omission.
The defects of the work are not confined to the exhibition of
prejudices and the expression of unjust opinions: the style and
language is often coarse, we might say vulgar; and her more
impassioned exclamations are often characterized by a vehemence which
is very like _profanity_, an offence that would not be tolerated in a
writer of the other sex. We cite a few, from among the many passages
which we have noted, as specimens of undignified, unfeminine and
unscholarlike phraseology: The word "_dawdled_" seems a great favorite
with Mrs. Butler--as, for instance: "Rose at eight, _dawdled_ about,"
&c. vol. i. p. 18. "Rose at half past eight, _dawdled_ about as
usual," p. 21. "Came up and _dawdled_ upon deck," p. 47. "Came home,
_daudled_ about my room," p. 97.--And in numberless other instances
this word is used, apparently, to signify loitering or dallying,
spelled indiscriminately da_w_dled, or da_u_dled. Indeed so much does
our fair authoress seem to have been addicted to the habit which the
word implies--be it what it may--that in the second volume she speaks
of having "dressed for once without _dawdling_," as an uncommon
occurrence. She is also fond of the word "gulp," and uses it in
strange combinations, as--"My dear father, who was a little elated,
made me sing to him, which I greatly _gulped_ at," p. 61. "I _gulped_,
sat down, and was measured," (for a pair of shoes,) p. 103--"on the
edge of a precipice, several hundred feet down into the valley: it
made me _gulp_ to look at it," &c.
At page 97, she tells us, that "when the gentlemen joined us they were
all more or less 'how come'd you so indeed?'" and shortly after, "they
all went away in good time, and we came to bed:
------------------------------------To bed--to sleep--
To sleep!--perchance to be bitten! aye--there's the scratch:
And in that sleep of our's what bugs may come,
Must give us pause."
She thus describes the motions of persons on ship-board, in rough
weather: "Rushing hither and thither in all directions but the one
they purpose going, and making as many angles, fetches, and ridiculous
deviations from the point they aim at, as if the _devil had tied a
string to their legs_, and jerked it every now and then in spite." p.
18.
At page 99: "Supped, lay down on the floor in absolute _meltiness
away_, and then came to bed." "When I went on, I was all but tumbling
down at the sight of my Jaffier, who looked like the apothecary in
Romeo and Juliet, with the addition of some _devilish_ red slashes
along his thighs and arms," p. 107. "Away _walloped_ the four horses,"
&c. p. 131. "How they did _wallop_ and shamble about," &c. p. 149.
"Now I'll go to bed; my cough's enough to kill a _horse_," p. 153.
"Heaven bless the world, for a _conglomerated amalgamation_ of fools,"
p. 190. "He talked an amazing quantity of _thickish_ philosophy, and
moral and sentimental _potter_." In truth, "_potter_" and
"_pottering_," seem to be favorites equally with _daudling_, and she
as frequently makes use of them. For instance, "He sat down, and
_pottered_ a little," p. 58. They "took snuff, eat cakes, and
_pottered_ a deal," p. 182. "After dinner _pottered_ about clothes,"
&c. p. 220. "Sat stitching and _pottering_ an infinity," p. 230--and
many other varieties of the same word. But of the infinite number of
literary novelties of this sort, it would be impossible, within the
limits we have prescribed to ourselves, to give more than a few
specimens. We will take two or three more at random: "My feet got so
perished with the cold, that I didn't know what to do," p. 230. "He
was most exceedingly odd and _dauldrumish_. I think he was a little
'_how come'd you so indeed_.'" p. 195; "yesterday began like May, with
flowers and sun-shine, it ended like December, with the _sulks_, and a
fit of crying. The former were furnished me by my friends and Heaven,
the latter by myself and the _d----l_." p. 198. "At six o'clock, D----
roused me; and _grumpily_ enough I arose." _1b._ "At one o'clock, came
home, having danced myself fairly off my legs." p. 227.
