“Lucy,” said Emily, “we have taken our season tickets for the Opera near
the centre of the house, Nos. 22, 24. Mr. Coolidge had better take yours
joining ours, so that if he happens to be engaged, or don’t want to go,
or any thing, you can go with us. At any rate, it will be pleasanter to
be together.”
“We are not going to take a season ticket,” said Lucy,
“Why not?” inquired Emily. “It’s cheaper, you know, than paying by the
single ticket.”
“There’s no cheap way of going to the Opera,” said Coolidge, rather
rudely, as Emily thought.
“It costs something, certainly,” she replied. “Every thing does. But I
think it’s quite as economical as any other amusement, and much more
delightful. It’s a great improvement, too, Lucy, to one’s own music; and
with your voice you ought to take every opportunity of hearing good
music.”
“Accomplished wives are somewhat expensive articles for a poor man,”
said Tom. “A taste for music costs no trifle in these days.”
“Is a taste for yachting cheaper?” said Emily, looking at him as if she
thought him a bear.
Tom colored at this, having just joined a yachting club, composed of
some of the most expensive young men in town, and looked very angry, but
said nothing—what could he?
However, if he was angry, so was Emily—and Lucy looked fairly
frightened between the two. She turned the conversation as quickly as
she could, and the subject dropped.
He said to her afterward,
“Lucy, if you would like to go the Opera, I’ll take a season ticket for
you with your family. When I want to go, I can buy a ticket at the door,
as I don’t care about going every night.”
“Oh, no, Tom, I don’t care about going at all; and you know I never wish
to go without you.”
He looked very much perplexed and worried.
“I can’t bear to have you give up a pleasure you are so fond of,” he
pursued. “And then it seems so selfish. I wish to heavens I had not
joined that confounded club. I’ll give it up as soon as the year is
out.”
“Oh, I am sure, Tom,” said his sweet wife, “you require relaxation and
exercise. I think you’ve been a great deal better this summer in
consequence of having joined the club.”
Still he did not seem at ease. In fact, Emily’s fling at his being able
to gratify his own tastes while he found fault with Lucy’s, nettled him.
And, moreover, he was honest and generous enough to feel its truth.
Besides, no man likes the insinuation of selfishness—if there is any
truth in the charge, so much the worse. So, though it was inconvenient,
Tom made a point of Lucy’s having a season ticket—whether he took some
money he had meant to appropriate to house expenses, I don’t know, but I
should not be surprised; at any rate they were much behind hand this
year.
They had a bill now at the grocer’s—butcher’s ditto—and “paid on
account” what they did pay.
Fifty dollars more was added next year to the house-rent—and yet they
did not move. Lucy looked embarrassed when she was asked “if they meant
to remain,” and “why they did not move up town?” and Tom was almost rude
when similar inquiries were made of him. That, indeed, was not the
unusual thing now that it had once been. Tom was growing cross. He was
harassed and fretted, and often answered hastily where he had no right
to do so; particularly to his sweet, pretty little wife, who, to do him
justice, he did love with all his heart and soul—but that was no excuse
for being cross to her, as he was sometimes, when she handed him a bill.
“Why, Lucy, what is this? Five dollars for ice! I’ve paid that bill
before.”
“No, dear, you have not.”
“I gave you the money, I am sure. Do you take receipts? for if you
don’t, they always send the bill a second time.” No one but Tom would
ever have thought of any body’s sending him a bill a _second_ time. If
they got paid once, they did very well. “And I can’t afford to be paying
bills two or three times over.”
“Indeed, dear, I always take receipts—and this I know has not been
paid. It has been sent in two or three times, but it has not been paid,
I know. Here’s the baker’s account just sent in,” continued Lucy, who
thought while she was in for a disagreeable subject, she might as well
go through with it all.
“Twenty dollars for bread!” exclaimed he, eyeing the sum total; “why it
must be a mistake.”
“No,” she said, “it is correct.”
“Then, Lucy,” said he, “there must be great waste somewhere; and,” he
added angrily, “I can’t afford it. Twenty dollars for bread! It’s
enormous.”
“It has been running a good while,” said Lucy, meekly. “See, it begins
in June.”
“Well, well, no matter when it begins,” said he, impatiently, “I can’t
pay it now, that’s all.”
The door opened just then, and Emily came in. Lucy was always glad to
see her, doubly so now, as she interrupted a _tête-à-tête_ that
threatened to be unpleasant.
