There is little need of widening the ditch of prejudice over which
American books must jump, to be read in England, but one of the most
original and readable books ever published in our country, (Mr. Poe’s
Tales,) “is fixed,” for the present, on the nether side of popularity,
by the use of a single Americanism. The word _bug_, which with us, may
mean an honorable insect, as well as an unclean one, is hardly nameable
in England, to ears polite. The first story opened to, in Mr. Poe’s
book, is “The Golden Bug,” and the publisher informs me that his English
brethren of the craft turn their backs upon it for this disqualification
only. The work is too full of genius to be kept, finally, from English
admiration, but a word on the first page which makes publishers shut the
book without looking farther, will retard its departure from the shelf.
And, _apropos_—I see that our brilliant contributor “Fanny Forrester,”
is about to collect her stories, letters, etc., into a volume. You will
remember the confidence with which I hailed the advent of genius in the
first letter we received from this now well-known pet of the
periodicals. I saw, even in that hasty production, the rare quality of
_playfulness ever constant to good sense_—a frolicsome gayety that was
rememberable for its wisdom when the laugh had died away. The
playfulness is common enough, and the good sense is common enough, but
they are not often found together; and, apart, they form the two large
classes of writers, the trivial and the heavy. With one quality to
relieve the other, however, as is seen in all the productions of
charming “Fanny Forrester,” a style is formed which is eminently
captivating to the casual reader, and therefore the very best for a
contributor to periodicals. But hers is a style, also, the charm of
which is lasting. For the thoughts it is freighted with, are from one of
the most gifted and most loveable of female natures—thoughts first
schooled by heavenly purity and tenderness, and then loosed to play with
the freedom of birds on the wing. I take no small pride in having been
the first to pronounce the “Eureka” at the discovery of this bright
star. And she has risen rapidly in the literary firmament, for it is but
a year since “Fanny Forrester” was first heard of, through our columns,
and there are few readers now in our wide country who do not know her
well.
I have been shivering about town to-day, as usual, in a
great-coat—scarce having seen a day this summer when I was comfortable
without it. What do you mean by keeping the upper end of the thermometer
all to yourselves? The English live in overcoats and under umbrellas,
while you are recording the dropping down of people in the street with
the heat of the weather! Among other pastimes I went over the river and
spent a chilly hour in that vast village of wild beasts and birds, the
Surrey Zoological Gardens. It is enough to give one the heart ache to
see the many shapes of the agony of imprisonment undergone within these
pretty shrubberies and hedges. The expression of distress by all manner
of creatures except monkeys, is so painful, that I wonder it should be
popular as a place of resort for ladies. But there they lounge out the
day in great numbers, feeding the elephants, tormenting the monkeys, and
gazing in upon the howling bears, tigers and lions, as if the poor
creatures were as happy as parlor poodles. I saw, by the way, that most
of the names upon the cages had the word _American_ before them, which
helps account for the common English wonder at seeing a white man from
New York! I was very glad to get out of the “Gardens!” It would be
better named a Hell of wild animals.
I see the dark complexions of the East Indies plentifully sprinkled
among the beggars and street sweepers in London. People in turbans and
Hindoo coats walk in the crowd unnoticed. The subjugated nations of this
modern Rome, are represented among the wretched, though half the globe
lies between their begging place and their home. These Asiatics are a
symmetrical little people by the way, and their graceful Oriental touch
to the turban, when they ask alms, looks strangely out of place amid a
populace of such angular rudeness.
London for once, really _looks_ deserted. It is often said to be, when
there is very little sign of it to a stranger’s eye. But the Queen’s
trip to Germany has taken off an unusual number to the land of beer, and
Bond-street is gloomy.