in assumption and manner with the preface to the 'Comedy,' to which
we have already adverted. 'CERVANTES, SMOLLET, FIELDING, and SCOTT,
to say nothing of more recent examples,' are modestly invoked, to
show that the author cannot justly be charged with caricaturing. We
yield the point, without the examples. A caricature always bears
some resemblance to an original; but Mr. MATHEWS'S characters
have _no_ originals. They are in no respect _vraisemblant_. Take
his whole catalogue of names, (in themselves _so_ 'funny!') his
'Hobbleshank,' 'Piddleton Bloater,' 'Mr. Gallipot,' 'Mr. Blinker,'
'Mr. Fishblaat,' 'Attorney Pudlin,' 'Mr. Fyler Close,' 'Alderman
Punchwind,' 'Mr. Shirks,' 'Counsellor Blast,' 'Dr. Mash,' 'Mr.
Bust,' 'Mr. Flabby,' etc.; analyze them, if possible, and tell us
if any one of them ever had any thing like a counterpart in 'the
heavens above, in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the
earth?' Are they any more distinctive, _internally_, than 'the
pie-faced man,' or the man 'with features like a dried codfish
suddenly animated,' _externally_? 'Not a jot, not a jot,' will be
the reply of every one who attentively scans them. The death of
'Fob' partakes in a good degree of the pathetic, and justifies
the counsel which we gave the writer in our notice of 'The Motley
Book.' It is however as evidently suggested by kindred scenes in the
writings of DICKENS, as is the writer's raven and coffin-maker's
apprentice. We have not the space, had we either the leisure
or the inclination, to attempt a notice in detail of 'Puffer
Hopkins.' We say 'attempt,' because it defies criticism. It has
neither plot nor counterplot; neither head nor tail. Memory, it
has been well said, is the best of critics; but we doubt if there
be a scene or part of a scene, in the entire work, that could be
segregated and recalled by the recollection of the reader. Aimless
grotesqueness; the most laborious yet futile endeavors after wit;
and a constant unsuccessful straining for effect; are its prominent
characteristics. Take up the book, reader, open it _any where_, and
peruse two pages; and if you do not acquit us entirely of undue
depreciation in this verdict, place no faith hereafter in our
literary judgment. Let us open it at random for an illustrative
passage or two. In the following, Puffer (after receiving a lecture
on political speech-making, in which among other things he is
told, to 'roll his eye-balls back under the lid, and _smell of the
chandelier_, though the odor isn't pleasant!') is thus further
instructed:
'IT'S best to rise gradually with your hearers; and, if you can
have a private understanding with one of the waiters, to fix a
chair conveniently, a wooden-bottomed Windsor, mind, and none of
your rushers; for it's decidedly funny and destroys the effect,
to hear a gentleman declaiming about a sinking fund, or a penal
code, or the abolition of imprisonment for debt, up to his belly
in a broken chair-frame. As the passion grows upon you, plant
your right leg on one of the rounds, then on the bottom, and
finally, when you feel yourself at red-heat, spring into the
chair, waive your hat, and call upon the audience to die for
their country, their families and their firesides; or any other
convenient reason. As Hobbleshank advanced in his discourse, he
had illustrated its various topics by actual accompaniments;
mounting first on his legs, then the bench, and ended by leaping
upon the table, where he stood brandishing his broken hat, and
shouting vociferously for more oysters.'
There are other suggestions; such as having 'immense telescopes
constructed, and planted where they could command the interior of
every domicil in the ward, and tell what was in every man's pot for
dinner six days in a week;' together with a 'great ledger, with
leaves to open like doors, on which should be a full-length likeness
of each voter, drawn and colored to the life,' even 'down to his
vest-buttons, and a mote in his eye!' Who shall say that _this_
isn't 'genuine humor?' Here too is 'a touch of _nature_,' such
as Mr. MATHEWS delights in. An electioneerer or 'scourer' of the
wards visits a theatrical 'lightning-maker,' (a highly _probable_
character,) at his laboratory, where the following witty dialogue
ensues:
'THIS profession of yours,' said Puffer--he dared not call it
a trade, although the poor workman was up to his eyes in vile
yellow paste and charcoal-dust--'this profession, Sir, must give
you many patriotic feelings of a high cast, Sir.'