“I have come, Lucy,” she said, “to ask you to go and look at bonnets.
The French importations open to-day. Mamma will join us presently.”
“It seems to me,” said Tom, somewhat rudely, “that you women spend all
your time running round after finery.”
Emily looked at him for a minute as if she had a great mind to retort,
but Lucy quickly interposed with,
“If you want the benefit of my taste to aid you in selecting for
yourself, Emily, I am ready to go. I don’t mean to get any thing for
myself. I don’t want a hat.”
“You may not mean to get one,” said Emily, “but that you want one is
certain. Yours is shabby enough in all conscience.”
“It will do well enough for the present,” said Lucy in a dejected tone.
“You can’t wear a summer bonnet all winter, Lucy; and if you are going
to get one at all, you might as well get it now, and have the comfort of
it.”
Tom looked cross, however; and though what Emily said was true, Lucy did
not feel as if she ought to indulge herself in even getting what she
must have while he was out of temper. It was wonderful how much richer
she felt when he was in a good humor.
Mrs. Sutherland now joined her daughters, and after a little while said,
“Oh, Emily, I have just come from Dudevant’s. The hats don’t open
to-day. She was going to send you word. It was a mistake of the
printer’s. To-morrow is the day.”
“Then I will call for you to-morrow, Lucy,” said Emily. “And now, as it
is late, we may as well go, mamma.”
“How cross Coolidge grows,” said Emily, as they drove off.
“Is any thing the matter, do you think,” inquired Mrs. Sutherland
anxiously.
“No,” replied Emily, “nothing that I could see.”
The next morning, as Emily called at an early hour at her sister’s, as
by appointment, Coolidge, who had not yet gone out, looked up and said
pleasantly,
“Hats the order of the day, hey, Emily?”
And as Lucy rose hastily from the breakfast table and tied on hers, he
added,
“That does look shabby enough, Lucy. Do get a white bonnet this time. I
do like to see a woman in a white hat.”
“They soil too soon,” replied his wife, “and beside are only fit for
full dress.”
“Well,” he replied, “can’t you have another for common wear?”
Tom had got some money, that was clear. The very atmosphere of the house
seemed changed since yesterday. The sunshine was to be taken advantage
of however, and Lucy went up to him and said something to him in a low
voice, to which he answered,
“I can’t this morning. Tell her to send it up.”
Emily had heard this often enough to understand what it meant. The hat
was to be charged, that was evident. However, as it was to be bought,
that was all she cared about. The rest only concerned Tom and Madame
Dudevant.
These fits of liberality and good humor, however, were becoming rare.
Coolidge was certainly growing cross. His naturally fine, generous
temper was becoming clouded by his embarrassments. When a man is
harassed he is apt to forget himself even toward those he loves best.
And he did love his little wife dearly, notwithstanding that he
frequently spoke almost harshly to her. And this again acted upon her
poor thing. She was becoming nervous and timid, and sorry are we to
add—fretful.
“Do keep quiet, Harry,” she would say to her eldest child, a fine
spirited boy, in the tone of a person who had the toothache, “You are
enough to set one distracted with your noise. Now put your blocks away
and sit down and read.”
But Harry, being in the midst of a high game of fun with his little
sister, did not want to throw down the castle he was building, would
say,
“Oh, mamma, pray let me finish. I don’t want to read. I wont do any
harm.”
“How troublesome you are, Harry. Do as I bid you. And, Fanny, do you go
up into the nursery. You make too much noise here, both of you. Go,
nurse wants you up stairs.”
And so the poor children’s pleasures were often cut short, because mamma
had a bill preying upon her mind, that made the sound of mirth
absolutely painful to her.
And yet Coolidge was doing a good business. His profits were quite equal
perhaps to his expenses, if he could only have paid as he went along.
But as it was, he was working against tide all the time. He was forever
paying back accounts, while the present ones went rolling up, inferior
articles at high prices, at a fearful rate.
“Poverty begets poverty, that’s certain. And then it brings such a train
of evils—big and little—and the smaller ones are worse to bear than
the great. A man who has his pocket always drained of change is not a
pleasant companion, at least not to his wife. Let him be ever so
affectionate he will be unreasonable.”
“Three shillings! What do you want three shillings for, Lucy?” he would
say as impatiently sometimes as if she had asked for a hundred dollars.
“For the girl who has been sewing here to-day, dear.”
“It seems to me that girl is sewing here forever. It’s three shillings
here and three shillings there all the time,” he would say pettishly.
