Chapter VIII (3)

The most unfortunate charge that was ever preferred against Borel, in his editorial capacity, was that of _plagiarism_. He had inserted an article in his paper over his acknowledged signature, entitled "_Desultory Musings_," which some one boldly asserted was an extract from Zimmerman on Solitude; and, upon its being denied by the editor, reference was given to the identical page whence it was taken. These things boded no good to the reputation of the scribe; nevertheless, he continued his career without interruption, and, had he lived in the days of Pope, the latter might well have asked,

"Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through,
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again--
* * * * *
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines."

Mr. Ulric now indulges us with another love affair, beginning as follows: "Oh thou strange and incomprehensible passion! to what canst thou be compared? At times thou art gentle as the zephyr; at others thou art mighty as the tempest. Thou canst calm the throbbing bosom, or thou canst fill it with wilder commotion. A single smile of thy benign countenance calleth new rapture to the anguished heart, and scattereth every doubt, every fear, every perplexity. But enough of this." True.

A young lady falls into a river or a ditch, (our author says she was fishing for a water-lily) and Mr. Ulric is at the trouble of pulling her out. "What a charming incident!" says Mr. Mattson. Her name is Violet, and our susceptible youth falls in love with her. "Shall I ever," quoth Paul, "shall I ever forget my sensations at that period?--never!!" Among other methods of evincing his passion he writes a copy of verses "To Violet," and sends them to the _Literary Herald_. All, however, is to little purpose. The lady is no fool, and very properly does not wish a fool for a husband.

Our hero now places his affections upon the wife of a silk-dyer. He has a rival, however, in the person of the redoubted editor, Borel Bunting, and a duel ensues, in which, although the matter is a hoax, and the pistols have no load in them, Mr. Mattson assures us that the editor "in firing, lodged the _contents_ of his weapon in the ground a few inches from his feet." The chapter immediately following this adventure is headed with poetical quotations occupying two-thirds of a page. One is from _Byron_--another from _All's Well that Ends Well_--and the third from _Brown's Lecture on Perpetual Motion_. The chapter itself would form not quite half a column such as we are now writing, and in it we are informed that Bunting, having discovered the perpetual motion, determines upon a tour in Europe.

The editor being thus disposed of, Mr. Mattson now enters seriously upon the business of his novel. We beg the attention of our readers while we detail a tissue of such absurdity, as we did not believe it possible, at this day, for any respectable bookseller to publish, or the very youngest of young gentlemen to indite.

Let us bear in mind that the scene of the following events is in the vicinity of Philadelphia, and the epoch, the present day. Mr. Ulric takes a stroll one May morning with his gun. "Nature seems to be at rest," &c.--"the warbling of birds," &c.--"perched among trees," &c. was all very fine, &c. "While gazing," says Paul, "upon these objects," (that is to say, the warbling of the birds) "I beheld a young and beautiful female trip lightly over the grass, and seat herself beneath a willow which stood in the middle of a park." Whereupon our adventurer throws himself into an attitude, and soliloquizes as follows.

"It seems that there is an indescribable something in the features of many women--a look, a smile, or a glance of the eye--that sends the blood thrilling to the heart, and involuntarily kindles the flame of love upon its altar. It is no wonder that sages and philosophers have worshipped with such mad devotion at the shrine of beauty! It is no wonder that the mighty Pericles knelt at the feet of his beloved Aspasia! It is no wonder that the once powerful Antony sacrificed his country to the fatal embraces of the bewitching Cleopatra! It is no wonder that the thirst for glory cooled in the heart of the philosophic Abelard, when he beheld the beauty of the exquisite Heloise! It is no wonder, indeed, that he quitted the dry maxims of Aristotle to practise the more pleasing precepts of Ovid! But this is rhapsody!" It is.

The lady is dressed in white, (probably cambric muslin,) and Mr. Mattson assures us that her features he shall not attempt to describe. He proceeds, however, to say that her "eyes are hazel, but very dark," "her complexion pure as alabaster," her lips like the lips of Canova's Venus, and her forehead like--something very fine. Mr. Ulric attempts to speak, but his embarrassment prevents him. The young lady "turns to depart," and our adventurer goes home as he came.

The next chapter commences with "How mysterious is human existence!"--which means, when translated, "How original is Mr. Mattson!" This initial paragraph concludes with a solemn assurance that we are perishable creatures, and that it is very possible we may all die--every mother's son of us. But as Mr. M. hath it--"to our story." Paul has discovered the mansion of the young lady--but can see no more of the young lady herself. He therefore stands sentinel before {176} the door, with the purpose "of making observations." While thus engaged, he perceives a tall fellow, "with huge black whiskers and a most forbidding aspect," enter the house, in a familiar manner. Our hero is, of course, in despair. The tall gentleman could be no other than the accepted lover of the young lady. Having arrived at this conclusion, Paul espies a column of smoke in the woods, and after some trouble discovers it to proceed from "a log dwelling which stood alone, with its roof of moss, amid the silence and solitude of nature." A dog barks, and an old woman makes her appearance.

This old lady is a most portentous being. She is, however, a little given to drinking; and offers our hero a dram, of which Mr. Mattson positively assures us that gentleman did not accept.

"Can you tell me," says Paul, "who lives in the stone house?"

"Do you mean the Florence mansion," she asked.

"Very like--who is its owner?"

"A man of the same name--Richard Florence."

"Who is Richard Florence?"

"An Englishman; he came to this country a year or two ago."

"Has he a wife?"

"Not that I know of."

"Children?"

"An only daughter."

"What is her name?"

"Emily."

"Emily!--Is she beautiful?"

