I sickened and fell. When I awoke to consciousness I found myself in
the arms of O'Dougherty. He was bathing my temples with a fragrant
liquor. When I had sufficiently recovered, he put his mouth close to
my ear and whispered--'Where is your courage man? Do you know there is
a score of eyes upon you?'
{178} 'Alas! I am unused to such scenes--I confess they have unmanned
me. But now I am firm; you have only to command, and I will obey.'
'Bravo!' exclaimed O'Dougherty, 'you must now be introduced to the
high priest of our order. He has taken his seat at the altar--prepared
for your reception. I will retire that you may do him
reverence--trusting soon to hail you as a brother.'
The curtains about the altar had been grouped up, and there, indeed,
sat the high dignitary in all his splendor. He was closely masked, and
reclined in a high-backed chair, with his head turned carelessly to
one side, with an expression of the most singular good humor. At that
moment, also, there issued from numerous recesses, which I had not
hitherto observed, a number of grotesque-looking shapes, not unlike
the weird sisters in Macbeth, who quietly took their stations around
the apartment, and fixed upon me their fearful and startling gaze.
Their garments were hanging in shreds--an emblem, perhaps, of their
own desperate pursuits. Their faces were daubed with paint of various
colors, which gave them a wild and fiendish aspect. Each one grasped a
long knife, which he brandished furiously above his head, the blades
sometimes striking heavily together. They then sprang simultaneously
forward, forming themselves into a circle, while one stationed himself
as the centre, around whom they slowly moved with dismal and
half-suppressed groans. They continued this ceremony until some one
exclaimed--
'Bring forth the dead!'
'Bring forth the dead!'--they all repeated, until the cavern rang with
a thousand echoes.
The banditti now stood in a line, stretching from one end of the room
to the other, and remained some time in silence. Directly a dead
body--mutilated and bloody--was borne by some invisible agency into
our presence. It rested upon a bier--without pall or other covering--a
spectacle too horrible for description. I thought, at first, that it
was some optical delusion--but, alas! it proved a fearful reality--a
dread and reckless assassination, prompted by that hellish and
vindictive spirit, which appeared so exclusively to govern the
ruffians with whom I was voluntarily associated. The victim before me
was a transgressor of their laws; and this punishment had been dealt
out to him as the reward of his perfidy. Life, to all appearance, was
extinct; but the sluggish and inert clay still remained, as if in
mockery of all law--all humanity--all mercy.
'Behold the traitor!'--exclaimed one of the number.
'Behold the traitor!'--they all repeated in concert.
'Bear away the dead!'--commanded the priest at the altar.
'Bear away the dead! bear away the dead!'--was reiterated in
succession by every tongue, until the lifeless body disappeared--and
with it the fiendish revellers who had sported so terrifically in its
presence.
We have only to say, that if our readers are not absolutely petrified
after all this conglomeration of horrors, it is no fault either of
Paul Ulric's, Morris Mattson's, or Dingy O'Dirty's.
Miss Emily Florence is at length rescued, and with her lover, is rowed
down some river in a skiff by Dingy, who thus discourses on the way.
We quote the passage as a specimen of exquisite morality.
"Had I the sensibility of many men, a recollection of my crimes would
sink me into the dust--but as it is, I can almost fancy them to be so
many virtues. I see you smile; but is it not a truth, that every thing
of good and evil exists altogether in idea? The highwayman is driven
by necessity to attack the traveller, and demand his purse. This is a
crime--so says the law--so says society--and must be punished as our
wise men have decreed. Nations go to war with each other--they
plunder--burn--destroy--and murder--yet there is nothing wrong in
this, because nations sanction it. But where is the difference between
the highwayman, in the exercise of a profession by which he is to
obtain a livelihood, and a nation, with perhaps less adequate cause,
which despoils another of its treasures, and deluges it in blood? Is
not this a proof that our ideas of immorality and wickedness are
derived in a great measure from habit and education?" "The
metaphysical outlaw," [says our hero,] "the metaphysical outlaw here
concluded his discourse." [What an excessively funny idea Mr. Mattson
must have of metaphysics!]
Having left the boat, taken leave of Dingy O'Dirty, and put on a pair
of breeches, Miss Florence now accompanies our adventurer to a village
hard by. Entering a tavern the lovers seat themselves at the breakfast
table with two or three other persons. The conversation turns upon one
Mr. Crawford, a great favorite in the village. In the midst of his own
praises the gentleman himself enters--"and lo!" says Mr. Ulric, "in
the person of Mr. Crawford, I recognized the notorious Captain Elmo!"
The hue and cry is immediately raised, but the Captain makes his
escape through a window. Our hero pursues him to no purpose, and in
returning from the pursuit is near being run over by a carriage and
six. The carriage doors happen to be wide open, and in the vehicle Mr.
Ulric discovers--oh horrible!--Miss Emily Florence in the embrace of
the fellow with the big whiskers!