“Shall you want me next week, Mrs. Coolidge?” asked the girl, as she was
paid.
“No,” she replied in a melancholy tone; “no, I will finish the rest of
the work myself.”
Then perhaps feeling good-humored, he would say affectionately,
“Do, Lucy, put that eternal work-basket aside. I hate to see you
stitching away so the whole time.”
“I must finish these things for the children,” she replied.
“Oh, it’s no matter for the children. You look fagged to death, dear.
Send for that girl. Indeed I’d rather give fifty dollars than see you
wear yourself out as you do.”
Now, if Coolidge would only have given the fifty, or twenty, or even ten
dollars, instead of talking about it, it would have saved his poor wife
many a side-ache, and back-ache, and heart-ache to boot, for she almost
stitched her soul out to save five dollars. But there was nothing she
would not rather do than ask for money. It was bad enough to be obliged
to hand the necessary house-bills. As to her own milliner’s and
mantua-maker’s accounts! the mental agony she went through for them
would have been almost ludicrous, so disproportioned was the amount of
suffering to the amount charged, had it not been so sincere.
“Catch me going to Lucy’s again to spend an evening,” said one of her
younger sisters to Emily, now the rich and gay Mrs. Woodberry.
“Why? How was it—what was the matter?” asked Emily.
“I am sure I do not know—nothing that I could see. But you would have
supposed there was a corpse in the house, certainly. There was but one
light, and that shaded, on the table where Lucy and the children
sat—she sewing, they studying. And if the poor little souls spoke loud,
or laughed, Lucy hushed them at once, and with such reproachful looks,
as if they had done something very naughty, and were shockingly
unfeeling. And Mr. Coolidge scarcely raised his eyes from his paper, but
to say something cross two or three times during the course of the
evening. And poor Lucy sat stitching away, looking the image of grief
and despair. If both the children had been up stairs dying of scarlet
fever, she could not have looked worse. I asked her what was the matter,
and she replied, ‘Nothing.’ But, really, if people look so about
‘nothing,’ they deserve to have ‘something’ to look miserable about.”
“I suppose it was some bill or other—the old story,” replied Mrs.
Woodberry. “Lucy is so silly to let Coolidge be so cross about things
that are no more her fault than his. If she had only fired up in the
beginning, and told him, as I should have done, when he scolded about
the butcher and baker, &c., ‘That he ate five times as much bread as I
did; and as to meat, I did not care if I did not eat a morsel from one
week’s end to another,’ and followed it up by ordering no dinner, I
think she might have taught him better manners. Men are so detestable,”
she continued, with vexation, “one would think it was not enough to be
poor, but they must add to the charm by being cross.”
“Then you think poverty a great evil,” said Susan with sorrowful
earnestness—for there was a certain young lawyer she thought very
captivating.
“An evil—to be sure it is,” replied Mrs. Woodberry, who, being very
rich and expensive, thought there was no living without money, and
plenty of it, too. “Just look at Lucy—did you ever see such a poor,
forlorn, faded, fretful looking thing as she has become. You don’t
remember her, Susan, when she married. You would scarcely believe what a
sweet, fresh, pretty young creature she was. And now look at her! She
looks as if she might have gone in the wash with those poor old faded
calicoes of hers, that have been rubbed and pounded till there’s scarce
a shade of color in them. And Coolidge, too—what a pleasant, merry,
joyous tempered fellow he was. I never shall forget them the first time
they appeared in society after their marriage. It was at a Fancy Ball.
She went as Titania, he as Bully Bottom. They were the admiration and
life of the room. One would not have thought, to have seen them then,
how they would look fifteen years later.”
“Well,” said old Mrs. Rutledge, an aunt of the Sutherlands, joining in
the conversation for the first time, “there I don’t agree with you,
Emily. It was just the beginning that might have foretold the ending.”
“How so?” said both sisters, looking up at once.
“They have lived too fast. Poverty, my dear Susan, is an evil, nay, a
curse, or not, just as people choose to make it. Be prudent, live within
your means, and small though they may be, there will always be enough
for happiness.”
Susan, whose feelings were deeply interested in this question, said,
“But, aunt, do you think it is Lucy’s fault that her husband is cross
and poor?”