"Very beautiful!"

"And amiable?"

"Her like is not to be found."

"What," [exclaims our hero, perhaps starting back and running his fingers through his hair]--"what are all the fleeting and fickle pleasures of the world! what the magnificent palaces of kings, with their imperial banquetings and gorgeous processions! what, indeed, are all the treasures of the earth or the sea, in comparison with the pure, the bright, the beautiful object of our young and innocent affections!!!"

The name of the old hag is Meg Lawler, and she favors Mr. Ulric with her private history. The morality of her disclosures is questionable--but "morals, at the present day, quoth Mr. Mattson, are rarely sought in works of fiction, and perhaps _less_ rarely found." The gentleman means _more_ rarely. But let us proceed. Meg Lawler relates a tale of seduction. It ends in the most approved form. "I knew," says she, "that the day of sorrow and tribulation was at hand, but alas, there was no saving power!" Here follows a double range of stars--after which, the narrative is resumed as follows.

Dame Lawler paused, and turning upon me her glaring and blood-shot eyes exclaimed--

"Do you think there is a punishment hereafter for the evil deeds done in the body?"

"Such," I replied, "the divines have long taught us."

"_Then is my destroyer writhing in the agonies of hell!!_"

Mr. Ulric is, of course, electrified, and the chapter closes.

Our hero, some time after this, succeeds in making the acquaintance of Miss Emily Florence. The scene of the first interview is the cottage of Meg Lawler. Mr. U. proposes a walk--the lady at first refuses, but finally consents.

"There were two paths," says our hero, "either of which we might have chosen: one led into the forest, the other towards her father's house. I struck into the latter--but she abruptly paused."

"Shall we continue our walk?" I asked, observing that she still hesitated.

"Yes," she at length answered; "but I would prefer the other path"--that is to say the path through the woods--O fi, Miss Emily Florence! During the walk, our hero arrives at the conclusion that his beloved is "some unfortunate captive whose fears, or whose sense of dependence, might render it imprudent for her to be seen in the society of a stranger." In addition to all this, Dame Lawler has told Mr. U. that "she did not believe Emily was the daughter of Mr. Florence"--hereby filling the interesting youth with suspicions, which Mr. Mattson assures us "were materials for the most painful reflection."

On their way home our lovers meet with an adventure. Mr. Ulric happens to espy a--man. Miss Emily Florence thus explains this momentous occurrence. _"There is a band of robbers who have their retreat in the neighboring hills--and this was no doubt one of them. They are headed by a brave and reckless fellow of the name of Elmo--Captain Elmo I think they call him. They have been the terror of the inhabitants for a long time. My father went out sometime ago with an armed force in pursuit of them, but could not discover their hiding place. I have heard it said that they steal away the children of wealthy parents that they may exact a ransom."_ Once more we beg our readers to remember that Mr. Mattson's novel is a Tale of the Present Times, and that its scene is in the near vicinity of the city of Brotherly Love.

Having convinced her lover that the man so portentously seen can be nobody in the world but "that brave and reckless fellow" Captain Elmo, Miss Florence proceeds to assure Mr. U. that she (Miss Florence) is neither afraid of man nor the devil--and forthwith brandishes in the eyes of our adventurer an ivory-hilted dagger, or a carving-knife, or some such murderous affair. "Scarcely knowing what I did," says our gallant friend, "I imprinted a kiss (the first--burning, passionate, and full of rapture) upon her innocent lips, and--_darted into the woods!!!_" It was impossible to stand the carving-knife.

As Mr. U. takes his way home after this memorable adventure, he is waylaid by an old woman, who turns out to be a robber in disguise. A scuffle ensues, and our hero knocks down his antagonist--what less could such a hero do? Instead however of putting an end at once to his robbership, our friend merely stands over him and requests him to recite his adventures. This the old woman does. Her name is Dingee O'Dougherty, or perhaps Dingy O'Dirty--and she proves to be one and the same personage with the little man in gray who sold Mr. U. the tinsel watch spoken of in the beginning of the history. During the catechism, however, a second robber comes up, and the odds are now against our hero. But on account of his affectionate forbearance to Dingy O'Dirty no farther molestation is offered--and the three part with an amicable understanding.

Mr. Ulric is now taken ill of a fever--and during his illness a servant of Mr. Florence having left that gentleman's service, calls upon his heroship to communicate some most astounding intelligence. Miss Florence, it appears, has been missing for some days, and her father receives a letter (purporting to be from the captain of {177} the banditti) in which it is stated that they have carried her away, and would only return her in consideration of a ransom. Florence is requested to meet them at a certain spot and hour, when they propose to make known their conditions. Upon hearing this extraordinary news our adventurer jumps out of bed, throws himself into attitude No. 2, and swears a round oath that he will deliver Miss Emily himself. Thus ends the first volume.

Volume the second commences with spirit. Mr. U. hires "three fearless and able-bodied men to accompany and render him assistance in the event of danger. Each of them was supplied with a belt containing a brace of pistols, and a large Spanish knife." With these terrible desperadoes, our friend arrives at the spot designated by the bandit. Leaving his companions near at hand, he advances, and recognizes the redoubted Captain Elmo, who demands a thousand pounds as the ransom of Miss Emily Florence. Our hero considers this too much, and the Captain consents to take five hundred. This too Mr. U. refuses to give, and with his three friends makes an attack upon the bandit. But a posse of robbers coming to the aid of their leader, our hero is about to meet with his deserts when he is rescued by no less a personage than our old acquaintance Dingy O'Dirty, who proves to be one of the banditti. Through the intercession of this friend, Mr. U. and his trio are permitted to go home in safety--but our hero, in a private conversation with Dingy, prevails upon that gentleman to aid him in the rescue of Miss Emily. A plot is arranged between the two worthies, the most important point of which is that Mr. U. is to become one of the robber fraternity.

