Part 11

In a notice some four years since in these pages of the 'Motley Book'[2] by the author of the above-named productions, we expressed our conviction, and gave the grounds for our belief, that Mr. MATHEWS had mistaken his vocation; that he exhibited a mind capacious enough of vague dreams and dim similitudes of humor, but that there was no naturalness in his descriptions, and no distinctness in his pictures; that his observation of men and things was cursory and superficial, and that his style was of such a character that the reader was often led to doubt whether he always affixed any very precise idea to the language which he employed. We excepted from these remarks, we remember, a serious sketch or two of the writer, 'The Potters'-Field,' and 'The Unburied Bones,' as evincing a degree of spirit and pathos, which justified us in counselling him, if he must needs write, to confine his literary efforts to that species of composition. Since the period to which we have referred, Mr. MATHEWS has continued to write and print, with great industry and perseverance, what he must have considered works of humor and satire; but we are sorry to be compelled to add, without exhibiting the slightest improvement. Like MICHAEL CASSIO, Mr. MATHEWS, when he sits down to pen, ink, and paper, 'sees a mass of objects, but nothing _distinctly_.' He has a large grasp of small things, without selection and without cohesion; his ideas, if they may be _called_ ideas, are often diffuse, pointless, and apparently aimless; and it is impossible for any intelligent reader to resist the conclusion that his 'wit's diseased,' in one sense, at least. Let us take, as an illustration of the justice of our animadversions, the 'Comedy' whose title stands first at the head of this notice. From the strutting boldness of the language in the preface, the reader is led to conclude, evidently with the author, that an 'American dramatist' has at last arisen, who is to present the proof that 'America contains within itself material quite adequate for any class of literary productions;' that there is 'no lack of materials for comedy in our country and among ourselves;' and that here we have a dramatic attempt which is to furnish 'countenance to the Cause of true National Literature.' In consonance with Mr. MATHEWS'S own opinions of his 'Comedy,' is his modest request that nobody should 'interfere with his privileges as its author, or prevent him from deriving such emoluments from its representation as are equitably his due.' Probability rather favors the conclusion, we think, that no person ever did! The writer adds, also, that he 'would be greatly rejoiced' if the play should be 'the thing' to awaken the National Legislature to a 'realizing sense' of its duty in the matter of international copy-right! Such is the character of the introduction to the public of the 'Comedy' before us. Now for a taste of its quality.

[2] SEE the KNICKERBOCKER for December, 1838.

The first act opens with a dialogue between a political candidate and his 'chum' touching 'the use of a church-bell' to bring out the voters, who are to be wrought upon by an announcement of the fact that 'the steeple is in the hands of their party,' whose ticket is to be 'spread on the weather-cock.' After a discussion of various modes of catching voters, which we should be glad to have the reader _see_, but which we must 'respectfully decline' to _quote_, we come to the annexed characteristic specimen of our author's wit. Stand aside, reader; for the text says: 'Enter BOTCH:'

BOTCH. Have you heard this rumor, Sir?

GUDGEON. What rumor, for Heaven's sake? They haven't bought up all the large flags in the ward?

BOTCH. No, Sir.

GUDGEON. Have they got in a new barrel of beer? or hired Blaster, the popular trumpeter? I spoke to him myself last night. They haven't engaged Murphy's two starved horses, that always operate so on the popular sympathies and bring up so many voters?

BOTCH. None of these, Sir!

GUDGEON. What then, Botch? Be quick--what then?

BOTCH. Why, Sir, the Brisk party is going to use the belfry of the church to distribute tickets from, and they intend to employ the sexton to read prayers every morning of the election from the small window in the steeple.

GUDGEON. This must be counteracted: it will have an overwhelming effect. We shall have the whole religious community moving against us in platoons, pew by pew!

BOTCH. Something must be done, Sir; I see clearly something must be done. What shall it be, Sir?

GUDGEON. Yes, something must be done.

BOTCH. Certainly; something must be done.

GUDGEON. What then, in the name of Heaven, shall it be? Couldn't we get Glib to climb the steeple above the window and deliver an harangue? It might do away with the evil influence of the proceedings below, and give us a tremendous ascendency at once.

BOTCH. I doubt whether Mr. Glib would undertake it, even if he could snatch a notary's commission from the weathercock, as the chances of being made a martyr of by stoning would be considerable.

In the fourth scene there is a new effect given to stage song-singing, by a Mr. BLANDING, one of the characters, which should neither be lost to dramatic writers, theatrical persons, nor to 'the world.' A fragment will suffice, we suspect:

BLANDING. (_From within._) Fol-la--_my heart_--andino--_has gently_--sa--_felt_--allegro--allegro--_sweet Kate_--piano--_the sharp and sure revenge of fate_--La-mi-fol-sa.

