Chapter XXIX: Section XII (10)

Isabel was losing her temper, when fortunately her aunt—still Miss Vere—came to the rescue. The lovers of thirty years past, would have met any where else as strangers. The once rounded and queen-like form of the elder Isabel was shorn of its grace and beauty; of all her attributes, of all her attractions, dignity only remained; and it was that high-bred, innate dignity which can never be acquired, and is never forgotten. She had not lost the eighth of an inch of her height, and her gray hair was braided in full folds over her fair but wrinkled brow. Isabel Montford looked so exactly what Isabel Vere had been, that General Gordon was sorely perplexed; Isabel Vere, if truth must be told, had taken extra pains with her dress; her niece had met the General the night before, and her likeness to her aunt had so recalled the past, that his promised visit to his old sweetheart (as he still called her) had fluttered and agitated her more than she thought it possible an interview with _any man_ could do; she quarreled with her beautiful gray hair, she cast off her black velvet dress disdainfully, and put on a blue _Moire antique_. (She remembered how much the Captain—no, the General, once admired blue.) She was not a coquette; even gray hair at fifty-five does not cure coquetry where it has existed in all its strength; but, for the sake of her dear niece, she wished to look as well as possible. She wondered why she had so often refused “poor Gordon.” She had been all her life of too delicate a mind to be a husband-hunter, too well satisfied with her position to calculate how it could be improved, and yet, she did not hesitate to confess to herself that now, in the commencement of old age, however verdant it might be, she would have been happier, of more consequence, of more value, as a married woman. She had too much good sense, and good taste, to belong to the class of discontented females, consisting of husbandless and childless women, who seek to establish laws at war with the laws of the Almighty; so, if her heart did beat a little stiffly, and sundry passages passed through her brain in connection with her old adorer, and what the future might be—she may be forgiven, and will be, by those not strong-minded women who understand enough of the waywardness of human nature to know that, if _young_ heads and _old_ hearts are sometimes found together, so are young hearts and old heads. The young laugh to scorn the idea of Cupid and a crutch, but Cupid has strange vagaries, and at any moment can barb his crutch with the point of an arrow.

“The old people,” as Isabel Montford irreverently called them that evening, did not get on well together; they were in a great degree disappointed one with the other. They stood up to dance the _minuet de la cour_, and Isabel Vere languished and swam as she had never done before; but the General only wondered how stiff she had grown, and hoped that he was not as ill used by time as Mistress Isabel Vere had been. At first, Isabel Montford thought it “good fun” to see the antiquities bowing and curtseying, but she became interested in the lingering courtliness of the little scene, trembled lest her aunt should appear ridiculous, and then wondered how she could have refused such a man as General Gordon must have been.

Days and weeks flew fast; the General became a constant visitor in the square, and the heart of Isabel Vere had never beaten so loudly at twenty as it did at fifty-and-five; nothing, she thought, could be more natural than that the General should recall the days of his youth, and seek the friendship and companionship of her who had never married, while he—faithless man!—had been guilty of two wives during his “services in India.” It was impossible to tell which of the ladies he treated with the most attention. Isabel Montford took an especial delight in tormenting him, and he was cynical enough towards her at times. Although he frankly abused her piano-forte-playing, yet he evidently preferred it to the music Miss Vere practised so indefatigably to please him, or to the songs she sang, in a voice which from a high “soprano,” had been crushed by time into what might be considered a very singular “mezzo.” He somehow forgot how to find fault with Miss Montford’s dancing, and more than once became her partner in a quadrille. It was evident, that while the General was growing young, Miss Vere remained—“as she was!” Isabel Montford amused herself at his expense, but he did not—quick-sighted and man-of-the-world though he was—perceive it. At first he was remarkably fond of recalling and dating events, and dwelling upon the grace, and beauty, and interest, and advantage, of whatever was past and gone—much to the occasional pain of Isabel Vere, who, gentle-hearted as she was, would have consigned _dates_ to the bottomless pit; latterly, however, he talked a good deal more of the present than of the past, and, greatly to the annoyance of younger men, fell into the duties of escort to both ladies,—accompanying them to places of public promenade and amusement.

On such occasions, Miss Isabel Vere looked either earnest or bashful—yes, positively bashful; and Miss Isabel Montford, brimful of as much mischief as a lady could delight in. At times, the General laid aside his cynical observations, together with his cane, which was not even replaced by an umbrella; to confess the truth, he had experienced several symptoms of _heart disease_, which, though they made him restless and uncomfortable, brought hopes and aspirations of life, rather than fears of death.

One morning, Isabel Montford and the General were alone in the _salon_ where this little scene first opened:

“Our difference has never been settled yet,” she exclaimed, gaily; “you have never proved to me the superiority of the Old school over the New.”

“Simply because of your superiority to both,” he replied.

“I do not perceive the point of the answer,” said the young lady. “What has my superiority over _both_ to do with the question?”

The General arose and shut the door. “Do you think you could listen to me seriously for five minutes?” he said.

“Listening is always serious work,” she answered. He took her hand within his; she felt it was the hand of age; the bones and sinews pressed on her soft palm with an earnest pressure.

“Isabel Montford—could you love an old man?”

She raised her eyes to his, and wondered at the light which filled them:—

“Yes,” she answered, “I could love an old man dearly; I could confide to him the dearest secret of my heart.”

“And your heart, your heart itself? Such things have been, sweet Isabel.” His hand was _very_ hard, but she did not withdraw hers.