In a week's time, accordingly, we behold Paul Ulric, Esq. in a cavern of banditti, somewhere in the neighborhood of Philadelphia!! His doings in this cavern, as related by Mr. Mattson, we must be allowed to consider the most laughable piece of plagiarism on record--with the exception perhaps of something in this same book which we shall speak of hereafter. Our author, it appears, has read Gil Blas, Pelham, and Anne of Gierstein, and has concocted, from diverse passages in the three, a banditti scene for his own especial use, and for the readers of Paul Ulric. The _imitations_ (let us be courteous!) from Pelham are not so palpable as those from the other two novels. It will be remembered that Bulwer's hero introduces himself into a nest of London rogues with the end of proving his friend's innocence of murder. Paul joins a band of robbers _near Philadelphia_, for the purpose of rescuing a mistress--the chief similarity will be found in the circumstances of the blindfold introduction, and in the slang dialect made use of by either novelist. The slang in Pelham is stupid enough--but still very natural in the mouths of the cutthroats of Cockaigne. Mr. Mattson, however, has thought proper to bring it over, will I nill I, into Pennsylvania, and to make the pickpockets of Yankeeland discourse in the most learned manner of nothing less than "_flat-catching_," "_velvet_," "_dubbing up possibles_," "_shelling out_," "_twisting French lace_," "_wakeful winkers_," "_white wool_," "_pig's whispers_," and "_horses' nightcaps!_"

Having introduced his adventurer _à la_ Pelham, Mr. Mattson entertains him _à la_ Gil Blas. The hero of Santillane finds his cavern a pleasant residence, and so does the hero of our novel. Captain Rolando is a fine fellow, and so is Captain Elmo. In Gil Blas, the robbers amuse themselves by reciting their adventures--so they do in Paul Ulric. In both the Captain tells his own history first. In the one there is a rheumatic old cook--in the other there is a rheumatic old cook. In the one there is a porter who is the main obstacle to escape--in the other ditto. In the one there is a lady in durance--in the other ditto. In the one the hero determines to release the lady--in the other ditto. In the one Gil Blas feigns illness to effect his end, in the other Mr. Ulric feigns illness for the same object. In the one, advantage is taken of the robbers' absence to escape--so in the other. The cook is sick, at the time, in both.

In regard to Anne of Gierstein the plagiarism is still more laughable. We must all remember the proceedings of the _Secret Tribunal_ in Scott's novel. Mr. Mattson has evidently been ignorant that the Great Unknown's account of these proceedings was principally based on fact. He has supposed them imaginary _in toto_, and, seeing no good reason to the contrary, determined to have a Secret Tribunal of his own manufacture, and could think of no better location for it than a cavern somewhere about the suburbs of Philadelphia. We must be pardoned for giving Mr. Mattson's account of this matter in his own words.

Dingee disappeared, [this is our old friend Dingy O'Dirty] Dingee, [quoth Mr. Mattson,] disappeared--leaving me for a time alone. When he returned, he said every thing was in readiness for the ceremony, [the ceremony of Mr. Ulric's initiation as a robber.] The place appointed for this purpose was called the '_Room of Sculls_'--and thither, blindfolded, I was led.

'A candidate for our order!' said a voice, which I recognized as O'Dougherty's.

'Let him see the light!' exclaimed another in an opposite direction. The mandate was obeyed, and I was restored to sight.

I looked wildly and fearfully around--but no living object was perceptible. Before me stood an altar, hung about with red curtains, and ornamented with fringe of the same color. Above it, on a white Banner, was a painting of the human heart, with a dagger struck to the hilt, and the blood streaming from the wound. Directly under this horrible device, was written, in large letters,

THE PUNISHMENT OF THE UNFAITHFUL.

Around, wherever I turned my eyes, there was little else to be seen but skeletons of human bodies--with their arms uplifted, and stretching forward--suspended in every direction from the walls. One of them I involuntarily touched, and down it came with a fearful crash--its dry bones rattling upon the granite floor, until the whole cavern reverberated with the sound. I turned from this spectacle, and opposite beheld a guillotine--the fatal axe smeared with blood; and near it was a head--looking as if it had just been severed from the body--with the countenance ghastly--the lips parted--and the eyes staring wide open. There, also, was the body, covered, however, with a cloth, so that little was seen except the neck, mangled and bloody, and a small portion of the hand, hanging out from its shroud, grasping in its fingers a tablet with the following inscription:

THE END OF THE BETRAYER.

I sickened and fell. When I awoke to consciousness I found myself in the arms of O'Dougherty. He was bathing my temples with a fragrant liquor. When I had sufficiently recovered, he put his mouth close to my ear and whispered--'Where is your courage man? Do you know there is a score of eyes upon you?'

{178} 'Alas! I am unused to such scenes--I confess they have unmanned me. But now I am firm; you have only to command, and I will obey.'

'Bravo!' exclaimed O'Dougherty, 'you must now be introduced to the high priest of our order. He has taken his seat at the altar--prepared for your reception. I will retire that you may do him reverence--trusting soon to hail you as a brother.'