“Not entirely, my dear. A man should govern himself, and his own
destiny. But still, I think a prudent, _firm_ wife, a fine
balance-wheel. Lucy did not use her influence rightly. She never seemed
to know the power she had in her hands. She rather encouraged her
husband’s extravagance; and it has been _debt_ that has been the ruin of
their happiness. Had they begun differently, it would have ended
differently. God only knows, now, poor things, where they will wind up.”
The error was, they started wrong.
* * * * *
I’VE BEEN UPON THE BRINY DEEP.
_A NEW SONG_
COMPOSED AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE
WEST PHILADELPHIA MUSICAL CLUB,
BY CHARLES E. CATHRALL.
Entered according to act of Congress, in the Year 1846, by J. G.
Osbourn, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the
Eastern District of Penn’s.
[Illustration]
I’ve been upon the briny deep,
When the wind had died away,
And like an ocean god asleep,
Our bark majestic lay,
But
[Illustration]
lovelier the varied scene,
The hill, the lake, the tree,
When bath’d in light of midnight’s Queen,
The land, the land for me,
The land, the land for me,
The land, the land for me,
The land, the land for me.
The glist’ning wave I’ve glided o’er,
When so gently blew the breeze;
But sweeter was the distant shore,
The zephyr ’mong the trees.
The murmur of the mountain rill,
The blossoms waving free,
The song of birds on ev’ry hill,
The land, the land for me.
* * * * *
THE PRESENT ROMANTIC SCHOOL OF FRENCH LITERATURE.
ALEXANDRE DUMAS’ HAMLET.
We have often taken occasion to express our opinion on the present
romantic school of French literature, as opposed to what may be
designated as the classical literature of that country. We think that
the French have succeeded better in their old vocation than in their new
one, and that with all their vivacity and sprightliness they are not a
very romantic people. The romantic school of France is not of national
growth; but has been transferred from England and Germany, both in prose
and poetry. There is nothing in the character of the French that is
romantic, their imagination resembling much more that of the Greeks and
Romans, and their love of glory being much more classical than that of
any modern notion. To an Englishman, an American, or a German, French
stage logic appears absolutely destitute of interest or meaning, but to
a Frenchman it is eminently full of truth and significance, though the
subjects are, with but few exceptions, taken from ancient history.
Racine’s Achilles and Agamemnon are true Frenchmen, and his Alexander
much more resembles Louis XIV., Conde, Turenne, or Napoleon, than
Shakspeare’s Brutus resembles Charles Fox, or his Julius Cæsar, Oliver
Cromwell. The English and the German poets depict men; the French only
Frenchmen, though the hero of the play be a Roman or a Greek; and hence
their old literature, as we may now call it, is eminently national.
There is no incoherence in Achilles calling Iphigenia “Madame,” nor in
her calling him “Monsieur;” for if Achilles and Iphigenia had spoken
French to each other, as they are obliged to do on the French stage,
they could not, without a gross breach of politeness, have used any
other title in addressing each other. It is sufficiently classical that
Achilles should call Iphigenia “Madame,” considering that she was but
betrothed to him. In modern language she would have been called
“_Mademoiselle_.”
Those who imagine the language of Racine and Voltaire unnatural and
forced, need but acquaint themselves with the French people, and they
will soon perceive that even the French people of the present day think,
feel and act through the Greek idiom, and in conformity with their
classic models. Not the Greeks in the Morea, or in Syria, who are
nothing but Turks and Jews and Frank rabble, without a country, and
without national associations, but the _Parisians_ are the true
representatives of the Greeks among the moderns.
Even in common life, in their harangues in the Chambers, in the
pleadings of their lawyers, the charges of their judges, and, to a
certain extent, even in their periodical writings, the French are
admirably classical, even at the expense of cogent reasoning; that is,
they are modern Greeks and Romans, and resemble them also in their
national character. We have, of course, no reference to the Spartans;
but to the Athenians the French bear a goodly resemblance, and, as far
as that goes, they are decidedly agreeable—though Heathens in more than
one sense of the word. No modern people are as much alive to wit,
sarcasm and epigrammatic conversation as the Parisians—and there is no
other mob in Europe as much capable of relishing a joke, or a witticism,
or of being inspired by a happy impromptu as the _canaille_ of the
French metropolis. With all its fierce and ungovernable passions, it is
capable of noble and generous emotions, and of practicing, at least for
a time, a degree of self-denial which is bordering on the classical. No
modern people lives as much in public as the French, or is as much
dependent on popular applause—none is so keenly alive to national
renown, none so fond of pleasure, of dramatic amusements, of the arts.