'It does, Sir,' answered the lightning-maker, slightly mistaking
his meaning; 'I've told the manager more than fifty times that
lightning such as mine is worth ninepence a bottle, but he never
would pay more than fourpence ha'penny: except in volcanoes;
them's always two-quarters.'
'I mean, Sir,' continued the scourer, 'that when you see the
vivid fires blazing on Lake Erie; when Perry's working his ship
about like a velocipede, and the guns are bursting off, and the
enemy paddling away like ducks; is not your soul then stirred,
Sir? Do you not feel impelled to achieve some great, some
glorious act? What do you do, what can you do, in such a moment
of intense, overwhelming excitement?'
'_I_ generally,' answered the lightning-maker with an emphasis
upon the personal pronoun, as if some difference of practice
might possibly prevail, '_I_ generally takes a glass of beer,
with the froth on.'
'But, Sir, when you see the dwelling-house roof, kindled by your
bomb-shells, all a-blaze with the midnight conflagration: the
rafters melting away, I may say, with the intense heat, and the
engines working their pumps in vain; don't you think then, Sir,
of some peaceful family, living in some secluded valley, broken
in upon by the heartless incendiary with his demon-matches, and
burning down their cottage with all its outhouses?'
'In such cases,' answered the lightning-maker, 'I thinks of my
two babies at home, with their poor lame mother; and I makes it
a point, if my feelings is very much wrought up, as the prompter
says, to run home between the acts to see that all's safe, and
put a bucket of water by the hearth. Isn't that the thing?'
'I think it is; and I'm glad to hear you talk so feelingly,'
answered Puffer Hopkins; 'our next mayor's a very
domestic-minded man; just such a man as you are; only I don't
believe he'd be so prudent and active about the bucket on the
hearth.'
'At this, the lightning-maker smiled pleasantly to himself, and
_unconsciously thrust a large roll of brimstone in his cheek_.'
Oh, for modern schepen, to laugh himself to death at this fine
'burst' of nature and of wit! Holding both his sides, how would he
guffaw at that brimstone mistake! 'How _can_ you make me laugh so,
when I am so sick?' Well, well; it _is_ funny, certainly; but wait
until you read this fragment of 'burning satire' upon the political
press:
'An '_Extra Puncheon_,' pretending to give late news from the
Capitol, but containing, in reality, Flabby's long-expected
reply. 'Capital! capital!' cried Mr. Fishblaat, as he hurried
on; 'Flabby called Busts a drunken vagabond, in the _Puncheon_
of Wednesday week; Busts called Flabby a hoary reprobate, in
Monday's _Bladder_, and now Flabby calls Busts a keg of Geneva
bitters; says the bung's knocked out and the staves well
coopered. Capital! This alludes to a threshing, in front of the
Exchange in which Busts had his eye blacked and a couple of ribs
beaten in.'
But we must draw our notice of Mr. MATHEWS'S 'writings' to a close.
We cannot do so, however, without again inviting the attention of
our readers to the 'works' themselves, if they are desirous to
partake in a yet larger degree of the kindling effect of his unique
wit and humor, and to render _full_ justice to 'the American Boz!'
THE POETS OF CONNECTICUT; WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. Edited by
Rev. CHARLES W. EVEREST. In one volume, pp. 468. Hartford: CASE,
TIFFANY, AND BURNHAM. New-York: KNICKERBOCKER Publication Office.