Such blemishes as these, apparently uniting the slang of the boarding
school and the green room, deform the work of Mrs. Butler, and are
much to be lamented, became they may have the effect of blinding the
hasty, prejudiced or fastidious reader, to the many beauties which are
to be found in its pages. Indeed the work has already encountered the
severest criticisms from the newspaper press, imbittered by the many
censorious remarks of Mrs. B. upon the manners and institutions of the
country; her severe, and in many instances just strictures upon the
state of society in the cities in which she sojourned; and the
supercilious sneers which she has uttered against the editorial
fraternity, "the press gang," as she uncourteously denominates that
numerous and powerful body. The censures of her book, are doubtless,
in the main, well deserved; but in their excess, the merits which the
"Journal" unquestionably possesses in great abundance and of a high
order, have in many cases been passed by unheeded by her indignant
critics. And here we cannot refrain from the utterance of a remark
which has frequently occurred to us, and which is brought forcibly to
mind by the reception which Mrs. Butler's criticisms upon America have
met with: we think that too much sensitiveness is felt by our
countrymen, at the unfavorable opinions expressed by foreigners, in
regard to our social, political, and moral condition--and that the
press, as the organ of public sentiment, is prone to work itself into
a superfluous frenzy of indignation, at what are generally considered
"foreign libels" upon us. To be indignant at gross misrepresentations
of our country, is an exhibition of patriotism in one of its most
laudable forms. But the sentiment may be carried too far, and may
blind us to evils and deficiencies in our condition, when pointed out
by a foreigner, which it would be well for us rather to consider with
a view to their amendment. It may so far blunt our sense of the
justice of the maxim "_fas est, ab hoste doceri_," as to induce us to
entertain jealousy and aversion for the most judicious suggestions, if
offered by others than our own countrymen. Entertaining these views,
we have read Mrs. Butler's work, with a disposition to judge of it
impartially; and while we have perceived many instances of captious
complaints in regard to matters of trifling importance in themselves;
and frequently a disposition to build up general censures upon
partial, individual causes of disgust, displeasure or
disappointment--we feel bound to say, that, taking the work as a
whole, we do not think a deliberate disposition to misrepresent, or a
desire to depreciate us, can be discovered in it. The strictures upon
our modes of living, our social relations, &c. are often unworthy the
writer. She complains for instance, that "the things (at the hotel in
New York,) were put on the table in a slovenly, outlandish fashion;
fish, soup, and meat, at once, and puddings, and tarts, and cheese, at
another once; no finger glasses, and a patched table cloth--in short,
a want of that style and neatness which is found in every hotel in
England. The waiters too, remind us of the half-savage highland lads,
that used to torment us under that denomination in Glasgow--only that
they were wild Irish instead of Scotch." vol. i. p. 49.
Frequently too, she complains of the audiences before whom she
performed, with occasional reproof of their ungracious conduct in not
sufficiently applauding her father or herself: She says, of the first
appearance of the former at the Park Theatre:
"When he came on they gave him what every body here calls an immense
reception; but they should see our London audience get up, and wave
hats and handkerchiefs, and shout welcome as they used to do to us.
The tears were in my eyes, and all I could say was, 'they might as
well get up, I think.'" Vol. i. p. 93.--And on another occasion: "The
people were stupid to a degree to be sure; poor things, it was very
hot. Indeed I scarcely understood how they should be amused with the
School for Scandal; for though the dramatic situations are so
exquisite, yet the wit is far above the generality of even our own
audiences, and the tone and manners altogether are so thoroughly
English, that I should think it must be for the most part
incomprehensible to the good people here,"--p. 110.
At the Philadelphia audiences, she grumbles as follows:
"The audiences here, are without exception, the most disagreeable I
ever played to. Not a single hand did they give the balcony scene, or
my father's scene with the friar; they are literally immoveable. They
applauded vehemently at the end of my draught scene, and a great deal
at the end of the play; but they are nevertheless intolerably dull,
and it is all but impossible to act to them,"--p. 157.