Louis Philippe thought his throne and his dynasty less in danger from
the opposition press, than from the genius of caricaturists. The spirit
of the latter the people seized in an instant, and the passions excited
by them were truly ungovernable. Hence the public sale of caricatures
was one of the first things interdicted by the September laws.
With the restoration of the Bourbons in 1815, the French romantic school
of literature was ushered into existence; the three Coriphaes of which
were De Lavigne, De Lamartine, and Chateaubriand. Schiller, Young, and
Milton, seemed to have been their models; but the modern prose writers
soon followed the lyric poets in their imitations of the romantic
schools of England and Germany; and we have since had French pupils of
Fielding, Smollet, Hoffmann, and Jean Paul Richter. Eugene Sue at first
imitated Fennimore Cooper; but he soon gave into the “tendency novels,”
on the Miss Martineau style of treating political and domestic economy.
But his great genius, and the rich resources of his imagination, soon
made him shoot by his dull originals, and he has since grappled
successfully with religion, morals, and politics; in all which combats
he may be said to have come out victorious; for he has nearly, if not
altogether, _annihilated_ his antagonists.
The Feuilleton literature which has grown in proportion to the decline
of essays and memoirs, has opened a new field to the romantic pens of
France, and has made that style of writing popular with the masses.
Since then the abuse of it has passed all bounds; half a dozen writers
have absorbed the _Feuilletons_ of all the large sheets published in the
capital—so that talents less known and appreciated must content
themselves with some feudal tenure under one of these literary lords;
for it must not be imagined that writers like Sue, Alexandre Dumas,
Soulié, &c., do their own works, or are put to the necessity of even
inventing the incidents of their stories. All this is done for them by
their literary vassals, who work for five francs a day, while their
masters, who occasionally correct the phraseology of some chapter, but
whose principal business it is, when matters come to a crisis, to
furnish the _dénouement_ and the conclusion, to which they put their
_name_, receive hundreds of thousands for their contributions.
But what the feudal writers of the romantic school of France have not
attempted till lately was to imitate Shakspeare on the stage. Hitherto
the modern dramas of Victor Hugo were more in the melo-dramatic line,
and as such admirably adapted to the taste of the frequenters of the
theatre _de la Porte St. Martin_. But Victor Hugo was a brave man, and
with the popularity acquired among the masses, soon forced his way to
the French academy, as Lucien Bonaparte, at the head of his grenadiers,
forced the legislative assembly of the republic to close its sessions.
He got in and seated himself, and has since had strength enough to draw
some of his best friends after him, notwithstanding all the opposition
of the classic Molé, who has even pronounced a discourse against Alfred
de Vigny.
Alexandre Dumas, the Créol of the Isle of Bourbon (the French use the
term _Créol_ as a sort of embellishment to a Mulatto) is the greatest
literary factotum of France now living. He imitates every
thing—history, comedy, tragedy, novels, and romance, and will with
great difficulty be kept from “the forty” _qui en savant comme
quatre_.[1] His Monte Christo is an imitation of “The Wandering Jew;”
his Age of Louis XIV. and XV., an important commentary on Voltaire; but
his _chef d’œuvre_ we have now before us;—it is nothing less than a new
version of Shakspeare’s Hamlet!
The present Feuilleton literature of France is, properly speaking, the
commercial or shop-keeper literature of the day, in which a few thoughts
abstracted from some greater works are carefully spun out and disposed
of at retail prices; or, to use a still better figure, a ragout with all
sorts of spices, but made from a piece of meat which has served to
appease the appetite of hundreds. There is a perfect dearth of ideas in
all of them, and a morbid desire for ornament. The form is everywhere
more valuable than the substance—the elegance of style superior to the
naked thought. It is the process of the gold-beater, who, with a single
grain of that precious metal, covers the backs of a whole library.
The taste for Shakspeare is, in France, of recent origin. Since the
performance of Macready on the French boards, Parisian audiences have
become acquainted with ghosts, witches, and the whole laboratory of
philosophical superstition in which the British bard surpassed all
others, ancient and modern. Still Shakspeare remained unintelligible or
unpalatable to many, notwithstanding the learned reviews of the _Revue
de deux Mondes_, and the _Revue de Paris_, both of which strove to show
that though in point of abstract genius Shakspeare may have possessed
more than Racine, Voltaire, and Corneille put together, still he lacked
that scenic arrangement, and that peculiar close connection between
cause and effect which distinguishes the dramatic works of France.