HONOR to Connecticut for the 'bright names in song' to which she
has given birth; and honor to Mr. EVEREST for the faithfulness and
good judgment with which he has discharged his editorial function,
in the large and exceedingly beautiful volume before us. Few of
our readers can be aware of the number and high character of the
poets of America who first drew breath in the 'Land of Steady
Habits.' The catalogue 'deflours us of our chiefest treasures' in
poetry; numbering as it does, HALLECK, BRAINARD, PERCIVAL, PIERPONT,
PRENTICE, HILLHOUSE, HILL, SIGOURNEY, ROCKWELL, and others scarcely
less known to fame, and whose effusions are endenizen'd in the
national heart. The volume presents a brief historical account of
the poetical literature of Connecticut, from its commencement to the
present period. The writers are arranged in the order of birth, as
being less invidious, and as better comporting with the design of
the editor. In the department of biography, the sketches have been
made as complete as possible, in the case of deceased writers, while
in those of the living, the principal facts of personal history
are carefully preserved. The editor has judiciously confined his
critical duties to the mere pointing out of a few characteristic
traits of each author's verse, refraining from especial eulogy or
censure. The volume is in all respects a valuable contribution to
our national literature, and deserves, what we cannot doubt it
will receive, a circulation commensurate with its merits. It is
beautifully printed, upon large, clear types, and embellished with
a fine vignette-engraving of the city of Hartford and Connecticut
river.
ABBOTTSFORD EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS. Edinburgh: ROBERT
CADELL. London: HOULSTON AND STONEMAN. New-York: WILEY AND
PUTNAM.
WE have already twice spoken of this most _perfect_ edition of
the works of the immortal SCOTT; but as the numbers reach us in
succession from abroad, and the fine taste and profuse liberality
of the publisher are more and more revealed, we are continually
tempted to descant upon merits and beauties which we could wish our
readers throughout the Union and the Canadas could _personally_
appreciate. We have before us at this moment the series complete
to the thirty-second issue; and how many illustrations does the
reader suppose are included in these numbers? No less than _five
hundred and fifty_; varying, in each number, from sixteen and
eighteen to twenty-four. These illustrations, too, are in the
very finest style of the art of engraving, whether on steel or
wood. There is nothing omitted that _can_ be illustrated, in any
of the great 'Northern Magician's' works. The first painters in
England are employed to paint from nature the originals of all the
principal scenes; these are transferred to steel by the most eminent
engravers in Europe; and the same faithfulness is apparent in all
the principal portraits, which are so numerous and authentic, as to
leave nothing to be desired in this department of the work. Add to
this the fact, that every _thing_ to which any especial interest
attaches in the novels is pictorially presented, with a kindred care
and correctness; and that the fine texture and dazzling whiteness
of the paper and beauty of the printing are unsurpassed; and the
reader will have some idea of the comparative _cheapness_ of a work
like this, when informed that each number costs but two shillings
and sixpence sterling! The edition will contain, when completed,
more than _two thousand engravings_, on steel and wood, and of the
highest order of excellence. Indeed, the landscape engravings on
steel will of themselves form a splendid series of an hundred views,
illustrative of the novels.
EDITOR'S TABLE.
THE LATE WILLIAM ABBOTT: HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL JOURNAL.--In briefly
noticing, some months since, the decease of WILLIAM ABBOTT, Esq.,
late of the Park Theatre, we promised again to advert to his career
in England and this country; and the perusal with which we have
recently been favored of an exceedingly entertaining autobiography
of this excellent actor and accomplished gentleman, has 'whetted
our almost blunted purpose.' We learn from a brief obituary in
the London 'Gentleman's Magazine,' that Mr. ABBOTT was born at
Bath, England, in 1788, and began his theatrical career in that
city, whence his varied talent caused his being transported to
Covent-Garden Theatre, at the age of twenty-four. He remained there
twelve years, continuing all the time to grow in reputation. In
social life, his house at Knightsbridge, near London, was long the
scene of meetings in which good taste and refinement increased
their attraction, by being blended with less ceremonious pastimes,
and the constant flow of fanciful recreations. Thus he traversed a
flowery time until 1824, when ambition tempted him to become the
lessee of the Dublin Theatre. He lost money by the speculation;
and his next move was to Paris, where with an English company he
entertained the Parisian public with _éclat_ for two years. In the
French capital his enjoyment of society was of a very gratifying
kind; and he spoke the language with so much purity as to escape all
the usual inconveniences attendant upon foreign disclosure. In 1828
he returned to Covent-Garden to enable Miss FANNY KEMBLE to appear
as JULIET with an adequate ROMEO. Subsequently, untoward events of
a pecuniary nature, connected with the management of one of the
minor theatres of the metropolis, induced him to try his fortunes
in America. The professional and social qualities which had won for
him reputation and friends in his own country, gained him both in
this, in an equal degree; while the same experience as a manager
attended him here that was 'his destiny' abroad. The Charleston (S.