Of the ladies of this country, she seems to have formed a low estimate
in many respects, and to look upon them generally with no little
contempt. Of those in New York, she says: "The women dress very much,
and very much like French women gone mad; they all of them seem to me
to walk horribly ill, as if they wore tight shoes."--And again: "The
women here, like those in most warm climates, ripen very early, and
decay proportionably soon. They are, generally speaking, pretty, with
good complexions, and an air of freshness and brilliancy, but this I
am told is very evanescent; and whereas, in England, a woman is in the
full bloom of health and beauty, from twenty to five and thirty; here,
they scarce reach the first period without being faded, and looking
old. They marry very young, and this is another reason why age comes
prematurely upon them. There was a fair young thing at dinner to-day,
who did not look above seventeen, and she was a wife. As for their
figures, like those of the French women, they are too well dressed for
one to judge exactly what they are really like: they are, for the most
part, short and slight, with remarkably pretty feet and ancles; but
there's too much pelerine and petticoat, and 'de quoi' of every sort
to guess any thing more,"--p. 88.
This is a delicate subject, and one on which we should be averse to
enter the lists with Mrs. Butler, prejudiced as she most probably is.
But some of her observations on the mode of nurturing females, strike
us as exhibiting good sense: In the following note to the above, we
apprehend there is much truth:
"The climate of this country is made the scape-goat upon which all the
ill looks, and ill health of the ladies is laid; but while they are
brought up as effeminately as they are, take as little exercise, live
in rooms heated like ovens during the winter, and marry as early as
they do; it will appear evident, that many causes combine with an
extremely variable climate, to sallow their complexions, and destroy
their constitutions."
We are sorry to be forced to say, that there is also much sound sense
and unwelcome truth in her remarks upon the situation of married
females in our fashionable circles generally, (although the picture is
overwrought and is more peculiarly applicable to northern females,)
which we quote from Vol i. p. 160.
"The dignified and graceful influence which married women among us
exercise over the tone of manners, uniting the duties of home to the
charms of social life; and bearing, at once, like the orange tree the
fair fruits of maturity with the blossoms of their spring, is utterly
unknown here. Married women are either house-drudges and
nursery-maids, or, if they appear in society, comparative cyphers; and
the retiring, modest youthful bearing, which among us distinguishes
girls of fifteen or sixteen is equally unknown. Society is entirely
led by chits, who in England would be sitting behind a pinafore; the
consequence is, that it has neither the elegance, refinement, nor the
propriety which belong to ours; but is a noisy, racketty, vulgar
congregation of flirting boys and girls, alike without style and
decorum."
This view of manners is drawn from the society of the cities of New
York and Philadelphia;--appended to the above extract, is a note,
entering more into the details of her impressions regarding their
fashionable circles, which we give entire:
"When we arrived in America, we brought letters of introduction to
several persons in New York; many were civil enough to call upon us,
we were invited out to sundry parties, and were introduced into what
is there called the first society. I do not wish to enter into any
description of it, but will only say, that I was most disagreeably
astonished; and had it been my fate to have passed through the country
as rapidly as most travellers do, I should have carried away a very
unfavorable impression of the _best_ society of New York. Fortunately,
however, for me, my visits were repeated and my stay prolonged: and in
the course of time I became acquainted with many individuals whose
manners and acquirements were of a high order, and from whose
intercourse I derived the greatest gratification. But they generally
did me the favor to visit me, and I still could not imagine how it
happened that I never met them at the parties to which I was invited,
and in the circles where I visited. I soon discovered that they formed
a society among themselves, where all those qualities which I had
looked for among the self-styled _best_, were to be found. When I name
Miss Sedgewick, Halleck, Irving, Bryant, Paulding and some of less
fame, but whose acquirements rendered their companionship delightful
indeed, amongst whom I felt proud and happy to find several of my own
name; it will no longer appear singular that they should feel too well
satisfied with the resources of their own society, either to mingle in
that of the vulgar _fashionables_, or seek with avidity the
acquaintance of every stranger that arrives in New York. It is not to
be wondered at, that foreigners have spoken as they have, of what is
termed fashionable society here, or have condemned, with unqualified
censure, the manners and tone prevailing in it; their condemnations
are true and just as regards what they see: nor perhaps, would they be
much inclined to moderate them, when they found that persons
possessing every quality that can render intercourse between rational
creatures desirable, were held in light esteem, and neglected, as
