_Paul Ulric: Or the Adventures of an Enthusiast. New York: Published
by Harper & Brothers._
These two volumes are by Morris Mattson, Esq. of Philadelphia, and we
presume that Mr. Mattson is a very young man. Be this as it may, when
we called Norman Leslie the silliest book in the world we had
certainly never seen Paul Ulric. _One_ sentence in the latter,
however, is worthy of our serious attention. "We want a few faithful
laborers in the vineyard of literature, to root out the noxious weeds
which infest it." See page 116, vol. ii.
In itself, the book before us is too purely imbecile to merit an
extended critique--but as a portion of our daily literary food--as an
American work published by the Harpers--as one of a class of
absurdities with an inundation of which our country is grievously
threatened--we shall have no hesitation, and shall spare no pains, in
exposing fully before the public eye its four hundred and forty-three
pages of utter folly, bombast, and inanity.
"My name," commences Mr. Mattson, "is Paul Ulric. Thus much, gentle
reader, you already know of one whose history is about to be recorded
for the benefit of the world. I was always an enthusiast, but of this
I deem it inexpedient to say much at present. I will merely remark
that I possessed by nature a wild and adventurous spirit which has led
me on blindly and hurriedly, from object to object, without any
definite or specific aim. My life has been one of continual
excitement, and in my wild career I have tasted of joy as well as of
sorrow. [Oh remarkable Mr. Ulric!] At one moment I have been elevated
to the very pinnacle of human happiness, at the next I have sunk to
the lowest depths of despair. Still I fancied there was always an
equilibrium. This may seem a strange philosophy to some, but is it the
less true? The human mind is so constituted as always to seek a
level--if it is depressed it will be proportionately elevated, if
elevated it will be proportionately depressed. But" says Mr. U.,
interrupting himself, "I am growing metaphysical!" We had thought he
was only growing absurd.
He proceeds to tell us of his father who was born in Lower Saxony--who
went, when only a year old, to England--who, being thrown upon the
parish, was initiated into the mysteries of boot cleaning--who, at the
age of ten, became a vender of newspapers in the city of London--at
twelve sold potatoes in Covent Garden--at fifteen absconded from a
soap-boiler in the Strand to whom he had been apprenticed--at eighteen
sold old clothes--at twenty became the proprietor of a mock auction in
Cheapside--at twenty-five was owner of a house in Regent Street, and
had several thousand pounds in the Funds--and before thirty was
created a Baronet, with the title of Sir John Augustus Frederick
Geoffry Ulric, Bart., for merely picking up and carrying home his
Majesty King George the Fourth, whom Mr. U. assures us upon his word
and honor, his father found lying beastly drunk, one fine day, in some
gutter, in some particular thoroughfare of London.
Our hero himself was born, we are told, on the borders of the Thames,
not far from Greenwich. When a well grown lad he accompanies his
father to the continent. In Florence he falls in love with a Countess
in her thirty-fifth year, who curls his hair and gives him
sugar-plums. The issue of the adventure with the Countess is thus
told.
"You have chosen them with much taste," said the Countess; "a
beautiful flower is this!" she continued, selecting one from among the
number, "its vermillion is in your cheeks, its blue in your eyes, and
for this pretty compliment I deserve a ---- you resist eh! My pretty,
pretty lad, I _will!_ There! Another, and you may go free. Still
perverse? Oh, you stubborn boy! How can you refuse? One--two--three! I
shall _devour_ you with kisses!"
* * * * *
* * * * *
We have printed the passage precisely as we find it in the book--notes
of admiration--dashes--Italics--and all. Two rows of stars wind up the
matter, and stand for the catastrophe--for we hear no more of the
Countess. Now if any person over curious should demand why Morris
Mattson, Esq. has mistaken notes of admiration for sense--dashes,
kisses, stars and Italics for sentiment--the answer is very simple
indeed. The author of Vivian Grey made the same mistake before him.
Indeed we have made up our minds to forward Ben D'Israeli a copy of
Paul Ulric. He will read it, and if he do not expire upon the spot, it
will do him more real service than the crutch. Never was there a more
laughable burlesque of any man's manner. Had Mr. Mattson only
_intended it_ as a burlesque we would have called him a clever fellow.
