The Literati of New York City — 1902 historical reading — reading text

Merry,” in connection with Mr. Cornelius Mathews, was one of the editors and originators of “Arcturus,” decidedly the very best magazine in many respects ever published in the United States. A large number of its most interesting papers were the work of Mr. D. The magazine was, upon the whole, a little too good to enjoy extensive popularity — although I am here using an equivocal phrase, for a better journal might have been far more acceptable to the public. I must be understood, then, as employing the epithet “good” in the sense of the literary quietists. The general taste of “Arcturus” was, I think, excessively tasteful; but this character applies rather more to its external or mechanical appearance than to its essential qualities. Unhappily, magazines and other similar publications are in the beginning judged chiefly by externals. People saw “Arcturus” looking very much like other works which had failed through notorious dullness, although admitted as arbitri elegantiarum in all points of what is termed taste or decorum; and they, the people, had no patience to examine any farther. Cæsar's wife was required not only to be virtuous but to seem so, and in letters it is demanded not only that we be not stupid but that we do not array ourselves in the habiliments of stupidity. It cannot be said of “Arcturus” exactly that it wanted force. It was deficient in power of impression, and this deficiency is to be attributed mainly to the exceeding brevity of its articles — a brevity that degenerated into mere paragraphism, precluding dissertation or argument, and thus all permanent effect. The magazine, in fact, had some of the worst or most inconvenient features without any of the compensating advantages of a weekly literary newspaper. The mannerism to which I refer seemed to have its source in undue admiration and consequent imitation of “The Spectator.” In addition to his more obvious literary engagements, Mr. Duyckinck writes a great deal, editorially and otherwise, for “The Democratic Review,” “The Morning News,” and other periodicals. In character he is remarkable, distinguished for the bonhomie of his manner, his simplicity, and single-mindedness, his active beneficence, his hatred of wrong done even to any enemy, and especially for an almost Quixotic fidelity to his friends. He seems in perpetual good humor with all things, and I have no doubt that in his secret heart he is an optimist. In person he is equally simple as in character — the one is a pendant of the other. He is about five feet eight inches high, somewhat slender. The forehead, phrenologically, is a good one; eyes and hair light; the whole expression of the face that of serenity and benevolence, contributing to give an idea of youthfulness. He is probably thirty, but does not seem to be twenty-five. His dress, also, is in full keeping with his character, scrupulously neat but plain, and conveying an instantaneous conviction of the gentleman. He is a descendant of one of the oldest and best Dutch families in the state. Married. ——— MARY GOVE. MRS. MARY GOVE, under the pseudonym of “Mary Orme,” has written many excellent papers for the magazines. Her subjects are usually tinctured with the mysticism of the transcendentalists, but are truly imaginative. Her style is quite remarkable for its luminousness and precision — two qualities very rare with her sex. An article entitled “The Gift of Prophecy,” published originally in “The Broadway Journal,” is a fine specimen of her manner. Mrs. Gove, however, has acquired less notoriety by her literary compositions than by her lectures on physiology to classes of females. These lectures are said to have been instructive and useful; they certainly elicited much attention. Mrs. G. has also given public discourses on Mesmerism, I believe, and other similar themes — matters which put to the severest test the credulity or, more properly, the faith of mankind. She is, I think, a Mesmerist, a Swedenborgian, a phrenologist, a homœopathist, and a disciple of Priessnitz — what more I am not prepared to say. She is rather below the medium height, somewhat thin, with dark hair and keen, intelligent black eyes. She converses well and with enthusiasm. In many respects a very interesting woman. ——— JAMES ALDRICH. MR. ALDRICH has written much for the magazines, etc., and at one time assisted Mr. Park Benjamin in the conduct of “The New World.” He also originated, I believe, and edited a not very long-lived or successful weekly paper, called “The Literary Gazette,” an imitation in its external appearance of the London journal of the same name. I am not aware that he has made any collection of his writings. His poems abound in the true poetic spirit, but they are frequently chargeable with plagiarism, or something much like it. True, I have seen but three of Mr. Aldrich's compositions in verse — the three (or perhaps there are four of them), included by Doctor Griswold in his “Poets and Poetry of America.” Of these three, (or four,) however, there are two which I cannot help regarding as palpable plagiarisms. Of one of them, in especial, “A Death-Bed,” it is impossible to say a plausible word in defence. Both in matter and manner it is nearly identical with a little piece entitled “The Death-Bed,” by Thomas Hood. The charge of plagiarism, nevertheless, is a purely literary one; and a plagiarism even distinctly proved by no means necessarily involves any moral delinquency. This proposition applies very especially to what appear to be poetical thefts. The poetic sentiment presupposes a keen appreciation of the beautiful with a longing for its assimilation into the poetic identity. What the poet intensely admires becomes, thus, in very fact, although only partially, a portion of his own soul. Within this soul it has a secondary origination; and the poet, thus possessed by another's thought, cannot be said to take of it possession. But in either view he thoroughly feels it as his