“Shakspeare’s Hamlet is a philosophical dissertation,” said a French
writer, “in a dramatic form.” “There is no _reason_ for Hamlet’s
madness”—“none in the world for Ophelia’s ravings, who ought to spurn
the taunts and insults of her coward lover,” &c.
All these criticisms have moved Alexandre Dumas to try his hand at the
work, and to correct the logic and dramatic arrangement of “the British
savage, who occasionally found a pearl on a dunghill.” The work of the
French Creole is admirable of its kind; but equally “unintelligible” in
regard to the scenic arrangements. Hamlet is as much a coward in the
French play as he is in the English, only a little less philosophical;
and instead of Laertes and the king being killed, the queen poisoned,
and what not, the ghost takes charge of eternal justice and finishes
them off himself. Why he does not do so, in the first act, immediately
after his appearance, is an enigma; but as that would have saved the
remaining four acts—which would not have answered the views of
Alexandre Dumas—it was necessary that Hamlet—the only character who
survives in the French play—should do some courting, and the queen and
king some talking and feasting, all according to the rules of the
_French_ drama. We cannot refrain, by way of a rich treat, from giving
the readers of the magazine the closing scene of _Dumas’s play_. It will
speak for itself, and save us the necessity of further comment.
-----
[1] The _Calembourg_ perpetrated by Piron, who was never admitted a
member of the Academy.
-----
_Hamlet_, _the Ghost_, _the King_, _Laertes_, _Gertrude_,
_Courtiers_.
Hamlet. _L’ombre! l’ombre!_
_Viens voir tes meurtriers mourir, fantôme sombre!_
King. (Under Hamlet’s hand.) _A l’aide!_
Hamlet. (To the Courtiers on a sign of the Ghost.)
_Laissez-nous._
(Hesitation among the Courtiers.)
_Il n’en ferait pas deux! Le feu roi, n’est ce pas?_
_Roi de votre existence et de votre agonie?_
_Il sied qu’entre nous cinq la pièce soit finis._
_Sortez—tous!_ (All intimidated slowly leave the stage.)
_A présent, vous trois, le voyez-vous?_
Laertes. _Dieu puissant! Le roi mort!_
King. _Mon père!_
Gertrude. _Mon époux!_
Laertes. _Grâce!_
Ghost. _Oui ton sang, trop prompt t’entraina vers l’abîme,_
_Laërte, et le seigneur t’a puni pour ton crime;_
_Mais, tu le trouveras; car il sonde les cœurs,_
_Moins sévère là-haut. Laërte prie et meurs._
(Laertes dies.)
Gertrude. _Pitié! Pitié!_
Ghost. _Ta faute était ton amour même_
_Pauvre femme! et Jésu vous aime quand on aime!_
_Va, ton cœur a lavé ta honte avec tes pleur;_
_Femme ici, reine au ciel, Gertrude éspère et meurs._
(Gertrude dies.)
King. _Pardon!_
Ghost. _Pas de pardon! va meurtrier infâme_
_Va; pour ton crime affreux, dans leur circle de flamme_
_Satan et les enfers n’ont pas trop de douleur;_
_Va, traitre incestueux, va!—désespère et meurs!_
(King dies.)
Hamlet. _Et moi, vais-je rester triste orphelin sur terre,_
_Et respirer, cet air imprégné de misère?_
_Tragédien choisi pour le courroux de Dieu,_
_Si j’ai mal pris mon rôle, et mal saisi mon jeu,_
_Si, tremblant de mon œuvre, et lassé sans combattre,_
_Pour un que tu voulais j’en ai fait mourir quatre,_
_Oh! parle, est-ce que Dieu ne pardonnera pas:_
_Père, et quel châtiment m’attend donc?_
Ghost. _Tu vivra!_
One can see that Dumas snatches a grace beyond the reach of the usual
drama. The ghost acts the part of the Lord’s messenger, and pronounces
sentence on each culprit. The queen is “a woman here,” and “an angel
there;” because she loved much—the king is too well served in going to
the devil, Laertes dies with some hope of salvation; but Hamlet lives to
repent of his sins; having by his cowardice killed four persons instead
of one! This is French stage logic. As to the language it is the most
trite and commonplace, that one can hear in _front_ of the theatre from
the hackmen; and the tragic muse is certainly not that one of the
hallowed nine which particularly favors the author of MONTE CHRISTO.
F. J. G.
* * * * *
THE GLEANER.