either bores, blues, or dowdies, by those so infinitely their
inferiors in every worthy accomplishment. The same separation, or if
anything a still stronger one, subsists in Philadelphia, between the
self-styled fashionables, and the real good society. The distinction
there, is really of a nature perfectly ludicrous; a friend of mine was
describing to me a family whose manners were unexceptionable, and
whose mental accomplishments were of a high order; upon my expressing
some surprise that I had never met with them, my informant replied,
'Oh, no, they are not received by the Chestnut street _set_.' If I
were called upon to define that society in New York and Philadelphia,
which ranks (by right of self-arrogation,) as first and best; I should
say it is a purely dancing society, where a fiddle is indispensable to
keep its members awake; and where their brains and tongues seem, by
common consent, to feel that they had much better give up the care of
mutual entertainment to the feet of the parties assembled, and they
judge well. Now, I beg leave clearly to be understood, there is
another, and a far more desirable circle; but it is not the one into
which strangers find their way generally. To an Englishman, this
_fashionable_ society presents, indeed, a pitiful sample of lofty
pretensions without adequate foundation. Here is a constant endeavor
to imitate those states of European society, which have for their
basis the feudal spirit of the early ages; and which are rendered
venerable by their rank, powerful by their wealth, and refined, and in
some degree respectable, by great and general mental cultivation. Of
Boston I have not spoken. The society there, is of an infinitely
superior order. A very general degree of information, and a much
greater simplicity of manners render it infinitely more
agreeable,"--pp. 161-2.
As few matters, worldly or spiritual, escaped the observation of our
authoress, it is not wonderful that her pen was occasionally dipped in
the political cauldron. But as her ideas are in most instances tinged
with her own national prejudices, we shall not dwell upon them longer
than to say that she sees already a decided aristocratic tendency
among us, and to quote the following summary of her opinion as to the
permanence of our institutions and government:--"I believe in my heart
that a republic is the noblest, highest, and purest form of
government; but I believe that according to the present disposition of
human creatures, 'tis a mere beau ideal, totally incapable of
realization. What the world may be fit for six hundred years hence, I
cannot exactly perceive--but in the mean time, 'tis my conviction that
America will be a monarchy before I am a skeleton." p. 56. If argument
with a lady on such a subject could be reconciled to the precepts of
gallantry, it would certainly be unprofitable where the causes of her
belief are so vaguely stated. And we think she has furnished the best
argument against herself in her frequent comparisons of the condition
of the mass of the people of this country to that of the laboring
class in England, in which she constantly decides in favor of America.
It will scarcely be argued that a people enjoying such blessings as
she ascribes to the condition of the mass of American citizens, could
easily be induced to change their government, and yield up a certain
good for a doubtful improvement--far less that they would willingly
submit to a form of government which they look upon as particularly
odious. The following passage shows what are her views of the
condition of the laboring classes among us:
"I never was so forcibly struck with the prosperity and happiness of
the lower orders of society in this country, as yesterday returning
from Hoboken. The walks along the river and through the woods, the
steamers crossing from the city, were absolutely thronged with a
cheerful, well-dressed population abroad, merely for the purpose of
pleasure and exercise. Journeymen, laborers, handicraftsmen,
tradespeople, with their families, bearing all in their dress and
looks evident signs of well-being and contentment, were all flocking
from their confined avocations, into the pure air, the bright
sunshine, and beautiful shade of this lovely place. I do not know any
spectacle which could give a foreigner, especially an Englishman, a
better illustration of that peculiar excellence of the American
government--the freedom and happiness of the lower classes. Neither is
it to be said that this was a holiday, or an occasion of peculiar
festivity--it was a common week-day--such as our miserable
manufacturing population spends from sun-rise to sun-down, in
confined, incessant, unhealthy toil--to earn, at its conclusion, the
inadequate reward of health and happiness so wasted--the contrast
struck me forcibly--it rejoiced my heart; it surely was an object of
contemplation, that any one who had a heart must have rejoiced in."
We had intended to make several additional extracts from what we think
the better portions of the Journal, such as would exhibit the
authoress in her most favorable light. But we have "_daudled_" so long
on the way, that those extracts must be brief, and will probably fail
to do the justice we proposed to the fair writer. As however, we have
not selected the _worst_ of the passages from those which we deemed it
our duty to censure, we may be forgiven, if we should fail to quote
the _best_ of those which exhibit her good sense and ability as a
writer.