Having lost his sweetheart a second time, our adventurer is in
despair. But despair, or indeed any thing else, is of little
consequence to a hero. "It is true," says Paul, "I was sometimes
melancholy; but melancholy with me is as the radiant sunlight,
imparting a hue of gladness to every thing around!!" Being, therefore,
in excellent spirits with his melancholy, Mr. Ulric determines upon
writing a novel. The novel is written, printed, published, and puffed.
Why not?--we have even seen "_Paul Ulric_" puffed. But let us hasten
to the _dénouement_ of our tale. The hero receives a letter from his
guardian angel, Dingy O'Dirty, who, it appears, is in England. He
informs Mr. U. that Miss Florence is in London, for he (Dingy O'Dirty)
has seen her. Hereupon our friend takes shipping for that city. Of
course he is shipwrecked--and, of course, every soul on board perishes
but himself. He, indeed, is a most fortunate young man. Some person
pulls him on shore, and this person proves to be the very person he
was going all the way to London to look for--it was Richard Florence
himself. What is more to the purpose, Mr. F. has repented of promising
Miss Emily to the fellow with the big whiskers. Every thing now
happens precisely as it should. Miss E. is proved to be an heiress,
and no daughter of Florence's after all. Our hero leads her to the
altar. Matters come rapidly to a crisis. All the good characters are
made excessively happy people, and all the bad characters die sudden
deaths, and go, post haste, to the devil.
Mr. Mattson is a very generous young man, and is not above patronizing
a fellow-writer occasionally. Some person having sent him a MS. poem
for perusal and an opinion, our author consigns the new candidate for
fame to immortality at once, by heading a chapter in Paul Ulric with
four entire lines from the MS., and appending the following note at
the bottom of the page.
From a MS. poem entitled "_Drusilla_," with which we have been
politely favored for perusal. It is a delightful work, and shows the
writer to be a man of {179} genius and reflection. We hope it will not
be long before the lovers of poetry are favored with this production;
it will win deserved celebrity for its author.
And as a farther instance of disinterestedness, see this conversation
between Mr. Mattson's hero, and a young lady in London who wrote for
the annuals.
"What do you think of D'Israeli's novels?"--asked she.
"Excellent! Excellent!" I replied, "especially Vivian Grey: take for
example the scene in the long gallery between Vivian, and Mrs. Felix
Lorraine."
"Admirable!"--returned the young lady, "but, by the way, how do you
like Bulwer?"
"Well enough," I answered.
"Pray, Mr. Ulric, how many female writers of distinction have you in
America? Honest old Blackwood tells us of but two or three."
"And who are they?"
"Miss Gould, Miss Sedgwick, and Mrs. Sigourney."
"He should have added another--Miss Leslie."
We fancy it is long since Miss Leslie, Miss Gould, Miss Sedgwick, Mrs.
Sigourney, Lytton Bulwer, and Ben D'Israeli have been so
affectionately patted on the back.
Of Mr. Mattson's _style_ the less we say the better. It is quite good
enough for Mr. Mattson's matter. Besides--all fine writers have pet
words and phrases. Mr. Fay had his "_blisters_"--Mr. Simms had his
"_coils_," "_hugs_," and "_old-times_"--and Mr. M. must be allowed his
"_suches_" and "_so muches_." Such is genius!--and so much for the
Adventures of an Enthusiast! But we must positively say a word in
regard to Mr. Mattson's _erudition_. On page 97, vol. ii, our author
is discoursing of the novel which his hero is about to indite. He is
speaking more particularly of _titles_. Let us see what he says.
"An ill-chosen title is sufficient to condemn the best of books. Never
does an author exhibit his taste and skill more than in this
particular. Just think for a moment of _the Frenchman's version of
Doctor Johnson's 'Rambler' into 'Le Chevalier Errant,' and what was
still more laughable, his innocently addressing the author by the
appellation of Mr. Vagabond!_ By the way, the modern fanatics were
somewhat remarkable in the choice of their titles. Take for example
the following--_'The Shop of the Spiritual Apothecary' and 'Some fine
Baskets baked in the Oven of Charity, carefully conserved for the
Chickens of the Church, the Sparrows of the Spirit, and the Sweet
Swallows of Salvation.'_"
Having admired this specimen of deep research, let us turn to page
125, vol. ii. Mr. Ulric is here vindicating himself from some charges
brought against his book. Have patience, gentle reader, while we copy
what he says.
"In the first place we are accused of _vulgarity_. In this respect we
certainly bear a strong resemblance to Plautus, who was censured by
the satirical Horace for the same thing. Next come _Ignorance_,
_Vanity_, and _Stupidity_. Of the first two, the classic reader will
not forget that Aristotle (who wrote not less than four hundred
volumes) was calumniated by Cicero and Plutarch, both of whom
endeavored to make it appear that he was _ignorant_ as well as _vain_.