The curtains about the altar had been grouped up, and there, indeed, sat the high dignitary in all his splendor. He was closely masked, and reclined in a high-backed chair, with his head turned carelessly to one side, with an expression of the most singular good humor. At that moment, also, there issued from numerous recesses, which I had not hitherto observed, a number of grotesque-looking shapes, not unlike the weird sisters in Macbeth, who quietly took their stations around the apartment, and fixed upon me their fearful and startling gaze. Their garments were hanging in shreds--an emblem, perhaps, of their own desperate pursuits. Their faces were daubed with paint of various colors, which gave them a wild and fiendish aspect. Each one grasped a long knife, which he brandished furiously above his head, the blades sometimes striking heavily together. They then sprang simultaneously forward, forming themselves into a circle, while one stationed himself as the centre, around whom they slowly moved with dismal and half-suppressed groans. They continued this ceremony until some one exclaimed--

'Bring forth the dead!'

'Bring forth the dead!'--they all repeated, until the cavern rang with a thousand echoes.

The banditti now stood in a line, stretching from one end of the room to the other, and remained some time in silence. Directly a dead body--mutilated and bloody--was borne by some invisible agency into our presence. It rested upon a bier--without pall or other covering--a spectacle too horrible for description. I thought, at first, that it was some optical delusion--but, alas! it proved a fearful reality--a dread and reckless assassination, prompted by that hellish and vindictive spirit, which appeared so exclusively to govern the ruffians with whom I was voluntarily associated. The victim before me was a transgressor of their laws; and this punishment had been dealt out to him as the reward of his perfidy. Life, to all appearance, was extinct; but the sluggish and inert clay still remained, as if in mockery of all law--all humanity--all mercy.

'Behold the traitor!'--exclaimed one of the number.

'Behold the traitor!'--they all repeated in concert.

'Bear away the dead!'--commanded the priest at the altar.

'Bear away the dead! bear away the dead!'--was reiterated in succession by every tongue, until the lifeless body disappeared--and with it the fiendish revellers who had sported so terrifically in its presence.

We have only to say, that if our readers are not absolutely petrified after all this conglomeration of horrors, it is no fault either of Paul Ulric's, Morris Mattson's, or Dingy O'Dirty's.

Miss Emily Florence is at length rescued, and with her lover, is rowed down some river in a skiff by Dingy, who thus discourses on the way. We quote the passage as a specimen of exquisite morality.

"Had I the sensibility of many men, a recollection of my crimes would sink me into the dust--but as it is, I can almost fancy them to be so many virtues. I see you smile; but is it not a truth, that every thing of good and evil exists altogether in idea? The highwayman is driven by necessity to attack the traveller, and demand his purse. This is a crime--so says the law--so says society--and must be punished as our wise men have decreed. Nations go to war with each other--they plunder--burn--destroy--and murder--yet there is nothing wrong in this, because nations sanction it. But where is the difference between the highwayman, in the exercise of a profession by which he is to obtain a livelihood, and a nation, with perhaps less adequate cause, which despoils another of its treasures, and deluges it in blood? Is not this a proof that our ideas of immorality and wickedness are derived in a great measure from habit and education?" "The metaphysical outlaw," [says our hero,] "the metaphysical outlaw here concluded his discourse." [What an excessively funny idea Mr. Mattson must have of metaphysics!]

Having left the boat, taken leave of Dingy O'Dirty, and put on a pair of breeches, Miss Florence now accompanies our adventurer to a village hard by. Entering a tavern the lovers seat themselves at the breakfast table with two or three other persons. The conversation turns upon one Mr. Crawford, a great favorite in the village. In the midst of his own praises the gentleman himself enters--"and lo!" says Mr. Ulric, "in the person of Mr. Crawford, I recognized the notorious Captain Elmo!" The hue and cry is immediately raised, but the Captain makes his escape through a window. Our hero pursues him to no purpose, and in returning from the pursuit is near being run over by a carriage and six. The carriage doors happen to be wide open, and in the vehicle Mr. Ulric discovers--oh horrible!--Miss Emily Florence in the embrace of the fellow with the big whiskers!

Having lost his sweetheart a second time, our adventurer is in despair. But despair, or indeed any thing else, is of little consequence to a hero. "It is true," says Paul, "I was sometimes melancholy; but melancholy with me is as the radiant sunlight, imparting a hue of gladness to every thing around!!" Being, therefore, in excellent spirits with his melancholy, Mr. Ulric determines upon writing a novel. The novel is written, printed, published, and puffed. Why not?--we have even seen "_Paul Ulric_" puffed. But let us hasten to the _dénouement_ of our tale. The hero receives a letter from his guardian angel, Dingy O'Dirty, who, it appears, is in England. He informs Mr. U. that Miss Florence is in London, for he (Dingy O'Dirty) has seen her. Hereupon our friend takes shipping for that city. Of course he is shipwrecked--and, of course, every soul on board perishes but himself. He, indeed, is a most fortunate young man. Some person pulls him on shore, and this person proves to be the very person he was going all the way to London to look for--it was Richard Florence himself. What is more to the purpose, Mr. F. has repented of promising Miss Emily to the fellow with the big whiskers. Every thing now happens precisely as it should. Miss E. is proved to be an heiress, and no daughter of Florence's after all. Our hero leads her to the altar. Matters come rapidly to a crisis. All the good characters are made excessively happy people, and all the bad characters die sudden deaths, and go, post haste, to the devil.

Mr. Mattson is a very generous young man, and is not above patronizing a fellow-writer occasionally. Some person having sent him a MS. poem for perusal and an opinion, our author consigns the new candidate for fame to immortality at once, by heading a chapter in Paul Ulric with four entire lines from the MS., and appending the following note at the bottom of the page.

From a MS. poem entitled "_Drusilla_," with which we have been politely favored for perusal. It is a delightful work, and shows the writer to be a man of {179} genius and reflection. We hope it will not be long before the lovers of poetry are favored with this production; it will win deserved celebrity for its author.