C.) Theatre, the management of which he assumed, proved worse than
valueless to his interests; and at the time of his death he had
resumed his place upon the boards of the Park Theatre, where he had
always given ample satisfaction to the public. He was the author of
several successful dramatic productions in England, and was known on
both sides of the Atlantic as a gentleman of fine literary taste and
acquirements. He was a person of the most gentleman-like manners,
cheerful disposition, ready wit in the play of conversation, and
possessed a kindly and liberal heart. Few men were more welcome to
society, or more entertaining within its bounds. He was full of
anecdote; and the humorous stories of the stage found in him a most
amusing reciter. He had also the song, the jest, or the repartee,
which never failed to add mirth to the festive board. Above all,
shone the unclouded cheerfulness of his nature, over which even his
own misfortunes apparently never suffered a shadow to pass; and that
good-will toward others which defied the taint of envy, (either
in private life or in an envious profession,) which was happy in
contributing to happiness, and would not tread on a worm, or even
injure an enemy. 'Such,' says our London contemporary, 'was WILLIAM
ABBOTT, who for many years was a popular favorite in the principal
theatres of London, and who performed the second class of characters
better than any actor we ever saw. His walk too was unconfined. In
tragedy, not of the sterner sort, he was graceful and impressive;
in genteel comedy, equal to any of his contemporaries in that line;
in the more unlicensed exuberance of farce, a laughable and jocular
actor; and in all, he was ever perfect in his part.'
We proceed now to select a few passages, almost at random, from the
delightful manuscript volume to which we have referred; a work which
we have no doubt will speedily be in the hands of a publisher, since
it cannot fail to prove one of the most various and entertaining
books of the season. We commence our extracts with the annexed
sketch of personal misadventure, which will remind the reader of the
somewhat similar scene in 'The Antiquary' of SCOTT. The _locale_ is
Tenby, in South Wales, opposite the Devonshire coast:
'WHAT vivid recollections throng my mind, when I recall the
perilous situation in which I was once placed there! It was my
constant custom, whenever I had a character of importance to
study, to wander on the 'Sands' in front of the town; not like
DEMOSTHENES, with a pebble in my mouth, but seating myself on
some jutting rock, listen to the roar of old Ocean in storms,
or watch its gentle undulations, like an infant rocking itself
to sleep. On one occasion I pursued my path greatly beyond all
former wanderings; passed each inlet I encountered, and again
emerged on the broad Sands; and on turning, the town met my
eye, and appeared, although three miles distant, to be almost
within my grasp. The waters kept at a respectful distance, while
I reclined upon an isolated rock, not unlike a rude arm-chair.
Like another CANUTE, I wanted to see if the waters would dare
approach me. My mind was full of 'meditation and the thoughts
of love;' and many a _chateau en Espagne_ was peopled with
delightful visions of air-born spirits, paying homage to my
towering theatrical genius! Casually turning round, to my utter
confusion I saw the water laving the base of a high projecting
rock which intercepted my return. I felt that no time was to
be lost. I rushed back, and knee-deep, cleared the obstacle.