Of the fate of the aborigines of this country, she says:
"The chasing, enslaving, and destroying creatures, whose existence,
however inferior, is as justly theirs, as that of the most refined
European is his; who for the most part, too, receive their enemies
with open-handed hospitality, until taught treachery by being
betrayed, and cruelty by fear; the driving the child of the soil off
it, or, what is fifty times worse, chaining him to till it; all the
various forms of desolation which have ever followed the landing of
civilized men upon uncivilized shores; in short, the theory and
practice of discovery and conquest, as recorded in all history, is a
very singular and painful subject of contemplation.
"'Tis true, that cultivation and civilization, the arts and sciences
that render life useful, the knowledge that ennobles, the adornments
that refine existence, above all, the religion that is its most sacred
trust and dear reward, all these, like pure sunshine and healthful
airs following a hurricane, succeed the devastation of the invader;
but the sufferings of those who are swept away are not the less, and
though I believe that good alone is God's result, it seems a fearful
proof of the evil wherewith this earth is cursed, that good cannot
progress but over such a path. No one, beholding the prosperous and
promising state of this fine country, could wish it again untenanted
of its enterprising and industrious possessors; yet even while looking
with admiration at all they have achieved, with expectation amounting
to certainty to all that they will yet accomplish; 'tis difficult to
refrain from bestowing some thoughts of pity and of sadness upon
those, whose homes have been overturned, whose language has past away,
and whose feet are daily driven further from those territories of
which they were once sole and sovereign lords. How strange it is to
think, that less than one hundred years ago, these shores, resounding
with the voice of populous cities--these waters, laden with the
commerce of the wide world, were silent wildernesses, where sprang and
fell the forest leaves, where ebbed and flowed the ocean tides from
day to day, and from year to year in uninterrupted stillness; where
the great sun, who looked on the vast empires of the east, its
mouldering kingdoms, its lordly palaces, its ancient temples, its
swarming cities, came and looked down upon the still dwelling of utter
loneliness, where nature sat enthroned in everlasting beauty,
undisturbed by the far off din of worlds 'beyond the flood.'"
There is eloquence and good feeling in the following:
"In beholding this fine young giant of a world, with all its
magnificent capabilities for greatness, I think every Englishman must
feel unmingled regret at the unjust and unwise course of policy which
alienated such a child from the parent government. But, at the same
time, it is impossible to avoid seeing that some other course must,
ere long, have led to the same result, even if England had pursued a
more maternal course of conduct towards America. No one, beholding
this enormous country, stretching from ocean to ocean, watered with
ten thousand glorious rivers, combining every variety of climate and
soil; therefore, every variety of produce and population; possessing
within itself every resource that other nations are forced either to
buy abroad, or to create substitutes for at home; no one, seeing the
internal wealth of America, the abundant fertility of the earth's
surface, the riches heaped below it, the unparalleled facilities for
the intercourse of men, and the interchange of their possessions
throughout its vast extent, can for an instant indulge the thought
that such a country was ever destined to be an appendage to any other
in the world, or that any chain of circumstances whatever, could have
long maintained in dependance a people furnished with every means of
freedom and greatness. But far from regretting that America has thrown
off her allegiance, and regarding her as a rebellious subject, and
irreverent child; England will surely, ere long, learn to look upon
this country as the inheritor of her glory; the younger England,
destined to perpetuate the language, the memory, the virtues of the
noble land from which she is descended. Loving and honoring my
country, as I do, I cannot look upon America with any feeling of
hostility. I do not only hear the voice of England in the language of
this people, but I recognize in all their best qualities, their
industry, their honesty, their sturdy independence of spirit, the very
witnesses of their origin, they are English; no other people in the
world would have licked us as they did; nor any other people in the
world, built upon the ground they won, so sound, and strong, and fair
an edifice.