And as a farther instance of disinterestedness, see this conversation between Mr. Mattson's hero, and a young lady in London who wrote for the annuals.

"What do you think of D'Israeli's novels?"--asked she.

"Excellent! Excellent!" I replied, "especially Vivian Grey: take for example the scene in the long gallery between Vivian, and Mrs. Felix Lorraine."

"Admirable!"--returned the young lady, "but, by the way, how do you like Bulwer?"

"Well enough," I answered.

"Pray, Mr. Ulric, how many female writers of distinction have you in America? Honest old Blackwood tells us of but two or three."

"And who are they?"

"Miss Gould, Miss Sedgwick, and Mrs. Sigourney."

"He should have added another--Miss Leslie."

We fancy it is long since Miss Leslie, Miss Gould, Miss Sedgwick, Mrs. Sigourney, Lytton Bulwer, and Ben D'Israeli have been so affectionately patted on the back.

Of Mr. Mattson's _style_ the less we say the better. It is quite good enough for Mr. Mattson's matter. Besides--all fine writers have pet words and phrases. Mr. Fay had his "_blisters_"--Mr. Simms had his "_coils_," "_hugs_," and "_old-times_"--and Mr. M. must be allowed his "_suches_" and "_so muches_." Such is genius!--and so much for the Adventures of an Enthusiast! But we must positively say a word in regard to Mr. Mattson's _erudition_. On page 97, vol. ii, our author is discoursing of the novel which his hero is about to indite. He is speaking more particularly of _titles_. Let us see what he says.

"An ill-chosen title is sufficient to condemn the best of books. Never does an author exhibit his taste and skill more than in this particular. Just think for a moment of _the Frenchman's version of Doctor Johnson's 'Rambler' into 'Le Chevalier Errant,' and what was still more laughable, his innocently addressing the author by the appellation of Mr. Vagabond!_ By the way, the modern fanatics were somewhat remarkable in the choice of their titles. Take for example the following--_'The Shop of the Spiritual Apothecary' and 'Some fine Baskets baked in the Oven of Charity, carefully conserved for the Chickens of the Church, the Sparrows of the Spirit, and the Sweet Swallows of Salvation.'_"

Having admired this specimen of deep research, let us turn to page 125, vol. ii. Mr. Ulric is here vindicating himself from some charges brought against his book. Have patience, gentle reader, while we copy what he says.

"In the first place we are accused of _vulgarity_. In this respect we certainly bear a strong resemblance to Plautus, who was censured by the satirical Horace for the same thing. Next come _Ignorance_, _Vanity_, and _Stupidity_. Of the first two, the classic reader will not forget that Aristotle (who wrote not less than four hundred volumes) was calumniated by Cicero and Plutarch, both of whom endeavored to make it appear that he was _ignorant_ as well as _vain_. But what of our stupidity? Socrates himself was treated by Athenæus as _illiterate_; the divine Plato, called by some the philosopher of the Christians, by others the god of philosophers, was accused by Theopompus of _lying_, by Aristophanes of _impiety_, and by Aulus Gellius of _robbery_. The fifth charge is a _want of invention_. Pliny has alleged the same thing of Virgil--and surely it is some consolation to know that we have such excellent company. And last, though not least, is _plagiarism_. Here again Naucrates tells us that Homer pillaged some of his best thoughts from the library at Memphis. It is recorded, moreover, that Horace plundered from the minor Greek poets, and Virgil from his great prototype, Homer, as well as Nicander, and Apollonius Rhodius. Why then should we trouble ourselves about these sweeping denunciations?"

What a learned man is Morris Mattson, Esq.! He is intimately versed not only in Horace, Aristotle, Cicero, Plutarch, Virgil, Homer, Plato, Pliny, and Aristophanes--but (_credat Judæus!_) in Nicander, Aulus Gellius, Naucrates, Athenæus, Theopompus, and Apollonius Rhodius! I. D'Israeli, however, the father of Ben D'Israeli aforesaid, is (we have no hesitation in saying it,) one of the most scoundrelly plagiarists in Christendom. He has not scrupled to steal entire passages verbatim from Paul Ulric! On page 1, vol. ii, second edition, of '_The Curiosities of Literature_,' in a chapter on _Titles_, we have all about Dr. Johnson, Le Chevalier Errant, and Mr. Vagabond, precisely in the language of Mr. Mattson. O thou abandoned robber, D'Israeli! Here is the sentence. It will be seen, that it corresponds with the first sentence italicized in the paragraph (above) beginning 'An ill-chosen title, &c.' "The Rambler was so little understood, at the time of its appearance, that a French Journalist has translated it 'Le Chevalier Errant,' and a foreigner drank Johnson's health one day, by innocently addressing him by the appellation of Mr. Vagabond!" And on page 11, of the same volume, we perceive the following, which answers to the _second_ sentence italicized in the paragraph above mentioned. "A collection of passages from the Fathers is called 'The Shop of the Spiritual Apothecary'--one of these works bears the elaborate title 'Some fine Baskets baked in the Oven of Charity, carefully conserved for the Chickens of the Church, the Sparrows of the Spirit, and the Sweet Swallows of Salvation.'" There can be no doubt whatever of D'Israeli's having pilfered this thing from Paul Ulric, for Mr. Mattson having, inadvertently we suppose, written _Baskets_ for _Biscuits_, the error is adopted by the plagiarist. But we have a still more impudent piece of robbery to mention. The whole of the _erudition_, and two-thirds of the words in the paragraph above, beginning 'In the first place we are accused of vulgarity,' &c. is to be found on page 42, vol. i, second edition, of The '_Curiosities!_' Let us transcribe some of D'Israeli's words in illustration of our remark. We refer the reader for more particular information to the book itself.