She stands, as radiant as the morn
When rosy splendors fill the air:
Her white arms hold the golden corn,
Itself less glowing than her hair.
She stands, a simple peasant girl,
Yet lovelier than the proudest queen;
For wreathing smile and glossy curl
More potent are than jeweled sheen.
E. M. S.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Eng^d by Rawdon, Wright & Hatch
The Gleaner.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine]
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_Christine, and Other Poems. By Thomas Buchanan Read. Boston:
Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._
This is a volume to make “the cold reviewer’s rhyme-freezing face,” melt
into smiles. It is the production of a young painter, who has already
won an honorable reputation as an artist. Several of the poems have been
printed in various periodicals, and in that form attracted considerable
attention: but the majority, we believe, are now published for the first
time. They evince refinement of thought and sentiment, richness and
warmth of fancy, and singular delicacy and strength in the use of
language. Perhaps the finest characteristic of their diction is the
feeling they display of the harmony of sound and color, in the
expression of thought and emotion. The music of the verse corresponds to
the imagery which flushes through it, and thus the figures which the
poet’s prolific fancy conjures up, are all endowed with life and
motion—or rather seem to make the harmony in which they move. His
thoughts and sentiment give continual evidence of being born in music.
This is a test which few rhymes will bear, and of itself proves the
possession of the true poetic feeling. The poetry of Mr. Read is
essentially musical thought.
Among the excellent pieces contained in this volume, we would call the
attention of our readers to the dreamy beauty of Christine and the Bride
of Dottenburg—the elevated feeling which animates the dilating
imaginations of the sonnet “To the Master Bards”—the mystical charm of
The Winnower, Inez, Arise, The Twins, the Windy Night—and the pensive
beauty and sweetness of A Leaf From the Past and Sunlight on the
Threshold. Throughout the volume is manifested an imagination to discern
and express the poetical aspects of things. We hope that a collection of
poems so rich in thought and feeling, and richer still in promise, will
have the extended circulation it merits.
* * * * *
_Dealings with the Firm of Dombey and Son, Wholesale, Retail,
and for Exportation. By Charles Dickens. With Illustrations by
H. K. Browne. New York: Wiley & Putnam._
From the numbers already published of this new novel by Dickens, we
think it promises to be one of the most entertaining of his works. With
some drawback on the excellence of the characterization, arising from
his desire to produce startling comic effects, the characteristics of
the work are the same as those displayed in the others, and they are as
good. Mr. Dombey is overcharged in the delineation almost to caricature,
but he still vividly suggests the character intended to be hit. The
class to which he belongs richly deserves satire, as pomposity is as
habitual a vice in a large number of Englishmen as the hypocrisy of
Pecksniff. Miss Tox promises to be as interesting as Miss Miggs, in
“Barnaby Rudge.” Mrs. Chick will give room for much satire on the
obvious hypocrisies of character. Polly Richards is a grand portrait,
overflowing with humanity, and true to the first principles of the
heart. Miss Nipper is a good specimen of the snappish domestic, proudly
vulgar and insolently low. Florence, the heroine, is an exquisite
creation, not yet fully developed, but as promising almost as Little
Nell. Walter is capital, and will go directly to the heart of all boys
of spirit. The other characters are of various degrees of merit and
originality, but all add something to the interest of the work.
The peculiar humor of Dickens, or his power of blending satire wit,
fancy and humor together, is very prominent in “Dombey and Son.” His
pathos is no less observable. The felicities of expression scattered
over the narrative, would alone reward its patient perusal. The style of
Dickens is worthy of study for its beautiful and sparkling
peculiarities. It is one of the most original in English literature, and
is the exact measure of his genius. His qualities as a novelist cannot
be disconnected from his style. A criticism of his diction involves a
statement of all his powers and peculiarities, for they interpenetrate
it, and give it all its life and character.
* * * * *
_Nell Gwynne: or the Court of the Stuarts. An Historical
Romance. By W. Harrison Ainsworth: Philada. Carey & Hart._
Ainsworth is well known as the most prominent of the English novelists
of intrigue, rascality, and horror. In the present work he has a fine
subject for his peculiar powers—the delineation of the court of Charles
II.—a good-natured rascal, who bartered away the interests and honor of
England for money and mistresses, and who was surrounded by companions
worthy of himself. Nell Gwynne was one of the least vixenish of his
mistresses, and she is the heroine of Mr. Ainsworth’s novel. The opening
scene of the book is appropriately laid in “The Devil’s Alley;” and
through this alley most of the characters go. Mr. Ainsworth himself has
been journeying through it ever since he commenced his career as a
romancer; and he has been the humble means of leading others in the same
path.