own; and the tendency to this feeling is counteracted only by the sensible presence of the true, palpable origin of the thought in the volume whence he has derived it — an origin which, in the long lapse of years, it is impossible not to forget, should the thought itself, as it often is, be forgotten. But the frailest association will regenerate it: it springs up with all the vigor of a new birth; its absolute originality is not with the poet a matter even of suspicion; and when he has written it and printed it, and on its account is charged with plagiarism, there will be no one more entirely astounded than himself. Now, from what I have said, it appears that the liability to accidents of this character is in the direct ratio of the poetic sentiment, of the susceptibility to the poetic impression; and, in fact, all literary history demonstrates that, for the most frequent and palpable plagiarisms we must search the works of the most eminent poets. Since penning the above I have found five quatrains by Mr. Aldrich, with the heading “Molly Gray.” These verses are in the fullest exemplification of what I have just said of their author, evincing at once, in the most remarkable manner, both his merit as an imaginative poet and his unconquerable proneness to imitation. I quote the two concluding quatrains. “Pretty, fairy Molly Gray! What may thy fit emblems be? Stream or star or bird or flower — They are all too poor for thee. “No type to match thy beauty My wandering fancy brings — Not fairer than its chrysalis Thy soul with its golden wings!” Here the “Pretty, fairy Molly Gray!” will put every reader in mind of Tennyson's “Airy, fairy Lillian!” by which Mr. Aldrich's whole poem has been clearly suggested; but the thought in the finale is, as far as I know anything about it, original, and is not more happy than happily expressed. Mr. Aldrich is about thirty-six years of age. In regard to his person there is nothing to be especially noted. ——— THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. (1) I HAVE seen one or two brief poems of considerable merit with the signature of THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH appended. For example: AZTHENE. “A sound melodious shook the breeze When thy beloved name was heard: Such was the music in the word Its dainty rhythm the pulses stirred. But passed forever joys like these. There is no joy, no light, no day; But black despair and night alway, And thickening gloom: And this, Azthene, is my doom. “Was it for this, for weary years, I strove among the sons of men, And by the magic of my pen — Just sorcery — walked the lion's den Of slander void of tears and fears — And all for thee? For thee! — alas, As is the image on a glass So baseless seems, Azthene, all my earthly dreams.” I must confess, however, that I do not appreciate the “dainty rhythm” of such a word as “Azthene,” and, perhaps, there is a little taint of egotism in the passage about “the magic” of Mr. English's pen. Let us be charitable, however, and set all this down under the head of “pure imagination” or invention — one of the first of poetical requisites. The inexcusable sin of Mr. E. is imitation — if this be not too mild a term. Barry Cornwall and others of the bizarre school are his especial favorites. He has taken, too, most unwarrantable liberties, in the way of downright plagiarism, from a Philadelphian poet whose high merits have not been properly appreciated — Mr. Henry B. Hirst. I place Mr. English, on my list of New York literati, not on account of his poetry, (which I presume he is not weak enough to estimate very highly,) but on the score of his having edited for several months, “with the aid of numerous collaborators,” a monthly magazine called “The Aristidean.” This work, although professedly a “monthly,” was issued at irregular intervals, and was unfortunate, I fear, in not attaining at any period a very extensive circulation. I learn that Mr. E. is not without talent; but the fate of “The Aristidean” should indicate to him the necessity of applying himself to study. No spectacle can be more pitiable than that of a man without the commonest school education busying himself in attempts to instruct mankind on topics of polite literature. The absurdity in such cases does not lie merely in the ignorance displayed by the would-be instructor, but in the transparency of the shifts by which he endeavors to keep this ignorance concealed. The editor of “The Aristidean,” for example, was not laughed at so much on account of writing “lay” for “lie,” etc. etc., and coupling nouns in the plural with verbs in the singular — as where he writes, above, “—— so baseless seems, Azthene, all my earthly dreams —” he was not, I say, laughed at so much for his excusable deficiencies in English grammar (although an editor should certainly be able to write his own name) as that, in the hope of disguising such deficiency, he was perpetually lamenting the “typographical blunders” that “in the most unaccountable manner” would creep into his work. Nobody was so stupid as to suppose for a moment that there existed in New York a single proof-reader — or even a single printer's devil — who would have permitted such errors to escape. By the excuses offered, therefore, the errors were only the more obviously nailed to the counter as Mr. English's own. I make these remarks in no spirit of unkindness. Mr. E. is yet young — certainly not more than thirty-five — and might, with his talents, readily improve himself at points where he is most defective. No one of any generosity would think the worse of him for getting private instruction. I do not personally know Mr. English. He is, I believe, from Philadelphia, where he was formerly a doctor of medicine, and subsequently took up the profession of law; more latterly he joined the Tyler party and devoted his attention to politics. About his personal appearance there is nothing very observable. I cannot say whether he is married or not. ——— HENRY CARY. DOCTOR GRISWOLD introduces MR. CARY