“No, not _that_, because—because I have not my heart to give.” She spoke rapidly, and with emotion. “I have it not to give, and I have so longed to tell you my secret! You have such influence with my aunt, you have been so affectionate, so like a father to me, that if you would only intercede with _her_, for HIM and me, I know she could not refuse. I have often——often thought of entreating this, and now it was so kind of you to ask, if I could love an old man, giving me the opportunity of showing that I do, by confiding in you, and asking your intercession.”

The room became misty to the General’s eyes, and the rattle of a battle-field sounded in his ears, and beat upon his heart.

“And pray, Miss Montford,” he said, after a pause, “who may _him_ be?”

“Ah, _you_ do not know him!—my aunt forbade the continuance of our acquaintance the day before I had the happiness to meet you. It was most fortunate I wooed you to call upon her, thinking—” (she looked up at his fine face, whose very wrinkles were aristocratic, and smiled her most bewitching smile) “thinking the presence of the only man she ever loved would soften her, and hoping that I should one day be privileged to address you as my friend, my uncle!” And she kissed his hand.—It really was hard to bear. “I have heard her say,” persisted the young lady, “that when prompted by evil counsel, she refused you, she loved you, and since your return she only lives in your presence.” The General wondered if this was true, and thought he would not give the young beauty a triumph. He was recovering his self-possession. “I remembered your admiration of _passing belles_, and felt how kindly you tolerated me, _for my aunt’s sake_; and surely you will aid me in a matter upon which my happiness, and the happiness of that poor dear fellow depends?” She bent her beautiful eyes on the ground.

“And who is the poor dear fellow?” inquired the General, in a singularly husky voice.

“Henry Mandeville,” half-whispered Isabel. “Oh, is it not a beautiful name? the initials on those lovely handkerchiefs you gave me will still do; I shall still be I. M.”

“A son of old Admiral Mandeville’s?”

“The _youngest_ son,” she sighed, “that is my aunt’s objection; were he the _eldest_, she would have been too happy. Oh, sir, he is such a fine fellow—such a hero!—lost a leg at Cabool, and received I don’t know how many stabs from those horrid Affgauns.”

“Lost a leg!” repeated the General, with an approving glance at his own; “why he can never dance with you.”

“No, but he can admire my dancing, and does not think my curtsey a dip, a shuffle, a bend, a bob, a slide, a canter! Ah! dear General, I was always perfection in his eyes.”

“By the immortal duke,” thought the General, “the young divinity is laughing at me.”

“My aunt only objects to his want of money; now I have abundance for both; and your recommendation, dear sir, at the Horse Guards, would at once place him in some position of honor and of profit; and even if it were abroad, I could leave my dear aunt with the consciousness that her happiness is secured by you, dear, guardian angel that you are. Ah! sir, at your time of life you can have no idea of our feelings.”

“Oh yes, I have!” sighed the General.

“Bless you!” she exclaimed enthusiastically; “I thought you would recall the days of your youth and feel for us; and when you see my dear Harry”—

“With a cork leg”—

“Ay, or with two cork legs—you will I know be convinced that my happiness is as secure as your own.”

“Women are riddles, one and all!” said the General, “and I should have known that before.”

“Oh! do not say such cruel things and disappoint me, depending as I have been on your kindness and affection. Hark!” she continued, “I hear my aunt’s footstep: now dear, _dear_ General, reason coolly with her—my very existence depends on it. If you only knew him! Promise, do promise, that you will use your influence, all-powerful as it is, to save my life.”

She raised her beautiful eyes, swimming in unshed tears, to his; she called him her uncle, her dear noble-hearted friend; she rested her snowy hand lovingly, imploringly on his shoulder, and even murmured a hope that, her aunt’s consent once gained, it might not be impossible to have the two weddings _on the same day_.

The General may have dreaded the banter of sundry members of the “Senior United Service Club,” who had already jested much at his devotion to the two Isabels; he _may_ have felt a generous desire to make two young people happy, and his good sense doubtless suggested that sixty-five and seventeen bear a strong affinity to January and May; he certainly did himself honor, by adopting the interests of a brave young officer as his own, and avoided the banter of “the club,” by pledging his thrice-told vows to his “old love,” the same bright morning that his “new love” gave her heart and hand to Henry Mandeville.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_The Works of Shakspeare: the Text Carefully Restored According
to the First Editions; With Introductions, Notes, Original and
Selected, and a Life of the Poet. By the Rev. H. N. Hudson, A.
M. In Eleven Volumes. Boston: James Monroe & Co. Vol. 3._

This beautiful edition of Shakspeare, a fac-simile of the celebrated Chiswick edition in type and paper, has now reached its third volume. It is edited by Mr. Hudson, well known all over the country as one of the most accomplished of Shakspeare’s critics and commentators, and who in his present labors has far surpassed the reputation he obtained by his lectures on the same subject. The present volume contains The Merchant of Venice, As You Like It, All’s Well that Ends Well, and The Taming of the Shrew. The text is very carefully revised, and the notes are clear, short, and full of matter, and flash the meaning of obscure phrases, remote allusions, and other difficulties of the text, at once upon the reader’s mind, without any parade of learning or paradox of interpretation. It is, however, in the introductory notices to the plays that the analytical and interpretative genius of the editor shines forth most resplendently. Every lover of Shakspeare should possess this edition, had it nothing to recommend it but these alone. They give the results of meditations, alike penetrating and profound, on the interior processes of Shakspeare’s mind in creating character and in forming plots; and the marvel of his genius, in its depth, delicacy, comprehension, fertility, and sweetness, is developed with the austerity of science and the geniality of a sympathizing spirit. These introductions are not only thus critical, but they include in a short space a large amount of antiquarian knowledge respecting the bibliography and sources of the plays; and the old tales which suggested or formed the basis of the plots, are re-told with much skill and simplicity of narration.

