_The Confessions of Emilia Harrington. By Lambert A. Wilmer.
Baltimore._
This is a duodecimo of about two hundred pages. We have read it with
that deep interest always excited by works written in a similar
manner--be the subject matter what it may--works in which the author
utterly loses sight of himself in his theme, and, for the time,
identifies his own thoughts and feelings with the thoughts and
feelings of fictitious existences. Than the power of accomplishing
this perfect identification, there is no surer mark of genius. It is
the spell of Defoe. It is the wand of Boccacio. It is the proper
enchantment of the Arabian Tales--the gramarye of Scott, and the magic
of the Bard of Avon. Had, therefore, the Emilia Harrington of Mr.
Wilmer not one other quality to recommend it, we should have been
satisfied of the author's genius from the simple _verisimilitude_ of
his narrative. Yet, unhappily, books thus written are not the books by
which men acquire a contemporaneous reputation. What we said on this
subject in the last number of the Messenger, may be repeated here
without impropriety. We spoke of the Robinson Crusoe. "What better
possible species of fame could the author have desired for that book
than the species which it has so long enjoyed? It has become a
household thing in nearly every family in Christendom. Yet never was
admiration of any work--universal admiration--more indiscriminately or
more inappropriately bestowed. Not one person in ten--nay, not one
person in five hundred has, during the perusal of Robinson Crusoe, the
most remote conception that any particle of genius, or even of common
talent, has been employed in its creation. Men do not look upon it in
the light of a literary performance. Defoe has none of their thoughts;
Robinson all. The powers which have wrought the wonder, have been
thrown into obscurity by the very stupendousness of the wonder they
have wrought. We read, and become perfect abstractions in the
intensity of our interest--we close the book, and are quite satisfied
we could have written as well ourselves."
Emilia Harrington will render essential services to virtue in the
unveiling of the deformities of vice. This {192} is a deed of no
questionable utility. We fully agree with our author that ignorance of
wrong is not security for the right; and Mr. Wilmer has obviated every
possible objection to the "Confessions," by a so cautious wording of
his disclosures as not to startle, in warning, the virtuous. That the
memoirs are not wholly fictitious is more than probable. There is much
internal evidence of authenticity in the book itself, and the preface
seems to hint that a portion at least of the narrative is true--yet
for the sake of human nature it is to be hoped that _some_ passages
are overcolored. The _style_ of Mr. Wilmer is not only good in itself,
but exceedingly well adapted to his subjects. The letter to _Augustus
Harrington_ is vigorously written, and many long extracts might be
taken from the book evincing powers of no ordinary kind.
Within a circle of _private_ friends, whom Mr. Wilmer's talents and
many virtues have attached devotedly to himself, and among whom we are
very proud in being ranked, his writings have been long properly
appreciated, and we sincerely hope the days are not far in futurity
when he will occupy that full station in the _public_ eye to which his
merits so decidedly entitle him. Our readers must all remember the
touching lines _To Mira_, in the first number of our second
volume--lines which called forth the highest encomiums from many whose
opinions are of value. Their exquisite tenderness of sentiment--their
vein of deep and _unaffected_ melancholy--and their antique strength,
and high polish of versification, struck us, upon a first perusal,
with force, and subsequent readings have not weakened the impression.
Mr. W. has written many other similar things. Among his longer pieces
we may particularize _Merlin_, a drama--some portions of which are
full of the truest poetic fire. His prose tales and other short
publications are numerous; and as Editor of the Philadelphia Saturday
Evening Post, he has boldly and skilfully asserted the rights of
independent criticism, speaking, in all instances--the truth. His
Satiric Odes in the Post, over the signature of_ Horace in
Philadelphia_, have attracted great attention, and have been
deservedly admired.
We copy with true pleasure from the editorial columns of a Baltimore
contemporary, (for whose opinions we have the highest respect, even
when they differ from our own,) the following notice of _Emilia
Harrington_. It will supersede the necessity of any farther comment
from ourselves.
"This book is one of a class the publication of which is considered by
many as objectionable. The lifting up of the veil which covers crime;
crime of the most disgusting and debasing character--is thought by
moralists of the present day to be an act of questionable utility.
This opinion has gained strength from the intemperate zeal of too many
who have thought fit to publish flauntingly to the world the result of
their startling discoveries while penetrating the haunts of corruption
and vice, instead of silently moving on in the cause of Christian
benevolence, and, when called upon for disclosures, giving information
in such a way as not to startle the virtuous into shrinking, nor cause
the vicious to raise the hue and cry against them. From the objection
of ultraism the 'Confessions' are to a great extent free--although in
some few instances the author has allowed himself a latitude which it
would have been as well not to have taken.
"Apart from the character of the book, it possesses for us no trifling
interest. Our thoughts run back continually from its pages to the
gifted young author, prematurely gray; nor can we conquer a gathering
sadness of feeling as we contemplate him bending wearily beneath the
accumulating weight of adverse circumstances--broken in spirit, and
yet uncomplaining. That the writer of this book possesses talents of
an order far superior to many of twice his reputation, we have long
been convinced, and yet he is scarcely known. Ten years ago his
promise of future success in the walks of literary fame was
flattering, almost beyond example; but, who can struggle against the
ills of life--its cares, its privations and disappointments--with the
added evils which petty jealousy and vindictive malice bring in to
crush the spirit,--and not, in the very feebleness of humanity, grow
weak and weary. And thus it seems in a measure to have been with the
author of this book; he has not now the healthy vigor which once
marked his production--the playful humor, nor the sparkling wit; and
why--as continual dropping will wear away the hardest rock, so will
continued neglect, and disappointment, and care, wear away the mind's
healthy tone and strength of action. And yet, after all, may we not be
mistaken in this. Is not the unobtrusive volume before us a strong
evidence of unfailing powers of mind, which, though aiming at no
brilliant display, acts with order, conciseness, and a nicely balanced
energy? It is even so. One great attribute of genius is its power of
identifying itself with its hero, and never losing sight of all the
relations which it now holds to the world in its new character; and
this identity has been well kept up by Mr. Wilmer--so much so, that in
but few instances do we forget that the writer is other than the
heroine of the tale."