"With regard to what I have said in the beginning of this note, of the
many reasons which combined to render this country independent of all
others; I think they in some measure tell against the probability of
its long remaining at unity with itself. Such numerous and clashing
interests; such strong and opposite individuality of character between
the northern and southern states; above all, such enormous extent of
country; seem rationally to present many points of insecurity; many
probabilities of separations and breakings asunder; but all this lies
far on, and I leave it to those who have good eyes for a distance."
Vol. i. pp. 187-8.
From her description of a voyage up the Hudson river, which is one of
the most beautiful portions of the work, we can give but two brief
passages:
"We passed the light-house of Stoney Point, now the peaceful occupant
of the territory, where the blood in English veins was poured out by
English hands, during the struggle between old established tyranny and
the infant liberties of this giant world. Over all and each, the
blessed sky bent its blue arch, resplendently clear and bright, while
far away the distant summits of the highlands rose one above another,
shutting in the world, and almost appearing as though each bend of the
river must find us locked in their shadowy circle, without means of
onward progress." Vol. i. p. 207.
* * * * *
"Where are the poets of this land? Why such a world should bring forth
men with minds and souls larger and stronger than any that ever dwelt
in mortal flesh. Where are the poets of this land? They should be
giants, too; Homers and Miltons, and Goethes and Dantes, and
Shakspeares. Have these glorious scenes poured no inspirings into
hearts worthy to behold and praise their beauty? Is there none to come
here and worship among these hills and waters, till his heart burns
within him, and the hymn of inspiration flows from his lips, and rises
to the sky? Is there not one among the sons of such a soil to send
forth its praises to the universe, to throw new glory round the
mountains, new beauty over the waves? is inanimate nature, alone, here
'telling the glories of God?' Oh, surely, surely, there will come a
time when this lovely land will be vocal with the sound of song, when
every close-locked valley, and waving wood, rifted rock and flowing
stream shall have their praise. Yet 'tis strange how marvellously
unpoetical these people are! How swallowed up in life and its daily
realities, wants, and cares; how full of toil and thrift, and
money-getting labor. Even the heathen Dutch, among us the very
antipodes of all poetry, have found names such as the Donder Berg for
the hills, whilst the Americans christen them Butter Hill, the Crow's
Nest, and _such like_. Perhaps some hundred years hence, when wealth
has been amassed by individuals, and the face of society begins to
grow chequered, as in the old lands of Europe, when the whole mass of
population shall no longer go running along the level road of toil and
profit, when inequalities of rank shall exist, and the rich man shall
be able to pay for the luxury of poetry, and the poor man who makes
verses, no longer be asked, 'Why don't you cast up accounts?' when all
this comes to pass, as _perhaps_ some day it may, America will have
poets. It seems strange to me that men such as the early settlers in
Massachusetts, the Puritan founders of New England, the 'Pilgrim
Fathers,' should not have had amongst them some men, or at least man,
in whose mind the stern and enduring courage, the fervent,
enthusiastic piety, the unbending love of liberty, which animated them
all, become the inspiration to poetic thought, and the suggestion of
poetical utterance. They should have had a Milton or a Klopstock
amongst them. Yet after all, they had excitement of another sort, and
moreover, the difficulties, and dangers, and distresses of a fate of
unparalleled hardship, to engross all the energies of their minds; and
I am half inclined to believe that poetry is but a hothouse growth."
Vol. i. pp. 212-13.
Our friends, _Oliver Oldschool_ and _Anthony Absolute_, will be
pleased to observe that Mrs. Butler abjures the _Waltz_, and agrees
with them in objecting to its tendency:
"Dr. ---- called, and gave me a sermon about waltzing. As it was
perfectly good sense, to which I could reply nothing whatever, in the
shape of objection, I promised him never to waltz again, except with a
woman, or my brother.... After all, 'tis not fitting that a man should
put his arm round one's waist, whether one belongs to any one but
one's self or not. 'Tis much against what I have always thought most
sacred,--the dignity of a woman in her own eyes, and those of others.