Another, still more formidable, stood before me. Beyond, the
golden Sands, tinged by the beams of the setting sun, gave life
and hope; at my feet lay despair and death. Not a soul was in
sight; and the opposing obstacle that separated me from the path
by which I could reach the town, was rising perpendicularly
from the deep. I was young in years; and in an instant all my
previous life flashed upon me, in one dreary perspective. No
escape, no hope! DEATH himself stood before me! The very rocks
on which I had so often gazed with a romantic delight, now
oppressed me with terror. Grim visages with demoniac smiles
started into life from the surrounding cliffs, to mock my
helplessness. The roaring waves, dashing upon the sharp rocks,
uttered a voice of fearful warning. Despair was almost at its
height, when suddenly my nerves became iron. I rushed to the
opposing rock; I reached, and how I know not, a fearful height;
I clung to some stunted brushwood, which found a frail hold in
the fissures of the rock. One point of safety was visible, but
as I attempted to reach it, loose particles crumbled and rolled
beneath my feet, and I heard the crackling of the branches.
The yawning gulf was ready to receive me! One last effort, one
convulsive spring, enabled me to reach the desired refuge; and
although in comparative safety, I sat there shaking with terror,
and watched the rapid approach of the waves, which, although
fortunately not violently agitated, covered me with the 'salt
sea-foam.' The excitement prevented my feeling the cold, though
I was wet to the skin. The heavens were calm and blue above,
and the stars shone in all their splendor; but the restlessness
of the waters, through the dim obscurity, kept me in perpetual
agitation. For hours I remained in this situation; at length the
early morning dawned upon me, and the receding tide lifted a
weight from my heart.'
Many of our readers will remember sundry anecdotes, from theatrical
persons and works upon the drama of 'ROMEO COATES,' of Bath,
England. Mr. ABBOTT gives a very amusing account of the manner
in which this _soubriquet_, which attached to the subject of it
throughout his life, was obtained:
'THOUGH an unmitigated ass, he was the lion of the day. He came
from one of the West-India islands, was very wealthy, and on
all occasions wore brilliants of the first water. In a place
like Bath, where _ennui_ will step in occasionally, he was a
godsend. He was followed, courted, fooled to the top of his
bent. The sprigs of fashion 'drew him in' to give at the York
Hotel the most expensive entertainments; and at one party, when
I was present, they insisted upon his mounting a table covered
with decanters and glasses, to give a specimen of his skill
in the small-sword exercise, and display his figure to the
best advantage. One of the party, _Bacchi plenus_, became his
opponent, and the result was, the destruction of a most superb
chandelier. His face was like a baboon's, and the twistings
and distorted attitudes into which he threw himself were alike
indescribable and irresistible. One pleasant morning there
appeared an announcement in the theatre-bills which shook the
city of Bath to its foundation. It was like the precursor of
a volcanic eruption: '_Romeo, by an Amateur of Fashion!_' The
doors were beset at an early hour in the afternoon by those who
had failed to secure places at the box-office. Box-admittance
was paid by crowds of gentlemen, to enable them, by jumping
over, to secure places in the pit. Men of rank and distinction
did not disdain to occupy seats in the gallery. The fever of
excitement was at its pitch, when the gentle ROMEO appeared,
dressed in the most fantastic and absurd style, in consonance
with the advice of his fashionable friends. He wore diamonds
to the value of thirty thousand pounds! I was one of his
instructors, and entered into the joke with a keen relish for
the ridiculous. It was hardly to be expected that his acting
would be tolerated by the true judges of art, and I was obliged
to be dressed for the character, in order to finish the part.