"Horace censures the coarse humor of Plautus--Aristotle (whose industry composed more than four hundred volumes) has not been less spared by the critics. Diogenes Laertius, Cicero and Plutarch have forgotten nothing that can tend to show his ignorance, his ambition, and his vanity--Socrates, considered as the wisest, and most moral of men, Cicero treated as an usurer, and the pedant Athenæus as illiterate--Plato, who has been called, by Clement of Alexandria, the Moses of Athens; the philosopher of the Christians by Arnobius, and the god of philosophers by Cicero; Athenæus accuses of envy; Theopompus of lying; Suidas of avarice; Aulus Gellius of robbery; Porphyry of incontinence, and Aristophanes of impiety--Virgil is destitute of invention, if we are to give credit to Pliny--Naucrates points out the source (of the Iliad and Odyssey,) in the library at Memphis, which, according to him, the blind bard completely pillaged--Horace has been blamed for the free use he made of the minor Greek {180} poets. Even the author of his (Virgil's) apology, has confessed that he has stolen, from Homer, his greatest beauties, from Apollonius Rhodius many of his pathetic passages, and from Nicander hints for his Georgics."

Well, Mr. Mattson, what have you to say for yourself? Is not I. D'Israeli the most impudent thief since the days of Prometheus?

In summing up an opinion of Paul Ulric, it is by no means our intention to mince the matter at all. The book is despicable in every respect. Such are the works which bring daily discredit upon our national literature. We have no right to complain of being laughed at abroad when so villainous a compound, as the thing we now hold in our hand, of incongruous folly, plagiarism, immorality, inanity, and bombast, can command at any moment both a puff and a publisher. To Mr. Mattson himself we have only one word to say before throwing his book into the fire. Dress it up, good sir, for the nursery, and call it the "Life and Surprising Adventures of Dingy O'Dirty." Humph!--Only think of Plato, Pliny, Aristotle, Aristophanes, Nicander, Aulus Gellius, Naucrates, Athenæus, Theopompus and Apollonius Rhodius!!

MARTIN'S GAZETTEER.

_A New and Comprehensive Gazetteer of Virginia, and the District of Columbia: containing a copious collection of Geographical, Statistical, Political, Commercial, Religious, Moral and Miscellaneous Information, collected and compiled from the most respectable, and chiefly from original sources; by Joseph Martin. To which is added a History of Virginia from its first settlement to the year 1754: with an abstract of the principal events from that period to the independence of Virginia, written expressly for the work, by a citizen of Virginia. Charlottesville: Published by Joseph Martin. 1835._

We ought to have noticed this book sooner. Mr. Martin deserves well of the country for having laid the foundation, amidst numerous obstacles, of a work of great utility and importance. In his preface, he disavows all pretension to literary attainment, and claims only the merit of enterprise and perseverance in the execution of his design. He is entitled to all the rewards of a bold pioneer, struggling with pecuniary difficulties, and, we might add, with public indifference, in amassing a large amount of valuable information--interesting to almost every man in the Commonwealth. It is one of the evils attendant upon a high state of political excitement in any country, that what is really and substantially good, is forgotten or neglected. The resources of our great Commonwealth are immense, and if we could once get the public mind into a condition favorable to their full development, the most important consequences might be expected to follow. Societies and associations for collecting information in the various departments of moral and physical science, have abounded in most countries having the least pretension to civilization; and even in some of the States of our confederacy, it is known that an enlightened spirit of inquiry exists on the same subject. Our own state indeed, boastful as it is of its early history, the renown of some of its sons, and its abundant natural advantages, has nevertheless, we are pained to admit, manifested too little of that public spirit which has animated other communities. Of late, indeed, some signs have been exhibited of a more liberal and resolute course of action, and we are not without hope that these efforts will be crowned by highly useful and practical results.

It is because Mr. Martin has been obliged to rely principally upon individual contributions, in order to obtain which he must necessarily have used great diligence, and submitted to much pecuniary sacrifice, that we think him entitled to a double portion of praise. Few individuals would, under such circumstances, have incurred the risk of failure; and our wonder is, not that the work is not perfect, but that, contending with so many disadvantages, it should have so nearly accomplished what has been long a _desideratum_ in Virginia literature. Our limits will not permit any thing like a minute analysis of its contents. The arrangement of the volume strikes us as superior to the ordinary alphabetical plan; and although there is much repetition even in its present form, much more we think has been avoided. That part of the General Description of the State, which especially treats of the climate, is admirably well written; and, considering the scantiness of the author's materials, owing to the general neglect of meteorological observations in Virginia, his reasoning is clear, forcible, and philosophical. In the Sketch which is given of the county of Louisa, we think we can recognize a pen which has not unfrequently adorned the pages of the "Messenger"--and the History of the State from its earliest settlement, appended to the work, is written with vigor and ability, and, as far as we can judge, with accuracy. If Mr. Martin is sustained by public liberality, which we earnestly hope will be the case, he will not only be enabled, in the next edition, to correct such imperfections as may be found to exist in the present, but to engraft a large amount of additional information, derived from authentic sources. The report of Professor Rogers, for example, on the Geology of Virginia, made to the present Legislature, will shed much light on the mineral resources of the State; and the report of the President and Directors of the Literary Fund, embracing as it does, detailed information with respect to all our literary institutions, will greatly illustrate the means in operation for diffusing the blessings and benefits of education. The statistical tables, too, can be revised and corrected in another edition; and we doubt not that many individuals into whose hands the work may fall, will voluntarily contribute such suggestions and improvements as their means of information will authorize. Such a work to the man of business, and to the traveller, and indeed to the general reader, is invaluable, and we heartily recommend it to public patronage.