But what of our stupidity? Socrates himself was treated by Athenæus as
_illiterate_; the divine Plato, called by some the philosopher of the
Christians, by others the god of philosophers, was accused by
Theopompus of _lying_, by Aristophanes of _impiety_, and by Aulus
Gellius of _robbery_. The fifth charge is a _want of invention_. Pliny
has alleged the same thing of Virgil--and surely it is some
consolation to know that we have such excellent company. And last,
though not least, is _plagiarism_. Here again Naucrates tells us that
Homer pillaged some of his best thoughts from the library at Memphis.
It is recorded, moreover, that Horace plundered from the minor Greek
poets, and Virgil from his great prototype, Homer, as well as
Nicander, and Apollonius Rhodius. Why then should we trouble ourselves
about these sweeping denunciations?"
What a learned man is Morris Mattson, Esq.! He is intimately versed
not only in Horace, Aristotle, Cicero, Plutarch, Virgil, Homer, Plato,
Pliny, and Aristophanes--but (_credat Judæus!_) in Nicander, Aulus
Gellius, Naucrates, Athenæus, Theopompus, and Apollonius Rhodius! I.
D'Israeli, however, the father of Ben D'Israeli aforesaid, is (we have
no hesitation in saying it,) one of the most scoundrelly plagiarists
in Christendom. He has not scrupled to steal entire passages verbatim
from Paul Ulric! On page 1, vol. ii, second edition, of '_The
Curiosities of Literature_,' in a chapter on _Titles_, we have all
about Dr. Johnson, Le Chevalier Errant, and Mr. Vagabond, precisely in
the language of Mr. Mattson. O thou abandoned robber, D'Israeli! Here
is the sentence. It will be seen, that it corresponds with the first
sentence italicized in the paragraph (above) beginning 'An ill-chosen
title, &c.' "The Rambler was so little understood, at the time of its
appearance, that a French Journalist has translated it 'Le Chevalier
Errant,' and a foreigner drank Johnson's health one day, by innocently
addressing him by the appellation of Mr. Vagabond!" And on page 11, of
the same volume, we perceive the following, which answers to the
_second_ sentence italicized in the paragraph above mentioned. "A
collection of passages from the Fathers is called 'The Shop of the
Spiritual Apothecary'--one of these works bears the elaborate title
'Some fine Baskets baked in the Oven of Charity, carefully conserved
for the Chickens of the Church, the Sparrows of the Spirit, and the
Sweet Swallows of Salvation.'" There can be no doubt whatever of
D'Israeli's having pilfered this thing from Paul Ulric, for Mr.
Mattson having, inadvertently we suppose, written _Baskets_ for
_Biscuits_, the error is adopted by the plagiarist. But we have a
still more impudent piece of robbery to mention. The whole of the
_erudition_, and two-thirds of the words in the paragraph above,
beginning 'In the first place we are accused of vulgarity,' &c. is to
be found on page 42, vol. i, second edition, of The '_Curiosities!_'
Let us transcribe some of D'Israeli's words in illustration of our
remark. We refer the reader for more particular information to the
book itself.
"Horace censures the coarse humor of Plautus--Aristotle (whose
industry composed more than four hundred volumes) has not been less
spared by the critics. Diogenes Laertius, Cicero and Plutarch have
forgotten nothing that can tend to show his ignorance, his ambition,
and his vanity--Socrates, considered as the wisest, and most moral of
men, Cicero treated as an usurer, and the pedant Athenæus as
illiterate--Plato, who has been called, by Clement of Alexandria, the
Moses of Athens; the philosopher of the Christians by Arnobius, and
the god of philosophers by Cicero; Athenæus accuses of envy;
Theopompus of lying; Suidas of avarice; Aulus Gellius of robbery;
Porphyry of incontinence, and Aristophanes of impiety--Virgil is
destitute of invention, if we are to give credit to Pliny--Naucrates
points out the source (of the Iliad and Odyssey,) in the library at
Memphis, which, according to him, the blind bard completely
pillaged--Horace has been blamed for the free use he made of the minor
Greek {180} poets. Even the author of his (Virgil's) apology, has
confessed that he has stolen, from Homer, his greatest beauties, from
Apollonius Rhodius many of his pathetic passages, and from Nicander
hints for his Georgics."
Well, Mr. Mattson, what have you to say for yourself? Is not I.
D'Israeli the most impudent thief since the days of Prometheus?
In summing up an opinion of Paul Ulric, it is by no means our
intention to mince the matter at all. The book is despicable in every
respect. Such are the works which bring daily discredit upon our
national literature. We have no right to complain of being laughed at
abroad when so villainous a compound, as the thing we now hold in our
hand, of incongruous folly, plagiarism, immorality, inanity, and
bombast, can command at any moment both a puff and a publisher. To Mr.
Mattson himself we have only one word to say before throwing his book
into the fire. Dress it up, good sir, for the nursery, and call it the
"Life and Surprising Adventures of Dingy O'Dirty." Humph!--Only think
of Plato, Pliny, Aristotle, Aristophanes, Nicander, Aulus Gellius,
Naucrates, Athenæus, Theopompus and Apollonius Rhodius!!