I like Dr. ---- most exceedingly. He spoke every way to my feelings of
what was right to-day. After saying that he felt convinced from
conversations which he had heard amongst men, that waltzing was
immoral in its tendency, he added, 'I am married, and have been in
love, and cannot imagine any thing more destructive of the deep and
devoted respect which love is calculated to excite in every honorable
man's heart, not only for the individual object of his affection, but
for her whole sex, than to see any and every impertinent coxcomb in a
ball room, come up to her, and, without remorse or hesitation, clasp
her waist, imprison her hand, and absolutely whirl her round in his
arms.' So spake the Doctor; and my sense of propriety, and conviction
of right, bore testimony to the truth of his saying. So, farewell,
sweet German Waltz! next to hock, the most intoxicating growth of the
Rheinland. I shall never keep time to your pleasant measure again!--no
matter; after all, anything is better than to be lightly spoken of,
and to deserve such mention." Vol. i. pp. 227-28.
Mrs. Butler seems to have no great love of the dramatic _art_--that
is, the art of stage performance. Several pages in the second volume
are devoted to this subject, (pp. 59, 60 and 61) in which she argues
with great force in support of the position, that acting is "the very
lowest of the arts." Like all her criticisms of subjects connected
with the stage, it is an admirable passage; but it is too long for
quotation. A shorter one conveys the same idea, in eloquent language:
"I acted like a wretch, of course; how could I do otherwise? Oh,
Juliet! vision of the south! rose of the garden of the earth! was this
the glorious hymn that Shakspeare hallowed to your praise? was this
the mingled strain of Love's sweet going forth, and Death's dark
victory, over which my heart and soul have been poured out in wonder
and ecstacy?--How I do loathe the stage! these wretched, tawdry,
glittering rags, flung over the breathing forms of ideal loveliness;
these miserable, poor, and pitiful substitutes for the glories with
which poetry has invested her magnificent and fair creations--the
glories with which our imagination reflects them back again. What a
mass of wretched mumming mimickry acting is. Pasteboard and paint, for
the thick breathing orange groves of the south; green silk and oiled
parchment, for the solemn splendor of her noon of night; wooden
platforms and canvass curtains, for the solid marble balconies, and
rich dark draperies of Juliet's sleeping chamber, that shrine of love
and beauty; rouge, for the startled life-blood in the cheek of that
young passionate woman; an actress, a mimicker, a sham creature, me,
in fact, or any other one, for that loveliest and most wonderful
conception, in which all that is true in nature, and all that is
exquisite in fancy, are moulded into a living form. To _act_ this! to
_act_ Romeo and Juliet!--horror! horror! how I do loathe my most
impotent and unpoetical craft!" Vol. ii. pp. 16-17.
In another and sadder strain, there are many beautiful portions, from
which we can only select the following--and with this our extracts
must end:
"'Tis strange, that Messenger Bird threw more than a passing gloom
over me. If the dead do indeed behold those whom they have loved, with
loving eyes and fond remembrance, do not the sorrows, the weariness,
the toiling, the despairing of those dear ones rise even into the
abodes of peace, and wring the souls of those who thence look down
upon the earth, and see the wo and anguish suffered here? Or, if they
do not feel,--if, freed from this mortal coil, they forget all they
have suffered, all that we yet endure, oh! then what four-fold trash
is human love! what vain and miserable straws are all the deep, the
dear, the grasping affections twined in our hearts' fibres,--mingled
with our blood!--how poor are all things--how beggarly is life. Oh, to
think that while we yet are bowed in agony and mourning over the
dead,--while our bereaved hearts are aching, and our straining eyes
looking to that heaven, beyond which we think they yet may hear our
cries, they yet may see our anguish, the dead, the loved, the mourned,
nor see, nor hear; or if they do, look down with cold and careless
gaze upon the love that lifts our very souls in desperate yearning
towards them." Vol. ii. pp. 54-55.
We have thus endeavored to give our readers an idea of this very
remarkable book--a task of no little difficulty from its variable
features, its mixture of sense and silliness, of prejudice and
liberality--almost every page bearing a distinct and peculiar
character. There are many things which have elicited censure, on which
we have not laid any stress, and among these are the frequent
exhibitions of attachment to her native country, and preference of its
people, its customs, its laws, &c. to those of America. We cannot find
fault with her for so noble and so natural a sentiment, even though it
should lead her to depreciate and underrate us. Besides, she
acknowledges the blindness of her partiality to England, and speaks of
it with great candor, as a national characteristic:
"How we English folks do cling to our own habits, our own views, our
own things, our own people; how in spite of all our wanderings and
scatterings over the whole face of the earth, like so many Jews, we
never lose our distinct and national individuality; nor fail to lay
hold of one another's skirts, to laugh at and depreciate all that
differs from that country, which we delight in forsaking for any and
all others." Vol. i. p. 90.