* * * * *
_Lives of Donne, Wotton, Hooker, Herbert, and Sanderson. By
Isaak Walton. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 2 Parts. 12mo._
It is singular that this should be the first American edition of so
celebrated a work. Isaak Walton has always been a favorite with readers,
and his “Lives” have held a prominent place among choice books. The most
extravagant admiration has been expressed for them by men of the finest
genius. Wordsworth says, in not the least beautiful of his sonnets, that
—“The feather whence the pen
Was shaped, that traced the lives of these good men,
Dropt from an angel’s wing.”
We never knew a case where the book was read without giving delight.
Indeed it nestles close to the heart. There is a quaint, cunning, quiet
beauty to it, which wins upon the mind, and gently forces assent to its
excellence. Such a book is balm to a sensitive and irritable spirit. It
is read with some such feeling as might be excited by a benediction from
Chaucer’s good parson. Every one who desires to “possess himself in much
quietness,” whose brain has been fretted and stung by the morbid
creations of the Satanic school of letters, should devote his days and
nights to Isaak Walton, as Johnson advised the style-monger to devote
himself to Addison. The sweet serenity which breathes through the whole
book, joined to the sly quaint beauty of the expression, cannot fail to
charm every mind not wholly debauched by the “storm-and-pressure” style
now in vogue. The men to whom the book relates, are among the saints of
English literature; men who combined great learning and greater
intellect, with sweetness of disposition and repose of manner. We can
hardly conceive of a reader rising from the perusal of these “Lives”
without having some of their many amenities infused into his heart.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been
corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below.
For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to
condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.
page 93, after Kate, stupified ==> after Kate, stupefied
page 93, be so forciby depicted ==> be so forcibly depicted
page 94, a strange forboding feeling, ==> a strange foreboding feeling,
page 96, suffering. His commisseration was ==> suffering. His
commiseration was
page 97, that was irresistable. ==> that was irresistible.
page 97, been put _hors du combat_, ==> been put _hors de combat_,
page 101, abandoned villany are, ==> abandoned villainy are,
page 101, frighthen children and ==> frighten children and
page 103, had thus accidently met my ==> had thus accidentally met my
page 107, coolness of villany, he ==> coolness of villainy, he
page 108, that such wound caused ==> that such wounds caused
page 109, in the grasp of villany, ==> in the grasp of villainy,
page 112, me. Your’s is a ==> me. Yours is a
page 117, In the Chrisa di Santa ==> In the Chiesa di Santa
page 123, your’re for putting it ==> you’re for putting it
page 123, but it it is almost too ==> but it is almost too
page 128, Every thing was _en regle_, ==> Every thing was _en règle_,
page 128, half-deck of your’s is ==> half-deck of yours is
page 128, soften the underderstanding.” ==> soften the understanding.”
page 130, another up in it’s ==> another up in its
page 133, milliner and matua-maker in ==> milliner and mantua-maker in
page 136, gave Hasting’s wine that ==> gave Hastings wine that
page 138, while be was out of ==> while he was out of
page 139, almost stiched her ==> almost stitched her
page 139, and mantua-makers accounts! ==> and mantua-maker’s accounts!
page 139, looks, is if they ==> looks, as if they
page 139, ‘That he eat five ==> ‘That he ate five
page 139, where thy will wind ==> where they will wind
page 140, The murmer of the ==> The murmur of the
page 142, to furnish the _denouement_ ==> to furnish the _dénouement_
page 143, _qui en savent comme quatre_ ==> _qui en savant comme quatre_
page 143, _Moins sevère là-haut_ ==> _Moins sévère là-haut_
page 143, _Laërte prie and meurs_. ==> _Laërte prie et meurs_.
page 143, _Jesu vous aime quand_ ==> _Jésu vous aime quand_
page 143, _va!—desespère et meurs_ ==> _va!—désespère et meurs_
page 143, _cet air impregné de_ ==> _cet air imprégné de_
page 143, _Tragedièn choisi pour_ ==> _Tragédien choisi pour_
page 143, _j’en nai fait mourir_ ==> _j’en ai fait mourir_
page 144, Firm of Domby and Son ==> Firm of Dombey and Son
page 144, in “Domby and Son.” His ==> in “Dombey and Son.” His