But unfortunately this is not the case. No jackdaw was ever more
soberly serious in fancying herself a peacock, than our author in
thinking himself D'Israeli the second.
"Every day," says Paul after the kissing scene, "filled me with a new
spirit of romance. I had sailed upon the winding streams of Germany; I
had walked beneath the bright skies of Italy; I had clambered the
majestic mountains of Switzerland." His father, however, determines
upon visiting the United States, and taking his family with him. His
reasons for so doing should be recorded. "His republicanism" says
Paul, "had long rendered him an object of aversion to the aristocracy.
He had had the hardihood to compare the _salary_ of the President with
the _civil list_ of the king--_consequently he was threatened with an
indictment for treason!_ My mother suggested the propriety of
immediately quitting the country."
Mr. Mattson does not give us an account of the voyage. "I have no
disposition," says his hero, "to describe a trip across the
Atlantic--particularly as I am not in a sentimental mood--otherwise I
might turn over the poets, and make up a long chapter of extracts from
Moore, Byron, and Rogers of the Old World, or Percival, Bryant, and
Halleck of the New." A range of stars accordingly, is introduced at
this crisis of affairs, and we must understand them to express all the
little matters which our author is too fastidious to detail. Having
sufficiently admired the stars, we turn over the next leaf and "Land
ho!" shouts one of the seamen on the fore-topsail yard.
Arrived in Philadelphia, Mr. Ulric (our hero's father) {174} "is
divided," so says Mr. Mattson, "between the charms of a city and
country life." His family at this time, we are told, consisted of five
persons; and Mr. U. Jr. takes this opportunity of formally introducing
to us, his two sisters Eleanor and Rosaline. This introduction,
however, is evidently to little purpose, for we hear no more,
throughout the two volumes, of either the one young lady or the other.
After much deliberation the family fix their residence in "Essex, a
delightful country village in the interior of Pennsylvania;" and we
beg our readers to bear in mind that the surprising adventures of Paul
Ulric are, for the most part, perpetrated in the immediate vicinity of
this village.
The young gentleman (notwithstanding his late love affair with the
Countess) is now, very properly, sent to school--or rather a private
tutor is engaged for him--one Lionel Wafer. A rapid proficiency in
Latin, Greek, Hebrew, music, dancing, and fencing, is the result; "and
with these accomplishments," says the young calf, "I believed myself
fitted for the noise and bustle of the world." Accordingly, his father
having given him a flogging one afternoon, he determines upon running
away. In two days he "arrives in one of the Atlantic cities." Rambling
about the streets he enters into conversation with a sharper, who
succeeds in selling him, for forty dollars, a watch made of tinsel and
put together with paste. This and subsequent adventures in the city
form the best portion of the book--if _best_ should be applied, in any
way, to what is altogether abominable. Mr. Ulric goes to the theatre,
and the play is Romeo and Juliet. The orchestra "breaks forth in full
chorus" and our hero soliloquizes. We copy his soliloquy with the end
of placing before our readers what we consider the finest passage in
Mr. Mattson's novel. We wish to do that gentleman every possible act
of justice; and when we write down the few words to which we allude,
and when we say that they are not absolutely intolerable, we have done
all, in the way of commendation, which lies in our power. We have not
one other word of praise to throw away upon Paul Ulric.
"Oh Music!--the theme of bards from time immemorial--who can sing of
thee as thou deservest? What wondrous miracles hast thou not
accomplished? The war-drum beats--the clarion gives forth its piercing
notes--and legions of armed men rush headlong to the fierce and
devastating battle. Again, the drum is muffled, and its deep notes
break heavily upon the air, while the dead warrior is borne along upon
his bier, and thousands mingle their tears to his memory. The tender
lute sounds upon the silvery waters, and the lover throws aside his
oar, and imprints a kiss upon the lips of his beloved. The bugle rings
in the mountain's recesses, and a thousand spears are uplifted for a
fearful and desperate conflict. And now the organ peals, and, with its
swelling notes, the soul leaps into the very presence of the Deity."