The masterpiece of the present volume is the introduction to The Merchant of Venice. It is exceedingly brilliant in style, but the brilliancy seems to come from an inward heat and fervor generated by an intense contemplation of the subject, so that the diction sparkles, as Ben Jonson would say, “like salt in fire.” The brilliancies are flashes, not of fancy, but of thought; and frequently are the result of vigorous condensation in statement, or of logic which gets on fire by the very rapidity of its movement. The finest elements of the style, however, are its subtleties of statement and representation, subtleties which follow the most intricate windings and enfoldings of complex thought, speeding on the fire track of an ideal allusion to the very limits of its course, and thoroughly mastering all the obstacles of expression in giving form to the most evanescent workings of the creative power.

Thus in speaking of the apparent heterogeneousness but real unity of the play, he remarks: “The persons naturally fall into three several groups, with each its several plot and action; yet the three are most skillfully complotted, each standing out clear and distinct in its place, yet concurring with the others in dramatic unity, so that every thing helps on every other thing, without either the slightest confusion or the slightest appearance of care to avoid it. Of these three groups it is hardly necessary to add that Antonio, Shylock and Portia are the respective centres; while the part of Lorenzo and Jessica, though strictly an episode, seems, nevertheless, to grow forth as an element of the original germ, _a sort of inherent superfluity_, and as such essential, not indeed to the being, but to the well-being of the work; in short, a fine romantic undertone accompaniment to the other parts, yet contemplated and provided for in the whole plan and structure of the piece; _itself_ in harmony with all the rest, and therefore perfecting their harmony with one another.” We will put it to the consciousness of every reader of Shakspeare if this does not chime with his feeling of the matter; but to show the grounds of this instinctive taste, and exhibit it in its intellectual form, and justify it by the austerest principles of philosophical criticism, requires Mr. Hudson’s sharpness of eye and ready refinements of expression. The specimen we have given, as it is not the best which might be selected, so is it a very common and unobtrusive characteristic of his criticism.

In commenting on the characters of the play, Mr. Hudson displays more than ordinary keenness and discrimination. We are acquainted with no student of Shakspeare who could read the analysis of Shylock, Antonio, Portia and Jessica, without receiving an addition to his knowledge. Even Launcelot Gobbo has his share of the critic’s acumen; his necessity, in the organism of the piece, is demonstrated; and the exquisite _non-sequiturism_ of his whole personality is finely described. “A mixture, indeed, of conceit and drollery, and hugely wrapped up in self, yet he is by no means a commonplace buffoon, but stands firm and secure in the sufficiency of his original stock. His elaborate nonsense, his grasping at a pun without catching it, yet feeling just as grand as if he did, is both ludicrous and natural; his jokes, to be sure, are mostly failures; nevertheless they are laughable, because he dreams not but that they succeed.”

It is needless to say that the prominent feature in Mr. Hudson’s criticism is Shylock. The combination in him of the individual and the national, Shylock the Jew and the Jew Shylock, is indicated with a bold, firm hand. One paragraph is especially powerful. “Shylock,” he says, “is a true representative of his nation; wherein we have a pride which for ages never ceased to provoke hostility, but which no hostility could ever subdue; a thrift which still invited rapacity, but which no rapacity could ever exhaust; and a weakness, which, while it exposed the subjects to wrong, only deepened their hate, because it left them without the means or the hope of redress. Thus Shylock is a type of national sufferings, sympathies, and antipathies. Himself an object of bitter insult and scorn to those about him; surrounded by enemies whom he is too proud to conciliate and too weak to oppose; he can have no life among them but money; no hold upon them but interest; no indemnity out of them but revenge. Such being the case, what wonder that the elements of national greatness became congealed or petrified into malignity? As avarice was the passion in which he mainly lived, of course, the Christian virtues which thwarted this were the greatest wrong that could be done him. With these strong national traits are interwoven personal traits equally strong. Thoroughly and intensely Jewish, he is not more a Jew than he is Shylock. In his hard, icy intellectuality, and his ‘dry, mummy-like tenacity’ of purpose, with a dash now and then of biting sarcastic humor, we see the remains of a great and noble nature, out of which all the genial sap of humanity has been pressed by accumulated injuries. With as much elasticity of mind as stiffness of neck, every step he takes but the last is as firm as the earth he treads upon. Nothing can daunt, nothing disconcert him; remonstrance cannot move, ridicule cannot touch, obloquy cannot exasperate him; when he has not provoked, he has been forced to bear them; and now that he does provoke them, he is proof against them. In a word, he may be broken; he cannot be bent.”