ROSE-HILL.

_Rose-Hill: A Tale of the Old Dominion. By a Virginian. Philadelphia: Key & Biddle._

This is an unpretending little duodecimo of about two hundred pages. It embraces some events connected with two (fictitious) families in the Western section of Virginia during the Revolution. The chief merit of the work consists in a vein of piety and strict morality pervading its pages. The story itself is interesting, but not very well put together, while the _style_ might be amended in many respects. We wish the book, however, every success.

{181} CHIEF JUSTICE MARSHALL.

1. _An Eulogy on the Life and Character of John Marshall. Delivered at the request of the Councils of Philadelphia, on the 24th of September, 1835. By Horace Binney. pp. 55._

2. _A Discourse on the Life, &c. of John Marshall, L.L.D. Pronounced on the 15th of October, 1835, at the request of the Suffolk Bar (Boston.) By Joseph Story, L.L.D., and published at their request, pp. 70._

3. _An Oration on the Life and Character of John Marshall, late Chief Justice of the United States, pronounced before the Citizens of Alexandria, D. C. August 12, 1835. By Edgar Snowden. Published by request of the Committee of Arrangements._[1]

[Footnote 1: The late hour at which we have received this pamphlet, has prevented us from speaking as fully as we intended of its distinguished merits. It would have given us great pleasure to have embodied, in the text of this article, portions of Mr. Snowden's Oration--an Oration justly entitled to companionship with the Discourse of Judge Story, and the Eulogy of Mr. Binney. We must now, however, at this late day, confine ourselves to a general expression of commendation, and a short extract from the conclusion of the Oration.

"But the 'good' of Marshall is not interred with his bones. It lives after him, and will live after him in all time to come. The incense of virtue which he burned upon his country's altar, will continue to rise to heaven, and diffuse itself throughout the land for all following generations. When our children shall read the story of his life, they will find it one which, in its purity and beauty, cannot be surpassed by the history of any other man of our age. And who can calculate the extent of the influence of such a character upon the hearts and minds of this people, and even upon the future destinies of this country, in regulating the dispositions of those who aspire and those who are called to the high places of the nation? Who can say that it will not pervade the moral atmosphere, so as to correct many of those evil tendencies which we now see constantly developing themselves. We want such men as Marshall to rise up in our midst, and shed around the chastened light of their influence. The glare of military fame, and the glittering trappings of power, dazzle but too often to delude those who gaze at them with admiration. But upon the mellow radiance of his virtues we can all look with unclouded eyes--we can all dwell with unmingled satisfaction."]

A formal criticism upon these discourses, is the least of our intentions in placing them at the head of this article. Not that they are either unworthy of criticism, or incapable of abiding its test: but that, slight and unpretending as they are in their form and guise, the consideration which their uncommon literary merits would otherwise ensure them, is in great part lost, in the overshadowing magnitude of their subject. To be engrossed by beauties or defects (if there are defects) in the _style_ of a shilling pamphlet, when its theme is "the Life, Character and Services" of one who blended the benevolence and purity of Hale, the piercing and comprehensive genius of Mansfield, and the logical power of Erskine; and who, in the majestic simplicity of varied yet harmonious greatness, as we verily believe, is next to Washington; would be to imitate Seneca's grammarian, who in reading Virgil, thinks only of _longs and shorts_--disregarding all the charms of incident, and all the glories of imagery. What we have to say of the discourses, therefore, shall be little more, than that they are worthy of their authors; who by these productions, if THESE stood alone, have shown minds proof against the cramping tendencies of a profession, so much better fitted (according to Mr. Burke) to _quicken and invigorate_, than to _open and liberalize_ the intellect. All of them have given narratives, crowded with interesting particulars; and, what might not have been expected from his less intimate association with the deceased, Mr. Binney seems to have acquired a larger store of these, than Judge Story. The latter, however, (what might have been as little expected from his grave judicial station, so long occupied) has adorned his pages more highly, with the flowers and graces of style.

But our main design in bringing them before our readers, is to present, at the smallest possible expense of labor to ourselves, an outline of _his_ life, and a just view of _his_ character, whose talents and virtues they have both so successfully commemorated. With this intent, we purpose making large extracts from the discourses; and even where we do not literally _quote_, we are willing to be regarded as merely paraphrasing them,--for by far the most of the incidents we are about to give, are drawn from no other source. We agree, with Lord Bacon, that in general, it is "only the meaner sort of books" that should be thus _hashed_ and read at second-hand; and that "distilled books are, like common distilled waters, flashy things." But stinted time and space oblige us here to be content with a _rifacimento_, in which we trust our readers may still find much of the savor of the viands whence we make our extracts.

JOHN MARSHALL was born Sept. 24th, 1755, in Fauquier County, Virginia--a little more than two months after Braddock's defeat; and was the eldest of fifteen children, of Thomas Marshall, who was a colonel in the continental line of the Revolutionary Army, remarkable for courage, and for strength of mind. His courage was signalized at the Battles of Trenton and Brandywine; his regiment, at the latter, bearing the brunt of the attacking column led by Cornwallis in person. Though greatly outnumbered, it "maintained its position without losing an inch of ground, until both its flanks were turned, its ammunition nearly expended, and more than half the officers and one third of the soldiers were killed or wounded. Col. Marshall, whose horse had received two balls, then retired in good order to resume his position on the right of his division, but it had already retreated."[2] The heroism of such a father, could not be lost upon the son.