Our hero decides upon adopting the stage as a profession, and with
this view takes lessons in elocution. Having perfected himself in this
art, he applies to a manager, by note, for permission to display his
abilities, but is informed that the nights are engaged for two months
ahead, and it would be impossible for him to appear during the season.
By the influence, however, of some hanger-on of the theatre, his
wishes are at length gratified, and he is announced in the bills as
"the celebrated Master Le Brun, the son of a distinguished English
nobleman, whose success was so unprecedented in London as to have
performed fifty nights in succession at the Theatre Royal, Drury
Lane"--a sentence in which we are at a loss to discover whether the
English nobleman, or the English nobleman's son, or the success of the
English nobleman's son is the distinguished performer in question.
Our adventurer succeeds in his debût, and is in a fair way of becoming
a popular performer, when his prospects are suddenly nipped in the
bud. His valet one morning announces a Sir Thomas Le Brun, and Sir
Thomas Le Brun proves to be that worthy gentleman Sir John Augustus
Frederick Geoffry Ulric, Baronet. A scene ensues. Paul screams, and
Sir John clenches his fist. The father makes a speech, and the son
makes a speech and a bow. At length they fly into each other's arms,
and the drama closes by the old personage taking the young personage
home in his carriage. In all this balderdash about the stage, there is
not one original incident or idea. The same anecdotes are told, but in
infinitely better language, in every book of dramatic reminiscences
since the flood.
Our author now indulges in what we suppose to be satire. The arrows of
his wit are directed, with much pertinacity at least, against one
Borel Bunting, by which name it strikes us that Mr. M. wishes to
indicate some poor devil of an editor in bonâ fide existence--perhaps
some infatuated young person who could not be prevailed upon, by love
or money, to look over the MS. of Paul Ulric. If our supposition be
true, we could wish Mr. Borel Bunting no better revenge than what the
novelist has himself afforded by this public exposure of his
imbecility. We must do our readers the favor of copying for their
especial perusal, a portion of this vehement attack.
There has been much speculation as to the birthplace of Borel; (in
this respect he somewhat resembled Homer) but if I have been correctly
informed it was in one of the New England States. Further than this I
cannot particularize. When he came to Essex he managed to procure a
situation in a counting-house, which afforded him the means of support
as well as leisure for study. He did not overlook these advantages,
and gradually rose in public estimation until he became the editor of
the Literary Herald. This gentleman was deeply read in the classics,
and had also perused every novel and volume of poetry from the
earliest period of English literature down to the present. Such had
been his indefatigable research, that there was not a remarkable
passage in the whole range of the Waverley fictions, or indeed any
other fictions, to which he could not instantly turn. As to poetry, he
was an oracle. He could repeat the whole of Shelley, Moore, and
Wordsworth, _verbatim_. He was a very Sidrophel in his acquirements.
He could tell
"How many scores a flea would jump;"
he could prove, also, "that the man in the moon's a sea
Mediterranean," and
"In lyric numbers write an ode on
His mistress eating a black pudding."
He composed acrostics extempore by the dozen; we say _extempore_,
though it was once remarked that he was months in bringing them to
maturity. He was inimitable, moreover, in his pictures of natural
scenery. When a river, or a mountain, or a waterfall was to be
sketched, Borel Bunting, of all others, was the man to guide the
pencil. He had the rare faculty of bringing every thing distinctly
before the mind of the reader--a compliment to which a majority of his
brother scribes are not entitled.
Borel Bunting possessed also a considerable degree {175} of critical
acumen. Southey was a mere doggerelist; Cooper and Irving were not men
of genius: so said Borel. Pope, he declared, was the first of poets,
because Lord Byron said so before him. Tom Jones, he contended, was
the most perfect specimen of a novel extant. He was also willing to
admit that Goldsmith had shown some talent in his Vicar of Wakefield.
In a word, Borel's wonderful acquirements secured him the favorable
attention of many distinguished men; and at length (as a reward of his
industry and merit) he was regularly installed in the chair editorial
of the "_Literary Herald_," an important weekly periodical, fifteen
inches in diameter. His salary, it is supposed, was something less
than that received by the President of the United States.