We cannot refrain from picking out a sentence, here and there, in the critic’s admirable delineation of Portia. “Eminently practical in her tastes and turn of mind, full of native, home-bred sense and virtue, she unites therewith something of the ripeness and dignity of a sage, a rich, mellow eloquence, and a large, noble discourse, the whole being tempered with the best grace and sensibility of womanhood. . . Nothing can be more fitting and well-placed than her demeanor, now bracing her speech with grave maxims of moral and practical wisdom, now unbending her mind in playful sallies of wit, or innocent, roguish banter. . . . It is no drawback upon Portia’s strength and substantial dignity of character, that her nature is all overflowing with romance; rather, this it is that glorifies her and breathes enchantment about her; it adds that precious seeing to the eye which conducts her to such winning beauty and sweetness of deportment, and makes her the ‘rich-souled’ creature that Schlegel describes her to be.”

The introductions to All’s Well that Ends Well, and The Taming of the Shrew, are replete with shrewd remark and acute analysis, but both are inferior to the criticism of As You Like It. The woodland sweetness of this play tasks all the subtlety and all the enthusiasm of Mr. Hudson to do it justice. An exquisite ideal beauty casts its sweet and satisfying charm over the whole of this matchless comedy, and we envy Shakspeare’s delight in its composition more than Campbell envied his happiness in bodying forth A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Even Le Beau, the courtier of Frederic, is an ideal courtier; on inborn gentlemanliness, of the finest kind, stealing out from him in performing his most ungracious duties. This character is commonly performed on the stage by the worst actor the manager has in his company, but we have always noticed that the feeblest performer became lifted into dignity by simply pronouncing one golden sentence in the first act. It is where Le Beau expresses at once his loyal duty to Frederic and his admiration for Orlando’s brave and gentle qualities. As his master has chosen to be Orlando’s enemy, he cannot obey his impulse to be Orlando’s friend, and his parting words to the latter are touchingly noble:

“Sir, fare you well:
Hereafter in a better world than this,
I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.”

Mr. Hudson says very acutely of the characters of As You Like It, that, “diverted by fortune from all their cherished plans and purposes, they pass before us in just that _moral and intellectual dishabille_, which best reveals their indwelling graces of heart and mind.” This, it seems to us, touches the inmost secret of the delight all mankind have in this play. There is a complete absence of restraint upon expression, and the tongues of all run of their own sweet will, in a region of perfect freedom. It is whim exalted into poetry. Of Touchstone, our critic remarks, that though he never touches so deep a chord as the poor fool in Lear, that “he is the most entertaining of Shakspeare’s privileged characters. . . . It is curious to observe how the poet takes care to let us know from the first, that beneath the affectations of his calling some precious sentiments have been kept alive; that far within the fool _there is a secret reserve of the man_, ready to leap forth and combine with better influences as soon as the incrustations of art are thawed and broken up.” Passing over some keen observations on Jaques and the class of character to which he belongs, we come to Mr. Hudson’s exquisite description of Rosalind, the style of which would alone tempt one to extract it. The ideal merriment of Rosalind—and after listening to her for an hour, it seems a misuse of the word merriment to apply it to glee less graceful, light and lark-like than her own—has rarely been touched with so delicate an analysis. “For wit,” he says, “this strange, queer, lovely being is fully equal, perhaps superior to Beatrice, yet nowise resembling her. A soft, subtle, nimble essence, consisting in one knows not what, ‘and springing up one can hardly tell how,’ her wit neither stings nor burns, but plays briskly and airily over all things within its reach, enriching and adorning them, insomuch that one could ask no greater pleasure than to be the continual theme of it. In its irrepressible vivacity it waits not for occasion, but runs on forever, and we wish it to run on forever: we have a sort of faith that her dreams are made of cunning, quirkish, graceful fancies. And her heart seems a perennial fountain of affectionate cheerfulness; no trial can break, no sorrow chill her flow of spirits; even her deepest sighs are breathed forth in a wrappage of innocent mirth; an arch, roguish smile irradiates her saddest tears. Yet beneath all her playfulness we feel that there is a firm basis of thought and womanly dignity, so that she never laughs away our respect.”

An edition of Shakspeare, edited so admirably as this—so convenient in its form, so elegant in its execution, and so cheap in its price—will, we hope, have a circulation over the country corresponding to its great merits.

* * * * *

_Utterance; or, Private Voices to the Public Heart. A Collection
of Home Poems. By Caroline A. Briggs. Boston: Phillips, Sampson
& Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

Our first impression of this volume we received from its title, and that impression was, of course, unfavorable, as the title certainly smacks of affectation. But it requires but a slight examination of the book to dissipate such a prejudice. It is a thoroughly genuine expression of a sensitive, thoughtful, artless, affectionate, and fanciful nature, and readily wins its way into the reader’s esteem. Even those passages which evince a sort of innocent ignorance of the conventions of society and letters, have a _naïveté_ which charms while it amuses. The volume is a collection of short poems, ranged under the general titles of Voices of Affection, Voices of Grief, Voices of Cheer, Sacred Voices, and Voices of the Way, and one powerful Voice for the Poor, written in a measure whose movement has something of the fitful swiftness of the cold, wild wind, whose cruelty it deprecates. The following lines convey a vivid picture of desolation; the verse itself seeming to shudder in sympathy with the objects it holds up to pity:

Oh, the Poor!
The poor and old,
On the moor
And on the wold—
How desolate they are to-night and cold!
—I peeped into the broken panes,
Where the snow, and sleet, and rains
Of many a weary year have stolen,
Till the sashes are smeared, and soaked and swollen.
Little children with tangled hair,
And lips awry and feet half bare,
Huddled around the smouldering fire,
Like beasts half crouching in their lair;
While each, the while, by stealth drew nigher,
_Covetous of the other’s share._
Oh! ’twas a pitiful sight to see!
And mothers too were there,
With infants shivering on their knee,
Or closer held with a mother’s care,
Or laid to rest with a hurried prayer,
A moan, half hope and half despair,
A muttered, “Pitiless Storm, forbear!”

When we say that there is in this volume some poems that an austere taste would have omitted, we merely say what we suspect is the truth, that the poetess is young, and that this is her first introduction to the public. We might object to a piece, here and there, that the feeling outruns the thought and fancy, and that commonplace lines occasionally glide stealthily in to meet the demands of the rhyme; but the faults which criticism might exhibit are few in comparison with the merits which shine forth of their own light on almost every page. The general impression which the whole book leaves on the memory is very pleasing. The defect of all young poets, that of expansiveness, is continually apparent; but it is a natural result of the movement of a nature so full of sensibility that it refuses to submit to the restraints of condensation, but pours itself out of its own sweet will. As a natural result of this extreme sensitiveness, the volume is comparatively destitute of those electric flashes of impassioned imagination, which come, swift, sure, and smiling from moods of the mind in which thought is condensed as well as animated by passion; but it still exhibits so genial a love of nature, a flow of feeling so kindly and sympathetic, so much beauty, and purity and sweetness of fancy, and withal so much richness of promise, and such a ready yielding of the mind to the poetical aspects of things, that we trust it will meet with the success due to its native excellencies of heart and brain.

* * * * *

_The Snow-Image, and other Twice-Told Tales. By Nathaniel
Hawthorne. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._

This is a collection of Mr. Hawthorne’s Sketches and Stories which have not been included in any previous collection, and comprise his earliest and latest contributions to periodical literature. It can hardly add to his great reputation, though it fully sustains it. “The Snow-Image,” with which the volume commences, is one of those delicate creations which no imagination less etherial and less shaping than Hawthorne’s could body forth. “Main Street,” a sketch but little known, is an exquisite series of historical pictures, which bring the persons and events in the history of Salem, vividly home to the eye and the fancy. “Ethan Brand,” one of the most powerful of Hawthorne’s works, is a representation of a man, tormented with a desire to discover the unpardonable sin, and ending with finding it in his own breast. “The Great Stone Face,” a system of philosophy given in a series of characterizations, contains, among other forcible delineations, a full length of Daniel Webster. The volume contains a dozen other tales, some of them sunny in sentiment and subtle in humor, with touches as fine and keen as Addison’s or Steele’s: and others dark and fearful, as though the shadow of a thunder-cloud fell on the author’s page as he wrote. All are enveloped in the atmosphere, cheerful or sombre, of the mood of mind whence they proceeded, and all convey that unity of impression which indicates a firm hold on one strong conception. As stories, they arrest, fasten, fascinate attention; but, to the thoughtful reader they are not merely tales, but contributions to the philosophy of the human mind.

* * * * *

_Memories of the Great Metropolis: or London from the Tower to
the Crystal Palace. By F. Sanders. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1
vol. 12mo._

This elegant volume, sumptuous in its binding and finely printed and illustrated, meets a want both in the traveled and the untraveled public. The work of a gentleman who knows every nook and corner of the empire city by personal observation, and who, by his large acquaintance with English authors and English literary history, is enabled to point out all the localities consecrated by genius and heroism; it is full of interesting and attractive matter to all readers. As a guide to London, it will be found a genial as well as a knowing companion to the tourist. We have been especially pleased with those portions which describe the shops of the booksellers and the residences of the authors. The volume is exceedingly well written, and though crammed with facts, betrays neither the dryness nor confusion too often characteristic of similar books. The author’s “memories” are never dull, but sparkle with animation and point.

* * * * *

_Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli. Boston: Phillips, Sampson &
Co. 2 vols. 12mo._

This biography is the work of three “eminent hands”—William H. Channing, James Freeman Clarke, and Ralph Waldo Emerson, each writing that portion of Margaret’s life most familiar to himself. The result is one of the most curious, attractive and stimulating books of the season. The impression it conveys of the subject of the memoirs, is of a woman “large in heart and brain,” of great vigor and depth of nature, accomplished in many literatures, with an understanding capacious and masculine, and with a sensibility somewhat irregular and chaotic, in which powerful passions, delicate emotions and vague aspirations, seem never to have been harmonized into unity. The character, however, in spite of many limitations and some petty traits, was generally large and noble, and its essential excellence is not only demonstrated by the private journals and correspondence contained in these volumes, but by the fact that she merited the esteem and admiration of three such men as her biographers. Her defects are promptly admitted by all three, but in the opinion of all three they were superficial in comparison with the real graces and powers of her mind. In all those letters and journals in which her soul finds adequate expression, in which her most secret thoughts and most genuine aspirations are revealed, she is invariably true and noble; egotism, satire and pique have in them no place.

Mr. Emerson’s portion of these memoirs is done with his usual felicity of phrase and sharpness of statement, and is as attractive as any of his essays. He writes in a kindly spirit, and is evidently a genuine admirer of his subject, but his friendship is unaccompanied with exaggeration, and is combined with his usual austere but graceful honesty in stating his whole opinion. Thus, he gives the first impression which Miss Fuller made on him in these unflattering words: “Her extreme plainness—a trick of incessantly opening and shutting her eyelids—the nasal tone of her voice—all repelled; and I said to myself we shall never get far. It is to be said that Margaret made a disagreeable first impression on most persons, including those who became afterward her best friends, to such an extreme that they did not wish to be in the same room with her. This was partly the effect of her manners, which expressed an overweening sense of power and slight esteem of others, and partly the prejudice of her fame. She had a dangerous reputation for satire, in addition to her great scholarship. The men thought she carried too many guns, and the women did not like one who despised them.” He also gives some amusing instances of her self-esteem. “Margaret at first astonished and repelled us by a complacency that seemed the most assured since the days of Scaliger. . . . She occasionally let slip, with all the innocence imaginable, some phrase betraying the presence of a rather mountainous ME, in a way to surprise those who knew her good sense. She could say, as if she were stating a scientific fact, in enumerating the merits of somebody, ‘He appreciates ME.’”

Mr. Emerson accounts for this egotism partly on the ground of hereditary organization, and partly on “an ebullient sense of power, which she felt to be in her, and which as yet had found no channels.” In further illustration of this he adds, that in conversation she seldom, “except as a special grace, admitted others upon an equal ground with herself.” She was exceedingly tender, when she pleased to be, and most cherishing in her influence; but to elicit this tenderness, it was necessary to submit first to her personally. When a person was overwhelmed by her and answered not a word, except ‘Margaret, be merciful to me a sinner,’ then her love and tenderness would come like a seraph’s, and often an acknowledgment that she had been too harsh, and even a craving for pardon, with a humility—which, perhaps, she had caught from the other. But her instinct was not humility—that was an after thought.

This peculiarity, so honestly stated by Mr. Emerson, probably made Margaret Fuller all her enemies; and it is a fault which every person is bound to resent, though it appeared in an angel or archangel. It cannot be justified though it may be accounted for; and by those who knew her best, it was explained on principle! which relieved it of positive offensiveness. Some of her intellectual dependents, persons who gloried in wearing her mental livery, and were delighted with the servitude she enforced, might say very naively, in explanation, that Margaret was the greatest woman that ever was, and that Margaret was very sincere, and that being sincere it was very proper that she should not conceal her knowledge even of her own greatness.

In our opinion this egotism was the result of the vigor of her nature, which, in conversation, broke all conventional bounds, and came out in its whole wealth of thought and acquisition, eager for controversy or ravenous for sympathy, and communicating to her mind a bright and strong sense of individual power which at the time almost palliated its excesses. The excitement of her mind produced that effect which we often see in persons who are enraged—a condition in which expressions, regretted afterward for their extravagance, seem at the time too weak to convey the hot feeling of wrong which burns beneath them. In her journals, where she sharply scrutinises what she is and what she has produced, and where there is no excitement to stimulate her powers, she is sufficiently humble, acutely feels her imperfections, and the “mountainous me” dwindles into a mole-hill. She seems to have had the aspirations and the ambitions of great genius, had sufficient breadth of mind to take in the wide varieties of human power in history and literature, and had a corresponding scorn for the little and the common in mental effort; but she lacked a creative imagination, and was incapable of producing anything which at all realized the intimations of her nature. In conversation she rose instantly into sympathetic companionship with creative minds, and in the heat of the moment mistook it for a companionship and community in power. In this mood she might despise many who were her superiors in the shaping power of genius, though her inferiors in its loftiest aspirations.

These volumes are full of instances of her sincerity, her geniality, her love of the beautiful in nature and art, her fine critical powers, her enthusiasm for great measures of reform in America and Europe, and the noble scale on which she conducted her mental and moral culture. Though many may take exception to the generosity of the praise which her biographers lavish on her various graces and gifts of mind, every one must acknowledge the extreme richness of the materials which are frankly exhibited, to enable the reader to judge for himself. We doubt if there is any other American biography in which the whole interior truth relating to the character of the subject is so completely set forth, or which presents to the curious in mental organization so interesting a study in psychology.

* * * * *

_Ravenscliffe. By the author of “The Old Men’s Tales,” etc. etc.
New York: Harper & Brother._

In this novel the authoress puts forth her whole resources of passion and power in delineating hatred and revenge. The story sweeps on like a deep stream harrying to the sea, and the firm grasp of the writer on the reader’s arrested attention is not loosed for a moment. The influence of the same passion on the two characters of Randal Langford and Marcus Fitzroy, is exhibited with masterly skill. The motto of the book should have been taken from Shelley’s tremendous quatrain:

“Revenge and wrong bring forth their kind;
The foul cubs like their parents are;
Their den is in the human mind,
And conscience feeds them with despair.”

The vice of the novel is its continuous intensity, a peculiarity which characterizes all of Mrs. Marsh’s novels. The characters are only seen in their passionate moods, and the leading quality of their natures is developed with the consistency of a logical deduction. Though this gives emphasis to the ethical intent of the authoress, she sacrifices to it some of the most important principles of the true method of characterization. Her persons are apt to slide into personified passions.

* * * * *

_A Popular Account of Discoveries at Nineveh. By Austin Henry
Layard, D. C. L. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is an abridgment, by the author himself, of his larger work on Nineveh, which has obtained such extraordinary success. It is illustrated by a number of well executed wood-cuts, and is beautifully printed. The matter, it is needless to say, is full of interest and attractiveness, and will well repay all readers who may be repelled by the size of the original work.

* * * * *

_Women of Christianity, Exemplary for Acts of Piety and Charity.
By Julia Kavanagh, author of “Nathalie,” etc. New York: D.
Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

Christian women of this and all past ages would seem to be under especial obligations to the Messrs. Appletons for bringing their virtues and heroism before the public. The Women of the Old and New Testament, the Women of Early Christianity, and now the Christian Women of all Ages, witness their chivalrous devotion to the very best examples of the sex. Miss Kavanagh’s book gives short but admirable sketches of a great number of eminent devotees, from the virgins of the primitive church to Hannah More and Elizabeth Fry. Though her space hardly allows her to do full justice to the subject, she uses her materials so skillfully, and writes her condensed biographies with such fervor and power, that she escapes the imputation of meagreness.

* * * * *

_The Broken Bud; or, Reminiscences of a Bereaved Mother. New
York: Robert Carter & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._

_Blossoms of Childhood. Edited by the author of “The Broken
Bud”. New York: Robert Carter & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._

The first of these little volumes is the record of a child, who died just as her mind was expanding into affection and intelligence; and it is the most notable book of the kind we have ever seen. As giving the psychology of a mother’s feelings, it is well worthy of attention. It is written close to the heart of the matter, and is full of examples of that searching pathos which calls up instinctive tears. Rarely have we read a work of more affectionate intensity, or one in which a mournful experience, tempered by religious faith, is expressed with such genuine simplicity and truth to inward emotion. There are passages whose eloquence is so identical with the things it celebrates, that the reader sees and feels with hardly the consciousness of the agency of words. The other volume is a collection of poetry relating to children, in which the mother’s heart, so constantly present in the previous volume, ranges over the whole field of poetry, hoarding the precious lyrics which bring consolation by inspiring religious trust. Both works are of a peculiar character, indicating the presiding influence of one overmastering feeling, and striking at the very sources of emotion.

* * * * *

_The Standard Speaker; containing exercises in Prose and Poetry
for Declamation in Schools, Academies, Lyceums, Colleges. Newly
Translated or Compiled from Celebrated Orators, Authors, and
Popular Debaters, Ancient and Modern. A Treatise on Oratory and
Elocution. Notes Explanatory and Biographical. By Epes Sargent.
1 vol., large 12mo. 558 pages. Philadelphia: Thomas,
Cowperthwait & Co._

Mr. Sargent has here given us a “Speaker” far more comprehensive in design and elaborate in execution than any that has yet appeared. The great feature of the work is the completeness of the Senatorial Department, in which he has introduced not only passages of rare beauty and effect from Chatham, Burke, Grattan, Shell, Macaulay, and many others—all the passages of the right length for speaking—but has given some translations from Mirabeau, Victor Hugo, and other great speakers of France, which will become great favorites in Schools and Elocutionary Classes. The dramatic and poetical departments are also well filled, many new and striking pieces for Declamation and Recitation being introduced. No sectional favoritism seems to have been exercised in the compilation. All parts of the country, and indeed all countries are fairly represented in their contributions to all the forms of eloquence suitable for the purpose of the book. A great amount of original research and labor seems to have been expended on this volume, which—

“Is not the hasty product of a day,
But the well-ripened fruit of sage delay.”

In his position as Editor of a daily journal, the editor has had a more favorable opportunity than many enjoy to make collections for a work of this kind, and with what success he has availed himself of it, a cursory glance will show. While he has preserved all the old, indispensable masterpieces, he has placed side by side with them a majority of new ones, that promise to become equally celebrated. The work cannot fail to claim the prompt and favorable attention of Students and Teachers. It is issued in excellent style, by Messrs. Thomas, Cowperthwait & Co.

* * * * *

Bangs, Brother & Co., New York, have sent us fine editions of “Gibbon’s Greece,” “Ancient History of Herodotus,” Randall’s “Sheep Husbandry,” and an excellent edition of the “Tatler and Guardian,” with biographical memoranda by Thomas Babington Macaulay, all of which we will notice in future numbers.

* * * * *

Pretty Strong.—We do not charge Peterson any thing for the following as an advertisement. It is a better joke than has appeared in the Small-Talk:

It has been for years the cherished wish of the writer of this work, to make “THE TOWER OF LONDON,” the proudest monument of antiquity, (considered with reference to its historical associations,) _in the known world_—the groundwork of a Romance; and it is no slight satisfaction to him, that circumstances at length have enabled him to carry into effect his favorite project, in conjunction with the inimitable artist, whose _Ninety-eight Original Designs and Engravings of all the Principal Objects of Attraction and Interest_ to the reader, accompany the work.

The author has exhibited in this work, the “Tower of London” in the light of a Palace, a Prison, and a Fortress, and he has also contrived such a series of incidents as to introduce every relic of the old pile—its Towers, Chapels, Halls, Chambers, Gateways, Arches and Drawbridges—so that no part of this, the most venerable and interesting building _in the known world_, should remain unillustrated to the reader.

It is beyond all doubt one of the most interesting works ever published _in the known world_, and can be read and re-read with pleasure and satisfaction by every body. We advise all persons to get it and read it, for there is much to learn and valuable information to be gained from its pages, which cannot be obtained in any other work published _in the known world_. Published and for sale by

T. B. PETERSON.

We shall look with great interest for Top’s first book from the _unknown_ world, and have a right to expect something good. We only hope that the author will not “_contrive_ such a series of incidents about Drawbridges,” as to let us down without fair warning.