The chief fault of the work will be found in the dictatorial manner of
the writer. A female, and a young one too, cannot speak with the
self-confidence which marks this book, without jarring somewhat upon
American notions of the retiring delicacy of the female character. But
the early induction of Mrs. B. upon the stage, has evidently given her
a precocious self-dependence and a habit of forming her own opinions.
There is perhaps no situation in which human vanity is so powerfully
excited, as that of the favorite actor. The directness of the applause
which greets his successful efforts is most intoxicating, and mingles
so much admiration of the performer with delight at the performance,
that he or she, whose vanity should resist its fascinations, must be a
stoic indeed.[3] The effects of this personal homage, added to the
advantages of her birth, and her really masculine intellect, are
apparent in Mrs. B's Journal. But she also displays some fine feminine
traits, which the flatteries of delighted audiences, the admiration of
ambitious fashionables, and the consciousness of being the chief Lion
of the day, could not destroy. Her sympathy for a sick lady, lodging
in the same house in Philadelphia, is frequently and delicately
expressed; and various other incidents shew that kindness and
generosity are among her prominent qualities. Many pages are devoted
to the subject of religion, and as appears from them, she was
attentive to the performance of her devotions: Yet we cannot but think
her religion as displayed in this book, more a sentiment than a
principle; rather the imbodying of a poetical fancy, than that
pervading feeling of the heart which enters into and characterizes the
actions of those who feel its influence.--In conclusion, we will
repeat what we have said before, that there is much to admire and much
to condemn in this work--enough of the former to render it one of the
most attractive (as it is one of the most original) that has recently
issued from the press; and in censuring its faults it will be but
justice to bear in mind a sentiment of Mrs. B.; "After all, if people
generally did but know the difficulty of doing well, they would be
less damnatory upon those who do ill." p. 114, vol. i.
[Footnote 3: This position has been beautifully illustrated by some
modern English writer, but by whom we have forgotten. Mrs. Butler is
fully aware of the intoxicating nature of the applause bestowed on
actors, and speaks most sensibly on the subject, although she is
probably unconscious of its full effects upon her own feelings, and
manner of thinking and writing.
"Excitement," says she, "is reciprocal between the performer and the
audience; he creates it in them, and receives it back again from them:
and in that last scene in Fazio, half the effect that I produce is
derived from the applause which I receive, the very noise and tumult
of which tends to heighten the nervous energy which the scene itself
begets."
The idea is farther carried out in the following striking passage:
"The evanescent nature of his triumph, however an actor may deplore
it, is in fact but an instance of the broad moral justice by which all
things are so evenly balanced. If he can hope for no fame beyond mere
mention, when once his own generation passes away, at least his power,
and his glory, and his reign is in his own person, and during his own
life. There is scarcely to be conceived a popularity for the moment
more intoxicating than that of a great actor in his day, so much of it
becomes mixed up with the individual himself. The poet, the painter,
and the sculptor, enchant us through their works; and with very, very
few exceptions, their works, and not their very persons are the
objects of admiration and applause; it is to their minds we are
beholden; and though a certain degree of curiosity and popularity
necessarily wait even upon their bodily presence, it is faint compared
with that which is bestowed upon the actor; and for good reasons--he
is himself his work. His voice, his eyes, his gestures, are his art,
and admiration of it cannot be separated from admiration for him. This
renders the ephemeral glory which he earns so vivid, and in some
measure may be supposed to compensate for its short duration. The
great of the earth, whose fame has arisen like the shining of the sun,
have often toiled through their whole lives in comparative obscurity,
through the narrow and dark paths of existence. Their reward was never
given to their hands here,--it is but just their glory should be
lasting." Vol. ii. pp. 61-62.]