[Footnote 2: 1. Marshall's Washington, 158.]

The sparsely peopled region in which he lived, co-operating with a narrow fortune, afforded Col. Marshall but little opportunity for sending his children to school; and he was compelled to be almost exclusively himself their teacher. In his eldest son he early implanted a taste for English literature; "especially for poetry and history." At the age of twelve, John had _transcribed_ the whole of Pope's Essay on Man, and some of his Moral Essays; and had _committed to memory_ many of the most interesting passages of that distinguished poet.

"The love of poetry, thus awakened in his warm and vigorous mind, soon exerted a commanding influence over it. He became enamored of the classical writers of the old English school, of Milton, and Shakspeare, and Dryden, and Pope; and was instructed by their solid sense and beautiful imagery. In the enthusiasm of youth, he often indulged himself in poetical compositions, and freely gave up his leisure hours to those delicious dreamings with the muses, which (say what we may) constitute with many the purest source of pleasure in the gayer scenes of life, and the sweetest consolation in the hours of adversity.

{182} "One of the best recommendations, indeed, of the early cultivation of a taste for poetry, and the kindred branches of literature, is, that it does not expire with youth. It affords to maturer years a refreshing relaxation from the severe cares of business, and to old age a quiet and welcome employment, always within reach, and always bringing with it, if not the charms of novelty, at least the soothing reminiscences of other days. The votary of the muses may not always tread upon enchanted ground; but the gentle influences of fiction and song will steal over his thoughts, and breathe, as it were, into his soul the fragrance of a second spring of life.

"Throughout the whole of his life, and down to its very close, Mr. Marshall continued to cultivate a taste for general literature, and especially for those departments of it, which had been the favorite studies of his youth. He was familiar with all its light, as well as its more recondite, productions. He read with intense interest, as his leisure would allow, all the higher literature of modern times; and, especially, the works of the great masters of the art were his constant delight."--[_Judge Story_.]

The entire compatibility of such a love for elegant literature with "the severe logic and closeness of thought, which belonged to" Judge Marshall's character, is well vindicated by Judge Story's observations, as well as by many illustrious examples. Among them may be named William Wirt. The flowery complexion of his writings, his evident delight in works of fancy, and the extraordinary graces of his oratory, made the multitude believe him to be "of imagination all compact." But he was in truth far more profoundly versed in the dry, intricate lore of his profession, and by far more capable of thridding its nicest subtleties, than thousands, whose whole minds have been occupied with its "mystic, dark, discordant" tomes. We have been told by one who knew him intimately, that there were few harder students than Mr. Wirt: and that our informant had known him repeatedly sit for six or seven hours at a time, intensely engaged in examining a single question of law; and this too, at a period of his life when the world thought him little more than a frothy declaimer, a spouter of poetry, and an inditer of light newspaper essays. But to return--Judge Story presents us most pleasing views of Col. Marshall's character, derived from conversations with his more distinguished son:

"I have often heard the Chief Justice speak of him in terms of the deepest affection and reverence."... "Indeed, he never named his father, without dwelling on his character with a fond and winning enthusiasm. It was a theme, on which he broke out with spontaneous eloquence; and in the spirit of the most persuasive confidence, he would delight to expatiate on his virtues and talents. 'My father,' he would say with kindled feelings and emphasis, 'my father was a far abler man than any of his sons. To him I owe the solid foundation of all my own success in life.' Such praise from such lips is inexpressibly precious. I know not whether it be most honorable to the parent, or to the child. It warms, while it elevates our admiration of both."

There is great truth in the remark, that children reared among numerous brothers and sisters are the more apt, on that account, to make good men and women. The kindly affections are more exercised; emulation, tempered by such love as prevents its festering into malignity, stimulates to greater activity of body and of mind; each one has less expectation of hereditary fortune--that great palsier of useful energies; and each comes in for less of that parental fondness, which, when concentrated upon one, or two, or three children, so often spoils their characters, and embitters their lives. To the influence of this truth upon young Marshall's destinies, add the judicious training and admirable example of an intelligent father, and the hardy, active life he led, in a wild and mountainous region abounding in game--and many of the best traits in his character, as well as much of his subsequent eminence, are at once accounted for.

At fourteen, he was sent to Westmoreland, one hundred miles off, where for a year he was instructed in Latin by a clergyman named Campbell, and where James Monroe was one of his fellow students. Returning then to his father's house, he, for another year, received instruction in Latin from a Scotch clergyman named Thompson; "and this was the whole of the classical tuition he ever obtained."[3] By the assistance of his father, however, and the persevering efforts of his own mind, he continued to enlarge his knowledge, while he strengthened his body by "hardy, athletic exercises in the open air. He engaged in field sports; he wandered in the deep woods; he indulged his solitary meditations amidst the wildest scenery of nature; he delighted to brush away the earliest dew of the morning."... "It was to these early habits in a mountainous region, that he probably owed that robust and vigorous constitution, which carried him almost to the close of his life with the freshness and firmness of manhood."[4]

[Footnote 3: Mr. Binney.]

[Footnote 4: Judge Story.]

About his eighteenth year, when he had commenced the study of the Law, the lowering aspect of affairs between the Colonies and Great Britain attracted his notice, and he devoted himself chiefly to the acquiring of military skill, in a volunteer corps of the neighborhood. At length news came, of the battle of Lexington. A militia company, in which he held a commission, was ordered to assemble at a place ten miles from his father's house. Mr. Binney says, "A kinsman and contemporary, who was an eye witness of this scene, has thus described it to me:--"