The Literary Herald, Borel (or rather, Mr. Bunting--we beg his pardon)
considered the paragon of perfection. No one could ever hope to be
distinguished in literature who was not a contributor to its columns.
It was the only sure medium through which young Ambition could make
its way to immortality. In short, (to use one of Bunting's favorite
words,) it was the "_nonpareil_" of learning, literature, wit,
philosophy, and science.
Mr. Bunting corresponded regularly with many distinguished individuals
in Europe. I called upon him one morning, just after the arrival of a
foreign mail, when he read me portions of seven letters which he had
just received. One was from Lafayette, another from Charles X., a
third from the author of a fashionable novel, a fourth from Miss
L----, a beautiful poetess in London, a fifth from a German count, a
sixth from an Italian prince, and a seventh from Stpqrstuwsptrsm, (I
vouch not for the orthography, not being so well acquainted with the
art of spelling as the learned Borel,) a distinguished Russian general
in the service of the great "Northern Bear."
The most unfortunate charge that was ever preferred against Borel, in
his editorial capacity, was that of _plagiarism_. He had inserted an
article in his paper over his acknowledged signature, entitled
"_Desultory Musings_," which some one boldly asserted was an extract
from Zimmerman on Solitude; and, upon its being denied by the editor,
reference was given to the identical page whence it was taken. These
things boded no good to the reputation of the scribe; nevertheless, he
continued his career without interruption, and, had he lived in the
days of Pope, the latter might well have asked,
"Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through,
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again--
* * * * *
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines."
Mr. Ulric now indulges us with another love affair, beginning as
follows: "Oh thou strange and incomprehensible passion! to what canst
thou be compared? At times thou art gentle as the zephyr; at others
thou art mighty as the tempest. Thou canst calm the throbbing bosom,
or thou canst fill it with wilder commotion. A single smile of thy
benign countenance calleth new rapture to the anguished heart, and
scattereth every doubt, every fear, every perplexity. But enough of
this." True.
A young lady falls into a river or a ditch, (our author says she was
fishing for a water-lily) and Mr. Ulric is at the trouble of pulling
her out. "What a charming incident!" says Mr. Mattson. Her name is
Violet, and our susceptible youth falls in love with her. "Shall I
ever," quoth Paul, "shall I ever forget my sensations at that
period?--never!!" Among other methods of evincing his passion he
writes a copy of verses "To Violet," and sends them to the _Literary
Herald_. All, however, is to little purpose. The lady is no fool, and
very properly does not wish a fool for a husband.
Our hero now places his affections upon the wife of a silk-dyer. He
has a rival, however, in the person of the redoubted editor, Borel
Bunting, and a duel ensues, in which, although the matter is a hoax,
and the pistols have no load in them, Mr. Mattson assures us that the
editor "in firing, lodged the _contents_ of his weapon in the ground a
few inches from his feet." The chapter immediately following this
adventure is headed with poetical quotations occupying two-thirds of a
page. One is from _Byron_--another from _All's Well that Ends
Well_--and the third from _Brown's Lecture on Perpetual Motion_. The
chapter itself would form not quite half a column such as we are now
writing, and in it we are informed that Bunting, having discovered the
perpetual motion, determines upon a tour in Europe.
The editor being thus disposed of, Mr. Mattson now enters seriously
upon the business of his novel. We beg the attention of our readers
while we detail a tissue of such absurdity, as we did not believe it
possible, at this day, for any respectable bookseller to publish, or
the very youngest of young gentlemen to indite.
Let us bear in mind that the scene of the following events is in the
vicinity of Philadelphia, and the epoch, the present day. Mr. Ulric
takes a stroll one May morning with his gun. "Nature seems to be at
rest," &c.--"the warbling of birds," &c.--"perched among trees," &c.
was all very fine, &c. "While gazing," says Paul, "upon these
objects," (that is to say, the warbling of the birds) "I beheld a
young and beautiful female trip lightly over the grass, and seat
herself beneath a willow which stood in the middle of a park."
Whereupon our adventurer throws himself into an attitude, and
soliloquizes as follows.