But no! The appetite of the audience grew by what it fed on; and
when the dying scene came, a tremendous burst of mock enthusiasm
rang from all parts of the house, and he was universally
_encored_. He bowed most graciously, while Juliet (Miss
JAMIESON) was lying on the stage, not dead, but literally 'in
convulsions' of laughter. Oranges were thrown upon the stage,
with a request that the actor would not hurry, but refresh his
energies before he recommenced his death. He kissed his hand
to the ladies in graceful acquiescence with their wishes, and
deliberately proceeded to suck two oranges! His second death
was infinitely more extravagant than the first, and drew down
repeated and prolonged bravos, and a second _encore_, which
however was not complied with. Showers of bouquets now fell upon
the stage, and 'closed one of the most extraordinary dramatic
exhibitions I ever beheld in a regular theatre.'
A singular circumstance is mentioned by Mr. ABBOTT as having
occurred to a professional friend of his at Bath, named SIDLY. It
is authenticated beyond all peradventure. 'Can such, things be, and
overcome us like a summer-cloud, without our special wonder?'
'HE was quietly seated in his arm-chair, at his lodgings in
Beaufort-square, after his return from the theatre; his wife
had retired to her bed-chamber, adjoining their drawing-room;
while he remained, for the purpose of reading over a character
for the ensuing evening. His mother resided a short distance
from London, and so far as he knew, was at the time in perfect
health. His mind was not preöccupied with the thoughts of home,
and an unusual calmness pervaded his spirit. After reading a
passage, and trying to see if he had mastered it, he raised
his eyes, and on a chair opposite sat his mother, smiling
benignantly upon him. His agitation was extreme. He hastily
turned round, and saw that the door was closed. He struggled
to speak, but his lips were sealed; and with a beating heart
and hair erect, he rushed to the bed-side of his wife, and in
broken sentences, and with thick-starting perspiration rolling
down his face, he detailed what he had seen. His wife endeavored
to persuade him that it was all a dream; and to convince him,
quietly walked into the drawing-room, and found the apartment
precisely as she had left it, the fire burning and the candles
lighted; but nothing could do away the illusion; and in two days
afterward poor SIDLY received the intelligence of his mother's
death at the very hour of the occurrence here narrated. He
seldom referred to the circumstance, and never without deep and
melancholy emotion.'
LISTON, the great comedian, as most readers are aware, was an
inveterate wag. He was never more happy than when successful in
making a fellow-actor lose his 'power of face' upon the stage. Mr.
ABBOTT relates a pleasant anecdote of one of his efforts in this
kind:
'IN Newcastle, under the management of STEPHEN KEMBLE, (who
played the part of Falstaff without stuffing,) LISTON on one
occasion took the character of Pizarro. When he is lying on the
couch, Rolla enters, apostrophizes his defenceless situation,
and then rouses and drags him in front of the stage. Judge of
the surprise of the actor, at finding one half of LISTON'S face
painted in imitation of a clown! This portion of his features
was of course studiously turned from the audience, who were
indulged only with the simple profile. Rolla burst into a fit
of laughter, and rushed instantly from the stage, to the great
scandal of the audience, who had not the slightest suspicion of
the cause of such ridiculous conduct.'
Our excellent friend JOHN WILSON, that most mellow of vocalists,
once gave us a similar anecdote of LISTON. In the play of 'Guy
Mannering,' he is deputed to relieve the suffering Lucy Bertram. He
places a well-filled purse in her hand, which he clasps cordially
in his own, while she looks up in his face, her eyes brimming with
tears of gratitude at relief so unexpected. On the occasion alluded
to, a remarkable change was observed in Miss Bertram's face, when
the purse was handed to her. She shrank back, and struggled, as if
to liberate her hand from his grasp: and after looking imploringly
at his imperturbable face for a moment, she found relief in a sort
of hysterical laughter, which was very far from bespeaking the
emotion of the character she represented. Instead of a purse, LISTON
had placed in her hand a large _raw oyster_, as cold as ice, and
_pressed_ her acceptance of it in a way that was irresistible! There
ensues a comparison between those different but equally matchless
_artistes_, Mesdames SIDDONS and O'NEIL, which we have reason to
believe expresses the general verdict of the time: