Chapter VIII (5)

His industry and powers of labor, when contemplated in connection with his social temper, show a facility that does not generally belong to parts of such strength. There remain behind him nearly thirty volumes of copiously reasoned decisions, greater in difficulty and labor, than probably have been made in any other court during the life of a single judge! yet he participated in them all; and in those of greatest difficulty, his pen has most frequently drawn up the judgment; and in the midst of his judicial duties, he composed and published in the year 1804, a copious biography of Washington, surpassing in authenticity and minute accuracy, any public history with which we are acquainted. He found time also to revise it, and to publish a second edition, separating the History of the American Colonies from the Biography, and to prepare with his own pen an edition of the latter for the use of schools. Every part of it is marked with the scrupulous veracity of a judicial exposition; and it shows moreover, how deeply the writer was imbued with that spirit which will live after all the compositions of men shall be forgotten,--the spirit of charity, which could indite a history of the Revolution and of parties, in which he was a conspicuous actor, without discoloring his pages with the slightest infusion of gall. It could not be written with more candor an hundred years hence. It has not been challenged for the want of it, but in a single instance, and that has been refuted by himself with irresistible force of argument, as well as with unexhausted benignity of temper.

To qualities such as these, he joined an immoveable firmness befitting the office of presiding judge, in the highest tribunal of the country. It was not the result of excited feeling, and consequently never rose or fell with the emotions of the day. It was the constitution of his nature, and sprung from the composure of a mind undisturbed by doubt, and of a heart unsusceptible of fear. He thought not of the fleeting judgments and commentaries of men; and although he was not indifferent to their approbation, it was not the compass by which he was directed, nor the haven in which he looked for safety.

His learning was great, and his faculty of applying it of the very first order.

But it is not by these qualities that he is so much distinguished from the judges of his time. In learning and industry, in patience, firmness, and fidelity, he has had his equals. But there is no judge, living or dead, whose claims are disparaged by assigning the first place in the department of constitutional law to Chief Justice Marshall.

For several years past, Judge Marshall had suffered under a most excruciating malady. A surgical operation by Dr. Physick of Philadelphia, at length procured him relief; but a hurt received in travelling, last spring, seems to have caused a return of the former complaint, with circumstances of aggravated pain and danger. Having revisited Philadelphia, in the hope of again finding a cure, his disease there overpowered him; and he died, on the 6th of July, 1835, in the 80th year of his age, surrounded by three of his children. His eldest son, Thomas, journeying to attend his death bed, had been killed by the fall of a chimney in Baltimore, but eight days before.

The love of simplicity and the dislike of ostentation, which had marked Chief Justice Marshall's life, displayed itself also in his last days. Apprehensive that his remains might be encumbered with the vain pomp of a costly monument and a laudatory epitaph, he, only two days before his death, directed the common grave of himself and his consort, to be indicated by a plain stone, with this simple and modest inscription:

"John Marshall, son of Thomas and Mary Marshall, was born on the 24th of September, 1755, intermarried with Mary Willis Ambler the 3d of January, 1783, departed this life the ---- day of ---- 18--."

All the just renown with which his great name might have been emblazoned, simplified into the three circumstances, of _birth_, _marriage_, and _death_, which would equally suit the grave-stone of the humblest villager!

We cannot better conclude this article than by copying two delineations of its subject, sketched by hands which, years before him, were mouldering in the grave: sketched, it seems to us, with so much elegance and truth, that any extended account of Judge Marshall could hardly be deemed complete without them. The first was drawn thirty years ago: the other, less than twenty.

"The ..... ....... of the United States," says Mr. Wirt, in _The British Spy_, "is, in his person, tall, meager, emaciated: his muscles relaxed, and his joints so loosely connected, as not only to disqualify him, apparently, for any vigorous exertion of body, but to destroy every thing like harmony in his air and movements. Indeed, in his whole appearance, and demeanor; dress, attitudes, gesture; sitting, standing, or walking; he is as far removed from the idolized graces of Lord Chesterfield, as any other gentleman on earth. His head and face are small in proportion to his height: his complexion swarthy; the muscles of his face, being relaxed, make him appear to be fifty years of age, nor can he be much younger: his countenance has a faithful expression of great good humor and hilarity; while his black eyes--that unerring index--possess an irradiating spirit, which proclaims the imperial powers of the mind that sits enthroned within.

"This extraordinary man, without the aid of fancy, without the advantages of person, voice, attitude, gesture, or any of the ornaments of an orator, deserves to be considered as one of the most eloquent men in the world; if eloquence may be said to consist in the power of seizing the attention with irresistible force, and never permitting it to elude the grasp, until the hearer has received the conviction which the speaker intends.

"His voice is dry and hard; his attitude, in his most effective orations, was often extremely awkward; while all his gesture proceeded from his right arm, and consisted merely in a perpendicular swing of it, from about {191} the elevation of his head, to the bar, behind which he was accustomed to stand.

"As to fancy, if she hold a seat in his mind at all, his gigantic genius tramples with disdain, on all her flower-decked plats and blooming parterres. How then, you will ask, how is it possible, that such a man can hold the attention of an audience enchained, through a speech of even ordinary length? I will tell you.

"He possesses one original, and almost supernatural faculty: the faculty of developing a subject by a single glance of his mind, and detecting at once, the very point on which every controversy depends. No matter, what the question: though ten times more knotty than 'the gnarled oak,' the lightning of heaven is not more rapid or more resistless, than his astonishing penetration. Nor does the exercise of it seem to cost him an effort. On the contrary, it is as easy as vision. I am persuaded, that his eyes do not fly over a landscape and take in its various objects with more promptitude and facility, than his mind embraces and analyzes the most complex subject.

"Possessing while at the bar, this intellectual elevation, which enabled him to look down and comprehend the whole ground at once, he determined immediately and without difficulty, on which side the question might be most advantageously approached and assailed. In a bad cause, his art consisted in laying his premises so remotely from the point directly in debate, or else in terms so general and so specious, that the hearer, seeing no consequence which could be drawn from them, was just as willing to admit them as not; but, his premises once admitted, the demonstration, however distant, followed as certainly, as cogently, as inevitably, as any demonstration in Euclid.

"All his eloquence consists in the apparently deep self-conviction, and emphatic earnestness of his manner; the correspondent simplicity and energy of his style; the close and logical connexion of his thoughts; and the easy gradations by which he opens his lights on the attentive minds of his hearers. The audience are never permitted to pause for a moment. There is no stopping to weave garlands of flowers, to hang in festoons, around a favorite argument. On the contrary, every sentence is progressive; every idea sheds new light on the subject; the listener is kept perpetually in that sweetly pleasurable vibration, with which the mind of man always receives new truths; the dawn advances with easy but unremitting pace; the subject opens gradually on the view; until, rising, in high relief, in all its native colors and proportions, the argument is consummated, by the conviction of the delighted hearer."

The following observations on the intellectual character of Judge Marshall, are from the pen of FRANCIS W. GILMER--one who, had he not been prematurely cut off by the hand of death, would have ranked with the foremost men of his age and country.

"His mind is not very richly stored with knowledge; but it is so creative, so well organized by nature, or disciplined by early education, and constant habits of systematic thinking, that he embraces every subject with the clearness and facility of one prepared by previous study to comprehend and explain it. So perfect is his analysis, that he extracts the whole matter, the kernel of inquiry, unbroken, clean, and entire. In this process, such are the instinctive neatness and precision of his mind, that no superfluous thought, or even word, ever presents itself, and still he says every thing that seems appropriate to the subject. This perfect exemption from needless incumbrance of matter or ornament, is in some degree the effect of an aversion to the labor of thinking. So great a mind, perhaps, like large bodies in the physical world, is with difficulty set in motion. That this is the case with Mr. Marshall's, is manifest, from his mode of entering on an argument, both in conversation and in public debate. It is difficult to rouse his faculties: he begins with reluctance, hesitation, and vacancy of eye: presently, his articulation becomes less broken, his eye more fixed, until, finally, his voice is full, clear, and rapid, his manner bold, and his whole face lighted up, with the mingled fires of genius and passion: and he pours forth the unbroken stream of eloquence, in a current deep, majestic, smooth and strong. He reminds one of some great bird, which flounders and flounces on the earth for a while, before it acquires _impetus_ to sustain its soaring flight."

EMILIA HARRINGTON.

_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."

AMERICAN IN ENGLAND.

_The American in England. By the Author of "A Year in Spain." 2 vols. New York. Harper and Brothers._

Lieutenant Slidell's very excellent book, "A Year in Spain," was in some danger of being overlooked by his countrymen when a benignant star directed Murray's attention to its merits. Fate and Regent Street prevailed. Cockney octavos carried the day. A man is nothing if not hot-pressed; and the clever young writer who was cut dead in his Yankee-land habiliments, met with bows innumerable in the gala dress of a London _imprimatur_. The "Year in Spain" well deserved the popularity thus inauspiciously attained. It was the work of a man of genius; and passing through several editions, prepared the public attention for any subsequent production of its author. As regards "The American in England," we have not only read it with deep interest from beginning to end, but have been at the trouble of seeking out and perusing a great variety of critical _dicta_ concerning it. Nearly all of these are in its favor, and we are happy in being able to concur heartily with the popular voice--if indeed these _dicta_ be its echoes.

We have somewhere said--or we should have somewhere said--that the old adage about "Truth in a well" (we mean the adage in its modern and improper--not in its antique and proper acceptation) should be swallowed _cum grano salis_ at times. To be profound is not always to be sensible. The depth of an argument is not, necessarily, its wisdom--this depth lying where Truth is sought more often than where she is found. As the touches of a painting which, to minute inspection, are 'confusion worse confounded' will not fail to start boldly out to the cursory glance of a connoisseur--or as a star may be seen more distinctly in a sidelong survey than in any direct gaze however penetrating and {193} intense--so there are, not unfrequently, times and methods, in which, and by means of which, a richer philosophy may be gathered on the surface of things than can be drawn up, even with great labor, _c profundis_. It appears to us that Mr. Slidell has written a wiser book than his neighbors merely by not disdaining to write a more superficial one.

The work is dedicated to John Duer, Esq. The Preface is a very sensible and a sufficiently well-written performance, in which the Lieutenant while "begging, at the outset, to be acquitted of any injurious prejudices" still pleads guilty to "that ardent patriotism which is the common attribute of Americans, a feeling of nationality inherited with the laws, the language, and the manners of the country from which we derive our origin, and which is sanctioned not less by the comparison of the blessings we enjoy with those of other lands, than by the promptings of good feeling, and the dictates of good taste." It is in the body of the book, however, that we must seek, and where we shall most assuredly find, strong indications of a genius not the less rich, rare, and altogether estimable for the simplicity of its _modus operandi_.

Commencing with his embarkation at New York, our author succeeds, at once, in rivetting the attention of his readers by _a succession of minute details_. But there is this vast difference between the details of Mr. Slidell, and the details of many of his contemporaries. They--the many--impressed, apparently, with the belief that mere minuteness is sufficient to constitute force, and that to be accurate is, of necessity, to be verisimilar--have not hesitated in putting in upon their canvass all the _actual_ lines which might be discovered in their subject. This Mr. Slidell has known better than to do. He has felt that the apparent, not the real, is the province of a painter--and that _to give_ (speaking technically) _the idea of any desired object, the toning down, or the utter neglect of certain portions of that object is absolutely necessary to the proper bringing out of other portions--portions by whose sole instrumentality the idea of the object is afforded_. With a fine eye then for the picturesque, and with that strong sense of propriety which is inseparable from true genius, our American has crossed the water, dallied a week in London, and given us, as the result of his observations, a few masterly sketches, with all the spirit, vigor, raciness and illusion of a panorama.

Very rarely have we seen any thing of the kind superior to the "American in England." The interest begins with the beginning of the book, and abides with us, unabated, to the end. From the scenes in the Yankee harbor, to the departure of the traveller from England, his arrival in France, and installment among the comforts of the Hotel Quillacq, all is terse, nervous, brilliant and original. The review of the ship's company, in the initial chapter of the book is exceedingly entertaining. The last character thus introduced is so peculiarly sketched that we must copy what the author says about him. It will serve to exemplify some of our own prior remarks.

"Let me not forget to make honorable mention of the white-headed little raggamuffin who was working his passage, and who, in this capacity, had the decks to sweep, ropes to haul, chickens and pigs to feed, the cow to milk, and the dishes to wash, as well as all other jobs to do that belonged to no one in particular. As a proof of good will, he had chopped off the tails of a dandy, velvet-collared, blue coat, with the cook's axe, the very first day out. This was performed at the windlass-bits, in full conclave of the crew, and I suspected at the suggestion of a roguish man-of-war's-man, a shipmate of mine. The tails were cut just below the pocket flaps, which gave them a sort of razee look, and, in conjunction with the velvet collar, made the oddest appearance in the world, as he would creep, stern first, out of the long-boat after milking the cow. Blow high or blow low, the poor boy had no time to be sea-sick. Sometimes he would get adrift in the lee scuppers and roll over in the water, keeping fast hold of the plates he was carying to the galley."

Some incidents at sea--such as the narrow escape from running down a brig, and the imminent danger incurred by an English pilot--are told with all the gusto of a seaman. Among other fine passages we may particularize an account of British sailors on shore at Portsmouth--of a family group on board a steamer--of the appearance of the Kentish coast--of the dangers of the Thames--of the Dover coach--of some groups in a London coffee-room--of a stand of hackney-coaches--of St. James' Park--of a midnight scene in the streets--of the Strand--of Temple-Bar--of St. Paul's and the view from the summit--of Rothschild--of Barclay and Perkins' Brewery--of the Thames' Tunnel--of the Tower--of the Zoological Gardens--of Robert Owen--of the habits of retired citizens--and of the rural tastes of Englishmen. A parallel between Regent Street and Broadway brings the two thoroughfares with singular distinctness to the eye of the mind--and in the way of animated and vivid description we can, at this moment, remember nothing in the whole range of fact or fiction much superior to the Lieutenant's narrative of his midnight entrance into London. Indeed we can almost pardon a contemporary for speaking of this picture as sublime. A small portion of it we copy--but no just idea of its total effect can be thus gathered--an effect depending in a great measure upon the gradual manner in which it is brought about.

"I know nothing more exhilirating than to be suddenly ushered in the night into a populous quarter of a great city. My recollection readily conjures up the impressions made upon me under similar circumstances in entering Paris, Madrid, Brussels, Milan, or gay and lively Naples. The lower classes, with their good humor, their quaint drollery and sprightliness, there offer the most agreeable objects of contemplation. Here, however, there was in the corresponding classes nothing pleasing, or even picturesque. All seemed in search of food, of the means of intemperance, and of gratifying low and brutal passions. The idea of amusement had evidently no place. The streets swarmed with abandoned women, filthy in their dress, open, brutal, and indecent in their advances. In the places of the guitar, the serenade, the musical cries of chesnut-women, lemonade-sellers, and watermen, the sounds here were harsh and grating: uttered in words ill pronounced and nasally prolonged, or in an unintelligible and discordant slang which I no longer recognized as belonging to my own language. In the place of skilful musicians performing the favorite airs of Mozart or Rossini, or the witty colloquies of the sententious Punchinello, the poor were invited, in the nasal twang of clamorous mountebanks to amuse themselves by a sight of the latest cases of seduction, murder, suicide, and hanging, represented in the shadows of the camera obscura. The dark masses of dwelling-houses had a confined, narrow, gloomy, and lugubrious aspect. They were of brick, without window-sills of marble or other colored stone; unpainted, and unenlivened by blinds. They were closely shut, and the glimpses of cheerfulness and domestic comfort {194} exhibited in our streets were here unseen. All the shops were open to the weather: Many of them having the whole front removed, and gas-lights blazing and streaming like great torches, rather than with the puny and flickering illumination seen in ours. The articles were completely exposed to view at the side of the street; clothing, provisions, crockery, hardware; whatever is necessary to the wants of man. The druggists, with their variegated vases, as with us, cast the Iris hues of their nauseous mixtures into the street. Sellers of cheap goods exposed them in the windows, with their price labelled. The butchers hung out beef, pork, sausages, and enormous coarse sheep, in a nearly whole state, with sometimes the price affixed to the inferior portions, in order that the poor might judge whether the price they had received for their day's labor, would compass a meal of meat; or whether they should seek a diet more suited to their means, of a neighboring potato-merchant: or whether to turn in despair, as many of the most wretched seemed to do, to accept the flattering invitation of the magnificent gin-palace at the corner. It was the most splendid building in the neighborhood; built with some little architectural elegance, whose effect was magnified by the unadorned character and gloomy air of the surrounding edifices. A beautiful gas-light, in a richly ornamented lamp, stood as an inviting beacon, visible in many diverging directions. The windows were glazed with costly plate-glass, bearing inscribed, in illuminated letters, the words--gin at three-pence--generous wines hot-spiced;--and the door surrounded by stained panes of rich dye, having rosettes, bunches of grapes, and gay devices."

There are some few _niaiseries_ in the work before us, which, although insufficient to affect its character as a whole, yet constitute a weak point in what otherwise is beautiful, and cause us to regret sincerely, the accidents which have admitted them. We may mention, in especial, the too frequent introduction of the monosyllable "_how_," in such sentences as "they told how"--"it was related how"--"I was informed how," &c. Mr. Slidell will find, upon self-scrutiny, that he has fallen into this habit through the sin of imitation. The Lieutenant, too, suffers his work to savor far too strongly of the ship, and lets slip him no opportunity of thrusting upon the public attention the fact of his particular vocation--insisting, indeed, upon this matter with a pertinacity even ludicrous--a pertinacity which will be exemplified in the following passage:

"_Unaccustomed as I had been in the larger vessels, in which I had sailed of late_, to be thus unceremoniously boarded _on the hallowed region of the quarter-deck_, this seemed to me quite a superfluous piece of impertinence. The remains of my sentiment were at once washed away, and _not minding a little honest salt-water_, I betook myself forthwith to the substantial comfortings of the repast, which I found smoking on the cabin table. Dinner was over: tea and conversation had followed; the evening was already far advanced, and I began to yield to the sleepy sensation _which the familiar roll of the sea inspired_. Before turning in I ascended to the companionway to breathe the fresh air, and see what progress we were making. _Familiar as I was with the sight of ships in every possible situation_, I was much struck with the beauty of the scene."

Again. Although the author evinces, in theory, a very laudable contempt for that silly vanity so often inducing men to blazon forth their intimacy with the distinguished; and although, in the volumes now before us, he more than once directs the arrows of his satire at the infirmity--still he is found not altogether free from it himself; and, in one especial instance, is even awkwardly uneasy, lest we should remain ignorant of his acquaintance with Washington Irving. "I thought," quoth the Lieutenant, when there was no necessity for thinking about any such matter, "I thought of the 'spectral box-coats' of my inimitable friend Geoffrey Crayon; and would have given the world in that moment of despondency, for one of his quiet unwritten jokes, or one friendly pressure of his hand."

Upon Mr. Slidell's mechanical style we cannot bring ourselves to look with favor. Indeed while running over, with some astonishment, a few of his singularly ill-constructed sentences, we begin to think that the sentiments expressed in the conclusion of his Preface are not, as we at first suspected, merely the common cant of the _literateur_, and that his book is actually, as he represents it to be, "the result of an up-hill journey," and "a work which he regards with a feeling of aversion." What else than great tedium and utter weariness with his labor, could have induced our author to trust such passages as the following to the critical eye of the public?

"The absence of intellectual and moral culture, in occupations which rendered it unnecessary for those who worked only to administer food to themselves and profit or luxury to the class of masters, could only account for the absence of forehead, of the ornamental parts of that face which was moulded after a divine model."

We perused this sentence more than once before we could fathom its meaning. Mr. Slidell wishes to say, that _narrowness of forehead in the rabble is owing to want of mental exercise--they being laborers not thinkers_. But from the words of our author we are led to conclude that some occupations (certainly very strange ones) rendered it unnecessary for those who worked, to administer food to themselves--that is, to eat. The pronoun "_it_," however, will be found, upon examination, to refer to "moral culture." The repetition of the word "only" is also disagreeable, and the entire passage is overloaded with verbiage. A rigid scrutiny will show that all essential portions of the intended idea are embodied in the lines Italicised. In the original sentence are _fifty-four_ words--in our own _eighteen_--or precisely one third. It follows, that if all the Lieutenant's sentences had been abridged in a similar manner--a process which would have redounded greatly to their advantage--we might have been spared much trouble, and the public much time, trouble, and expense--the "American in England" making its appearance in a duodecimo of one hundred and ninety-two pages, rather than in two octavos of five hundred and seventy-six.

At page 122, vol. I, we have what follows.

"My situation here was uncomfortable enough; if I were softly cushioned on one side, this only tended, by the contrast, to increase the obduracy of a small iron rod, which served as a parapet to protect me from falling off the precipice, over which I hung toppling, and against which I was forced with a pressure proportioned to the circumstances of my being compressed into a space somewhat narrower than myself; the seat having doubtless been contrived to accommodate five men, and there being no greater anatomical mistake than to suppose there would be more room because four of them were women."

'_If I were_,' in this sentence, is not English--but there are few persons who will believe that "_if_" does not in _all_ instances require the subjunctive. In the words "_a small iron rod which served as a parapet to protect me from falling off the precipice over which I hung, and against which I was forced," &c._ let us say nothing of the {195} injudicious use of the word _parapet_ as applied to _a small iron rod_. Passing over this, it is evident, that the second relative pronoun "_which_," has for its antecedent, in strict syntactical arrangement, the same noun as the first relative pronoun "_which_"--that is to say, it has the word "_precipice_" for its antecedent. The sentence would thus imply that Mr. Slidell was forced against the precipice. But the actual meaning (at which we arrive by guessing) is, that Mr. Slidell was forced against the iron rod. In the words "_I was forced with a pressure proportioned to the circumstances of my being compressed into a space," &c._ let us again be indulgent, and say as little as possible of the tautology in "_pressure_" and "_compressed_." But we ask where are the _circumstances_ spoken of? There is only _one_ circumstance--the circumstance of being compressed. In the conclusion of the passage where the Lieutenant speaks of "a seat having doubtless been contrived to accommodate five men, and there being no greater anatomical mistake than to suppose there would be more room because four of them were women," it is quite unnecessary to point out the "bull egregious"--a bull which could have been readily avoided by the simple substitute of "_persons_" for "_men_."

We must be pardoned for copying yet another sentence. We will do so with the single remark that it is one of the most ludicrously ill-arranged, and altogether ungainly pieces of composition which it has ever been our ill fortune to encounter.

"I was not long in discovering that the different personages scattered about the room in such an unsocial and misanthropic manner, instead of being collected about the same board, as in France or my own country, and, in the spirit of good fellowship and of boon companions, relieving each other of their mutual ennuis, though they did not speak a word to each other, by which they might hereafter be compromised and socially ruined, by discovering that they had made the acquaintance of an individual several grades below them in the scale of rank, or haply as disagreeably undeceived by the abstraction of a pocket-book, still kept up a certain interchange of sentiment, by occasional glances and mutual observation."

Such passages as the foregoing may be discovered _passim_ in "The American in England." Yet we have heard Mr. Slidell's English called equal to the English of Mr. Irving--than which nothing can be more improbable. The Lieutenant's book is an excellent book--but then it is excellent _in spite of its style_. So great are the triumphs of genius!

CONTI.

_Conti the Discarded: with Other Tales and Fancies. By Henry F. Chorley. 2 vols. New York: Published by Harper and Brothers._

Mr. Chorley has hitherto written nothing of any great length. His name, however, is familiar to all readers of English Annuals, and in whatever we have seen from his pen, evidences of a rare genius have been perceptible. In Conti, and in the "Other Tales and Fancies" which accompany it, these evidences are more distinct, more brilliant, and more openly developed. Neither are these pieces wanting in a noble, and, to us, a most thrillingly interesting _purpose_. In saying that our whole heart is with the author--that the deepest, and we trust, the purest emotions are enkindled within us by his chivalric and magnanimous _design_--we present but a feeble picture of our individual feelings as influenced by the perusal of Conti. We repeat it--our whole heart is with the author. When _shall_ the artist assume his proper situation in society--in a society of thinking beings? How long shall he be enslaved? How long shall mind succumb to the grossest materiality? How long shall the veriest vermin of the Earth, who crawl around the altar of Mammon, be more esteemed of men than they, the gifted ministers to those exalted emotions which link us with the mysteries of Heaven? To our own query we may venture a reply. Not long. Not long will such rank injustice be committed or permitted. A spirit is already abroad at war with it. And in every billow of the unceasing sea of Change--and in every breath, however gentle, of the wide atmosphere of Revolution encircling us, is that spirit steadily yet irresistibly at work.

"Who has not looked," says Mr. Chorley in his Preface, "with painful interest on the unreckoned-up account of misunderstanding and suspicion which exists between the World and the Artist? Who has not grieved to see the former willing to degrade Art into a mere plaything--to be enjoyed without respect, and then cast aside--instead of receiving her high works as among the most humanizing blessings ever vouchsafed to man by a beneficent Creator? Who has not suffered shame in observing the Artist bring his own calling into contempt by coarsely regarding it as a mere engine of money getting, or holding it up to reproach by making it the excuse for such eccentricities or grave errors as separate him from the rest of society?"

That genius should not and indeed cannot be bound down to the vulgar common-places of existence, is a maxim which, however true, has been too often repeated; and there have appeared on earth enough spirits of the loftiest and most brilliant order who have worthily taken their part in life as useful citizens, affectionate husbands, faithful friends, to deprive of their excuse all such as hold, that to despise and alienate the world is the inevitable and painfully glorious destiny of the highly gifted.

Very few of our readers, it may be, are acquainted with a particular class of works which has long exercised a very powerful influence on the private habits and character, as well as on the literature of the Germans. We speak of the _Art Novels_--the Kunstromanen--books written not so much in immediate defence, or in illustration, as in personification of individual portions of the Fine Arts--books which, in the guise of Romance, labor to the sole end of reasoning men into admiration and study of the beautiful, by a tissue of _bizarre_ fiction, partly allegorical, and partly metaphysical. In Germany alone could so mad--or perhaps so profound--an idea have originated. From the statement of Mr. Chorley, we find that his original intention was to attempt something in the style of the _Kunstromanen_, with such modifications as might seem called for by the peculiar spirit of the British national tastes and literature. "It occurred to me, however," says he, "that the very speculations and reveries which appeared to myself so delicious and significant, might be rejected by the rest of the world as fantastic and overstrained." Mr. C. could never have persevered in a scheme so radically erroneous for more than a dozen pages; and neither the world nor himself will have {196} cause to regret that he thought proper to abandon the _Art Novels_, and embody his fine powers and lofty design in so stirring and so efficient a series of paintings as may be found in the present volumes.

A single passage near the commencement of Conti, will afford to all those who feel and think, direct evidence of the extraordinary abilities of Mr. Chorley. Madame Zerlini is an Italian _prima donna_, who becoming enamored of Colonel Hardwycke, an Englishman, accompanies him to England as his mistress, and after living with him for twelve years, and bearing him a son, Julius, dies suddenly upon hearing of his intention to marry.

"A strange scene greeted his eyes (those of Julius) as he entered the spacious hall, which, as its windows fronted the east, was already beginning to be dusky with the shadows of twilight. On the lowest step of the stairs lay, in violent hysterics, one of the women servants--she was raving and weeping, half supported by two others, themselves trembling so as to be almost powerless.

"'And here's Master Julius, too!' exclaimed one of the group which obstructed his passage, 'and my master gone away--no one knows for how long. Lord have mercy upon us!--what are we to do, I wonder?'

"'Don't go up stairs!' shrieked the other, leaving her charge, and endeavoring to stop him. 'Don't go up stairs--it is all over!'

"But the boy, whose mind was full of other matters, and who, having wandered away in the morning, before the delirium became so violent, had no idea of his mother's imminent danger, broke from them without catching the meaning of their words, and forced his way up stairs, towards the great drawing room, the folding doors of which were swinging open.

"He went in. Madame Zerlini was there--flung down upon a sofa, in an attitude which, in life, it would have been impossible for her to maintain for many moments. Her head was cast back over one of the pillows, so far, that her long hair, which had been imperfectly fastened, had disengaged itself by its own weight, and was now sweeping heavily downward, with a crushed wreath of passion flowers and myrtles half buried among it. Every thing about her told how fiercely the spirit had passed. Her robe of scarlet muslin was entirely torn off on one shoulder, and disclosed its exquisitely rounded proportions. Her glittering _negligé_ was unclasped, and one end of it clenched firmly in the small left hand, which there was now hardly any possibility of unclosing. Her glazed eyes were wide open--her mouth set in an unnatural, yet fascinating smile; her cheek still flushed with a more delicate, yet intense red than belongs to health; and the excited boy, who was rushing hastily into the room, with the rapid inquiry, 'Where is Father Vanezzi?' stood as fixed on the threshhold, with sudden and conscious horror, as if he had been a thing of marble."

It is not our intention to analyze, or even to give a compend of the Tale of Conti. Such are not the means by which any idea of its singular power can be afforded. We will content ourselves with saying that, in its prevailing tone, it bears no little resemblance to that purest, and most enthralling of fictions, the Bride of Lammermuir; and we have once before expressed our opinion of this, the master novel of Scott. It is not too much to say that no modern composition, and perhaps no composition whatever, with the single exception of Cervantes' Destruction of Numantia, approaches so nearly to the proper character of the dramas of Æschylus, as the magic tale of which Ravenswood is the hero. We are not aware of being sustained by any authority in this opinion--yet we do not believe it the less intrinsically correct.

The other pieces in the volumes of Mr. Chorley are, _Margaret Sterne_, or _The Organist's Journey_--an _Essay on the Popular Love of Music_--_Rossini's Otello_--_The Imaginative Instrumental Writers, Haydn, Beethoven, &c._--_The Village Beauty's Wedding_--_Handel's Messiah_--and _A few words upon National Music_--all of which papers evince literary powers of a high order, an intimate acquaintance with the science of music, and a lofty and passionate devotion to its interests.

NOBLE DEEDS OF WOMAN.

_Noble Deeds of Woman. 2 vols. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard._

These are two neat little volumes devoted to a theme of rich interest. From the Preface, or rather from the date and place of date of the Preface, we may form a guess that the work was originally published in London, and that the present edition is merely a reprint. There is nothing in the title-page or in the body of the book indicative of its derivation. But be the "Noble Deeds of Woman" English or American, we recommend them heartily to public attention.

The content-table is thus subdivided: Maternal Affection--Filial Affection--Sisterly Affection--Conjugal Affection--Humanity--Integrity--Benevolence--Fortitude. Under each of these separate heads are collected numerous anecdotes in the manner of the Brothers Percy. Of course it will be impossible to speak of them as a whole. Some are a little _passés_--for the most part they are piquant and well selected--a few are exceedingly entertaining and _recherchés_. From page 139, vol. i, we select one or two paragraphs which will be sure to find favor with all our readers. We rejoice in so excellent an opportunity of transferring to our columns a document well deserving preservation.

During the late war between the Turks and the Greeks, some American ladies, touched by the hardships and sufferings of the latter people, presented them with a ship containing money, and various articles of wearing apparel, wrought by their own hands; an offering which, under their forlorn situation, must have been highly acceptable to the unfortunate Greeks.

The letter of Mrs. Sigourney, of Hartford, Connecticut, to the Ladies' Greek Committee of that place, to accompany the contributions prepared for the Archipelago, was as follows:

"United States of America, March 12, 1828. The ladies of Hartford, in Connecticut, to the ladies of Greece.

"Sisters and Friends,--From the years of childhood your native clime has been the theme of our admiration: together with our brothers and our husbands we early learned to love the country of Homer, Aristides, of Solon, and of Socrates. That enthusiasm which the glory of ancient Greece enkindled in our bosoms, has preserved a fervent friendship for her descendants. We have beheld with deep sympathy the horrors of Turkish domination, and the struggle so long and nobly sustained by them for existence and for liberty.

"The communications of Dr. Howe, since his return from your land, have made us more intimately acquainted with your personal sufferings. He has presented many of you to us in his vivid descriptions, as seeking refuge in caves, and, under the branches of olive trees, listening for the footsteps of the destroyer, and mourning over your dearest ones slain in battle.

"Sisters and friends, our hearts bleed for you. Deprived of your protectors by the fortune of war, and continually in fear of evils worse than death, our prayers are with you, in all your wanderings, your wants and your griefs. In this vessel (which may God send in safety to your shores) you will receive a portion of that bounty wherewith He hath blessed us. The poor among us have given according to their ability, and our little children {197} have cheerfully aided, that some of you and your children might have bread to eat, and raiment to put on. Could you but behold the faces of our little ones brighten, and their eyes sparkle with joy, while they give up their holidays, that they might work with their needles for Greece; could you see those females who earn a subsistence by labor, gladly casting their mite into our treasury, and taking hours from their repose that an additional garment might be furnished for you; could you witness the active spirit that pervades all classes of our community, it would cheer for a moment the darkness and misery of your lot.

"We are inhabitants of a part of one of the smallest of the United States, and our donations must therefore, of necessity, be more limited than those from the larger and more wealthy cities; yet such as we have, we give in the name of our dear Saviour, with our blessings and our prayers.

"We know the value of sympathy--how it arms the heart to endure--how it plucks the sting from sorrow--therefore we have written these few lines to assure you, that in the remoter parts of our country, as well as in her high places, you are remembered with pity and with affection.

"Sisters and friends, we extend across the ocean our hands to you in the fellowship of Christ. We pray that His Cross and the banner of your land may rise together over the Crescent and the Minaret--that your sons may hail the freedom of ancient Greece restored, and build again the waste places which the oppressor hath trodden down; and that you, admitted once more to the felicities of home, may gather from past perils and adversities a brighter wreath for the kingdom of Heaven.

"LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY,

"Secretary of the Greek Committee of Hartford, Connecticut."

BULWER'S RIENZI.

_Rienzi, The Last of the Tribunes. By the Author of "Eugene Aram," "Last Days of Pompeii," &c. &c. Two Volumes in one. Philadelphia: Republished by E. L. Carey and A. Hart._

We have long learned to reverence the fine intellect of Bulwer. We take up any production of his pen with a positive certainty that, in reading it, the wildest passions of our nature, the most profound of our thoughts, the brightest visions of our fancy, and the most ennobling and lofty of our aspirations will, in due turn, be enkindled within us. We feel sure of rising from the perusal a wiser if not a better man. In no instance are we deceived. From the brief Tale--from the "Monos and Daimonos" of the author--to his most ponderous and labored novels--all is richly, and glowingly intellectual--all is energetic, or astute, or brilliant, or profound. There _may_ be men now living who possess the power of Bulwer--but it is quite evident that very few have made that power so palpably manifest. Indeed we know of _none_. Viewing him as a novelist--a point of view exceedingly unfavorable (if we hold to the common acceptation of "the novel") for a proper contemplation of his genius--he is unsurpassed by any writer living or dead. Why should we hesitate to say this, feeling, as we do, thoroughly persuaded of its truth. Scott has excelled him in _many_ points, and "The Bride of Lammormuir" is a better book than any individual work by the author of Pelham--"Ivanhoe" is, perhaps, equal to any. Descending to particulars, D'Israeli has a more brilliant, a more lofty, and a more delicate (we do not say a _wilder_) imagination. Lady Dacre has written Ellen Wareham, a more forcible tale of Passion. In some species of wit Theodore Hook rivals, and in broad humor our own Paulding surpasses him. The writer of "Godolphin" equals him in energy. Banim is a better sketcher of character. Hope is a richer colorist. Captain Trelawney is as original--Moore is as fanciful, and Horace Smith is as learned. But who is there uniting in one person the imagination, the passion, the humor, the energy, the knowledge of the heart, the artist-like eye, the originality, the fancy and the learning of Edward Lytton Bulwer? In a vivid wit--in profundity and a Gothic massiveness of thought--in style--in a calm certainty and definitiveness of purpose--in industry--and above all in the power of controlling and regulating by volition his illimitable faculties of mind, he is unequalled--he is unapproached.