"It seems that there is an indescribable something in the features of
many women--a look, a smile, or a glance of the eye--that sends the
blood thrilling to the heart, and involuntarily kindles the flame of
love upon its altar. It is no wonder that sages and philosophers have
worshipped with such mad devotion at the shrine of beauty! It is no
wonder that the mighty Pericles knelt at the feet of his beloved
Aspasia! It is no wonder that the once powerful Antony sacrificed his
country to the fatal embraces of the bewitching Cleopatra! It is no
wonder that the thirst for glory cooled in the heart of the
philosophic Abelard, when he beheld the beauty of the exquisite
Heloise! It is no wonder, indeed, that he quitted the dry maxims of
Aristotle to practise the more pleasing precepts of Ovid! But this is
rhapsody!" It is.
The lady is dressed in white, (probably cambric muslin,) and Mr.
Mattson assures us that her features he shall not attempt to describe.
He proceeds, however, to say that her "eyes are hazel, but very dark,"
"her complexion pure as alabaster," her lips like the lips of Canova's
Venus, and her forehead like--something very fine. Mr. Ulric attempts
to speak, but his embarrassment prevents him. The young lady "turns to
depart," and our adventurer goes home as he came.
The next chapter commences with "How mysterious is human
existence!"--which means, when translated, "How original is Mr.
Mattson!" This initial paragraph concludes with a solemn assurance
that we are perishable creatures, and that it is very possible we may
all die--every mother's son of us. But as Mr. M. hath it--"to our
story." Paul has discovered the mansion of the young lady--but can see
no more of the young lady herself. He therefore stands sentinel before
{176} the door, with the purpose "of making observations." While thus
engaged, he perceives a tall fellow, "with huge black whiskers and a
most forbidding aspect," enter the house, in a familiar manner. Our
hero is, of course, in despair. The tall gentleman could be no other
than the accepted lover of the young lady. Having arrived at this
conclusion, Paul espies a column of smoke in the woods, and after some
trouble discovers it to proceed from "a log dwelling which stood
alone, with its roof of moss, amid the silence and solitude of
nature." A dog barks, and an old woman makes her appearance.
This old lady is a most portentous being. She is, however, a little
given to drinking; and offers our hero a dram, of which Mr. Mattson
positively assures us that gentleman did not accept.
"Can you tell me," says Paul, "who lives in the stone house?"
"Do you mean the Florence mansion," she asked.
"Very like--who is its owner?"
"A man of the same name--Richard Florence."
"Who is Richard Florence?"
"An Englishman; he came to this country a year or two ago."
"Has he a wife?"
"Not that I know of."
"Children?"
"An only daughter."
"What is her name?"
"Emily."
"Emily!--Is she beautiful?"
"Very beautiful!"
"And amiable?"
"Her like is not to be found."
"What," [exclaims our hero, perhaps starting back and running his
fingers through his hair]--"what are all the fleeting and fickle
pleasures of the world! what the magnificent palaces of kings, with
their imperial banquetings and gorgeous processions! what, indeed, are
all the treasures of the earth or the sea, in comparison with the
pure, the bright, the beautiful object of our young and innocent
affections!!!"
The name of the old hag is Meg Lawler, and she favors Mr. Ulric with
her private history. The morality of her disclosures is
questionable--but "morals, at the present day, quoth Mr. Mattson, are
rarely sought in works of fiction, and perhaps _less_ rarely found."
The gentleman means _more_ rarely. But let us proceed. Meg Lawler
relates a tale of seduction. It ends in the most approved form. "I
knew," says she, "that the day of sorrow and tribulation was at hand,
but alas, there was no saving power!" Here follows a double range of
stars--after which, the narrative is resumed as follows.
Dame Lawler paused, and turning upon me her glaring and blood-shot
eyes exclaimed--
"Do you think there is a punishment hereafter for the evil deeds done
in the body?"
"Such," I replied, "the divines have long taught us."
"_Then is my destroyer writhing in the agonies of hell!!_"
Mr. Ulric is, of course, electrified, and the chapter closes.
Our hero, some time after this, succeeds in making the acquaintance of
Miss Emily Florence. The scene of the first interview is the cottage
of Meg Lawler. Mr. U. proposes a walk--the lady at first refuses, but
finally consents.
"There were two paths," says our hero, "either of which we might have
chosen: one led into the forest, the other towards her father's house.
I struck into the latter--but she abruptly paused."
"Shall we continue our walk?" I asked, observing that she still
hesitated.
"Yes," she at length answered; "but I would prefer the other
path"--that is to say the path through the woods--O fi, Miss Emily
Florence! During the walk, our hero arrives at the conclusion that his
beloved is "some unfortunate captive whose fears, or whose sense of
dependence, might render it imprudent for her to be seen in the
society of a stranger." In addition to all this, Dame Lawler has told
Mr. U. that "she did not believe Emily was the daughter of Mr.
Florence"--hereby filling the interesting youth with suspicions, which
Mr. Mattson assures us "were materials for the most painful
reflection."
On their way home our lovers meet with an adventure. Mr. Ulric happens
to espy a--man. Miss Emily Florence thus explains this momentous
occurrence. _"There is a band of robbers who have their retreat in the
neighboring hills--and this was no doubt one of them. They are headed
by a brave and reckless fellow of the name of Elmo--Captain Elmo I
think they call him. They have been the terror of the inhabitants for
a long time. My father went out sometime ago with an armed force in
pursuit of them, but could not discover their hiding place. I have
heard it said that they steal away the children of wealthy parents
that they may exact a ransom."_ Once more we beg our readers to
remember that Mr. Mattson's novel is a Tale of the Present Times, and
that its scene is in the near vicinity of the city of Brotherly Love.
Having convinced her lover that the man so portentously seen can be
nobody in the world but "that brave and reckless fellow" Captain Elmo,
Miss Florence proceeds to assure Mr. U. that she (Miss Florence) is
neither afraid of man nor the devil--and forthwith brandishes in the
eyes of our adventurer an ivory-hilted dagger, or a carving-knife, or
some such murderous affair. "Scarcely knowing what I did," says our
gallant friend, "I imprinted a kiss (the first--burning, passionate,
and full of rapture) upon her innocent lips, and--_darted into the
woods!!!_" It was impossible to stand the carving-knife.
As Mr. U. takes his way home after this memorable adventure, he is
waylaid by an old woman, who turns out to be a robber in disguise. A
scuffle ensues, and our hero knocks down his antagonist--what less
could such a hero do? Instead however of putting an end at once to his
robbership, our friend merely stands over him and requests him to
recite his adventures. This the old woman does. Her name is Dingee
O'Dougherty, or perhaps Dingy O'Dirty--and she proves to be one and
the same personage with the little man in gray who sold Mr. U. the
tinsel watch spoken of in the beginning of the history. During the
catechism, however, a second robber comes up, and the odds are now
against our hero. But on account of his affectionate forbearance to
Dingy O'Dirty no farther molestation is offered--and the three part
with an amicable understanding.
Mr. Ulric is now taken ill of a fever--and during his illness a
servant of Mr. Florence having left that gentleman's service, calls
upon his heroship to communicate some most astounding intelligence.
Miss Florence, it appears, has been missing for some days, and her
father receives a letter (purporting to be from the captain of {177}
the banditti) in which it is stated that they have carried her away,
and would only return her in consideration of a ransom. Florence is
requested to meet them at a certain spot and hour, when they propose
to make known their conditions. Upon hearing this extraordinary news
our adventurer jumps out of bed, throws himself into attitude No. 2,
and swears a round oath that he will deliver Miss Emily himself. Thus
ends the first volume.
Volume the second commences with spirit. Mr. U. hires "three fearless
and able-bodied men to accompany and render him assistance in the
event of danger. Each of them was supplied with a belt containing a
brace of pistols, and a large Spanish knife." With these terrible
desperadoes, our friend arrives at the spot designated by the bandit.
Leaving his companions near at hand, he advances, and recognizes the
redoubted Captain Elmo, who demands a thousand pounds as the ransom of
Miss Emily Florence. Our hero considers this too much, and the Captain
consents to take five hundred. This too Mr. U. refuses to give, and
with his three friends makes an attack upon the bandit. But a posse of
robbers coming to the aid of their leader, our hero is about to meet
with his deserts when he is rescued by no less a personage than our
old acquaintance Dingy O'Dirty, who proves to be one of the banditti.
Through the intercession of this friend, Mr. U. and his trio are
permitted to go home in safety--but our hero, in a private
conversation with Dingy, prevails upon that gentleman to aid him in
the rescue of Miss Emily. A plot is arranged between the two worthies,
the most important point of which is that Mr. U. is to become one of
the robber fraternity.
In a week's time, accordingly, we behold Paul Ulric, Esq. in a cavern
of banditti, somewhere in the neighborhood of Philadelphia!! His
doings in this cavern, as related by Mr. Mattson, we must be allowed
to consider the most laughable piece of plagiarism on record--with the
exception perhaps of something in this same book which we shall speak
of hereafter. Our author, it appears, has read Gil Blas, Pelham, and
Anne of Gierstein, and has concocted, from diverse passages in the
three, a banditti scene for his own especial use, and for the readers
of Paul Ulric. The _imitations_ (let us be courteous!) from Pelham are
not so palpable as those from the other two novels. It will be
remembered that Bulwer's hero introduces himself into a nest of London
rogues with the end of proving his friend's innocence of murder. Paul
joins a band of robbers _near Philadelphia_, for the purpose of
rescuing a mistress--the chief similarity will be found in the
circumstances of the blindfold introduction, and in the slang dialect
made use of by either novelist. The slang in Pelham is stupid
enough--but still very natural in the mouths of the cutthroats of
Cockaigne. Mr. Mattson, however, has thought proper to bring it over,
will I nill I, into Pennsylvania, and to make the pickpockets of
Yankeeland discourse in the most learned manner of nothing less than
"_flat-catching_," "_velvet_," "_dubbing up possibles_," "_shelling
out_," "_twisting French lace_," "_wakeful winkers_," "_white wool_,"
"_pig's whispers_," and "_horses' nightcaps!_"
Having introduced his adventurer _à la_ Pelham, Mr. Mattson entertains
him _à la_ Gil Blas. The hero of Santillane finds his cavern a
pleasant residence, and so does the hero of our novel. Captain Rolando
is a fine fellow, and so is Captain Elmo. In Gil Blas, the robbers
amuse themselves by reciting their adventures--so they do in Paul
Ulric. In both the Captain tells his own history first. In the one
there is a rheumatic old cook--in the other there is a rheumatic old
cook. In the one there is a porter who is the main obstacle to
escape--in the other ditto. In the one there is a lady in durance--in
the other ditto. In the one the hero determines to release the
lady--in the other ditto. In the one Gil Blas feigns illness to effect
his end, in the other Mr. Ulric feigns illness for the same object. In
the one, advantage is taken of the robbers' absence to escape--so in
the other. The cook is sick, at the time, in both.
In regard to Anne of Gierstein the plagiarism is still more laughable.
We must all remember the proceedings of the _Secret Tribunal_ in
Scott's novel. Mr. Mattson has evidently been ignorant that the Great
Unknown's account of these proceedings was principally based on fact.
He has supposed them imaginary _in toto_, and, seeing no good reason
to the contrary, determined to have a Secret Tribunal of his own
manufacture, and could think of no better location for it than a
cavern somewhere about the suburbs of Philadelphia. We must be
pardoned for giving Mr. Mattson's account of this matter in his own
words.
Dingee disappeared, [this is our old friend Dingy O'Dirty] Dingee,
[quoth Mr. Mattson,] disappeared--leaving me for a time alone. When he
returned, he said every thing was in readiness for the ceremony, [the
ceremony of Mr. Ulric's initiation as a robber.] The place appointed
for this purpose was called the '_Room of Sculls_'--and thither,
blindfolded, I was led.
'A candidate for our order!' said a voice, which I recognized as
O'Dougherty's.
'Let him see the light!' exclaimed another in an opposite direction.
The mandate was obeyed, and I was restored to sight.
I looked wildly and fearfully around--but no living object was
perceptible. Before me stood an altar, hung about with red curtains,
and ornamented with fringe of the same color. Above it, on a white
Banner, was a painting of the human heart, with a dagger struck to the
hilt, and the blood streaming from the wound. Directly under this
horrible device, was written, in large letters,