* * * * *

Fitzgerald’s City Item.—This is the name of a weekly paper, now in its fifth year, published in this city by Fitzgerald & Co., at Two Dollars per annum. This journal enjoys the reputation of being undoubted authority upon all Literary, Musical, Fine Art, and Dramatic Matters. It has been conducted from the beginning by Mr. Fitzgerald, and we have often admired his good-nature, his frankness, and his ability. Untiring industry has established The City Item upon a firm basis. Fitzgerald & Co. offer as a premium to new subscribers, an admirable life-size portrait of the Hungarian patriot, Kossuth. Graham’s Magazine and The City Item may be secured for Four Dollars.

* * * * *

GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK.

Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges.

Our Small-Talk has afforded food for infinite jest to a few unfledged wits and cubs of critics, clever word-snappers, who keep reiterating the joke that the Small-Talk _is_ small—_very_. Of course it is, goslings! it was so called and set down originally in the bills. So do not imagine that you are discoverers, and set yourselves off to the Polar regions in search of Sir John Franklin. The Small-Talk is more than _small_—it is pert, impudent, audacious, outrageous, insolent, and, cool. More than that, it is—“to be continued.”

* * * * *

Ah! now, isn’t this delightful? We were wondering whether we should _ever_ get another love-letter, when lo! in comes the mail, from which we extract the following delicious epistle from a young lady, who, we know, would love us, if we _were_ only a bachelor:

“To Graham.

“A ‘bachelor,’ thou sayest?—ha-ha—have a care—
A target too tempting—I bid thee beware!
Now stand and deliver, thou ‘knave of the heart!’
Thy ‘clubs’ shall not parry the aim of my dart.

“Thy armor—thy pleading, and dodging is vain,
Wry faces uncalled for! ’tis hymenial chain
We wish to throw round thee—surrender! I bid—
All woven of roses, the thorns are quite hid.

“A net-work of love shall enshroud thee forever—
(‘Enshroud’ is too icy, it makes Cupid shiver—
_Imprison_ is better—I like the word best—)
When the heart’s taken captive the spirit’s at rest.

“Two short little weeks, out of fifty or more,
Is all we can claim—and one year out of four—
We must make up in speed, what we lack for in time,
And make a bold push or have no Valentine.

“An abrupt, ringing laugh, from a friend standing near,
And—‘I read you it wrong!’ he says, ‘_Benedict_!’ do ye hear?
How _horrid provoking_ to play me this game!
I don’t care, I will send it subscribed with my name.”

H. H.

We wont give the name in full, or we should never receive another love token. But—what have we here? as we live—another Valentine! and with a sprig of geranium, too, pressed loving between the paper—and love verses! No—we will not print these, they are too confidingly tender and hardly “allowable” rhyme.

But here comes one, with a full, round superscription, for all the world like the hand of a lady we used to love when we were a boy—adoringly, wildly, _most_ insanely. She was _older_ than we were, and didn’t take the matter so much to heart. Some other fellow took her off—a cadet, or something of that sort from West Point—and she never returned our love letter. But what _is_ this? Ha! $3— there is something in this, that is a cure for the twinges of an old love wound:

“_Fort Meade, Florida, Feb. 10th, 1852._

“Dear Graham—The February number of your Magazine has this day
come to hand, and acting on the hint you give in your
Small-Talk, _i. e._ ‘Money is worth 2 per cent. a month,’ I
herewith inclose the $3 for this year’s subscription to your
book. I showed that portion of your Small-Talk(?) headed ‘That
bill again,’ to my wife; and what do you think? Why, instead of
calling you a good-for-nothing-impertinent man, she said, ‘Why
_don’t_ you give the man his money? Graham is a dear, good
fellow and he deserves it,’ etc. Of course, I had to back down,
and here is the tin.

“Truly yours,
G. D.”

Now we like that woman, and will bet she was just the girl that _would_ go off with a soldier—full of all brave and good thoughts, and loving as a southern wind in an orange grove. If we ever do go to Florida, we shall stop at the Fort and see this lady, and shake hands all round with the G. D.’s.

* * * * *

Thanks.—Our space is limited, in this number, although we have much to say to our friends and readers; but we shall take room enough to thank most sincerely and heartily, the many editors who have sent us clubs and single subscribers for the year 1852. We had intended to notice, by letter, the many kind expressions of regard for our business welfare, but so many and rapidly sent were these missives of good-will, that we abandoned the undertaking, and must here content ourself with saying—_to one and all_—_Thanks_!

We can get up no theatrical speech for the occasion, and can only promise to devote such abilities as we have been blessed with, be they poor or rich, to making “Graham”—what we hope it can be made, under our administration—“_the best Magazine in the country_.” We can only say, that our whole time and thought are freely bestowed upon the work—that we have no other avocation, similar, or adverse, to distract our attention, and if we fail to realize our aim, in the opinion of our readers and friends, that our ability comes short of our ambition. So said—_so done_. This number is a fair sample of what we can do; and we think we can do better, and shall _try_.

* * * * *

The Saturday Gazette.—This well-known Family Paper is now under the charge of Alexander Cummings and Mrs. Joseph C. Neal, and has been, both in typographical execution and in literary excellence, much improved. Mrs. Neal’s delightful Letters from the South, are a very decided addition to the intellectual attractions of the Gazette—the Foreign Correspondence is more complete than ever, and the Stories and Essays to be found in its ample pages are of the very highest order.