CRUMB. The fit is coming upon him.

BLANDING. _Oh smile upon the gloomy wave That bears me to a gloomier grave._

That goes badly in andante--so-fa-me-fi-so.

BLANDING. _And fly_--too slow--_and fly_--allegro--allegro, _And fly with me._ Prestissimo.

CRUMB. (_Breaking in._) Heigh-ho! how is this, Sir? Are you trying to set a runaway match to music?

BLANDING. I beg your pardon, Sir--but--

CRUMB. You may well do that, and the pardon of the whole city council, if you please. Meditating a rhymed elopement with Miss Brisk, daughter of John Brisk, candidate for alderman of the ward! Why this is an audacious breach of ordinance.

Pass we now to the second act, wherein we find Mr. and Mrs. GUDGEON engaged in a remarkably humorous colloquy. He informs her that a committee has been appointed to 'have his own portrait of his individual self, ROBERT GUDGEON' taken; whereupon, among other things, Mrs. GUDGEON is led to remark, that now she has a presentiment that his election is safe. To which, 'thus then GUDGEON:'

GUDGEON. And so have I. Some great event is clearly at hand. We have had a meteor the other night that whizzed round the sky, like a large Catharine-wheel; then there has been a school of sixty whale cast ashore off Barnegat; and the Rain-King, only last Week, caught a storm on a lightning-rod, and held it there two days, notwithstanding the entreaties of the neighboring county, that was suffering sorely under a drouth. What do these things mean? what do they refer to? The approach of the comet foretold in the Farmer's Almanac; or, it may be so, (for I recollect the birth of my father's five-legged calf, in Danbury, was brought on by an early sun-rise,) the election of Robert Gudgeon as alderman.

Is not the wit of this undeniable? Does it not 'fortify like a cordial?' Yet it is not more striking than the humor of many other portions of the 'Comedy;' not more so indeed than several passages in the third act, especially in the dialogue between CROWDER and the committee-men, concerning the means by which the candidate is to recommend himself to his constituents, though it were to 'run a _sewer_ through his pocket (!) and drain it to the last cent.' The committee do not 'sit' in their room at a tavern without 'creature comforts.' Observe: the landlord is called:

LANDLORD. (_From without._) Coming!

CROWDER. We want your bill. That will bring him up with it, short and quick.

LANDLORD. (_From without._) It's e'en a'most made out; only a few items to add.

_Enter_ LANDLORD.

CROWDER. Come, read it off, jolly Job Works, in a good clear half-price voice; by particulars, and it's cash on the nail. Begin!

LANDLORD. That I likes; 'four sperm candle'; Nothing like the ready metal; 'Two quarts beer, with snuffers.'

CROWDER. Well, he has a fine throat of his own; it smacks of the spigot.

LANDLORD. Room-hire, cigars, and two juleps, with benches.

CROWDER. Well.

LANDLORD. A small pig with lemon.

CROWDER. A pig with lemon!

LANDLORD. Two plates pickled beans, two rolls twisted bread, and beer extra.

CROWDER. Beans, bread, and beer!

LANDLORD. Six lobster and two pound sage-cheese; likewise a splendid pork-pie made of chops.

CROWDER. A splendid pork-pie made of chops!

LANDLORD. And a suet pudding.

CROWDER. Nothing else?

LANDLORD. Nothing else.

The landlord declares, in answer to a little grumbling, that 'the things' named in the bill were 'sent down for' from the committee-room by way of the chimney, in a stone-bottle 'as big-as my two-fist,' which struck his cook, 'poor hunch-back JENNY, in the small, or rather I should say in the big of her back, as she was stooping over a dish of _prawns_ (?) for Tom Lug!' CROWDER pays, of course, in the usual way; but his rival is not to be outdone by such liberality. He 'bears a charmed life:' for Mrs. GUDGEON has 'told him to buy fresh chick-weed and goose-grass to carry in his pocket, because they say it draws voters!'

But enough. If our readers desire more of Mr. MATHEWS' 'Comedy,' they must seek it elsewhere. We have selected the liveliest passages we could find: for there is a calm placidity of emptiness, diversified with a bustling inanity of thought, in _other_ portions of this performance, which we have small desire to illustrate by examples; since they would not fail to produce at least twenty yawns to a page; a soporific that neither watchman not sick-nurse could support.

We come next in order to the poems on '_Man, in his Various Aspects under the American Republic_;' a very comprehensive title to much incomprehensible rhyme with little reason. As a poet, Mr. MATHEWS cannot reasonably expect to take the exalted order of rank which he holds as a dramatist. That indeed were expecting quite too much! To use the illustration of a nautical critic, his plan of writing-verse would seem to be, to 'fire away with the high-soundingest words he can get, whereby his meaning looms larger than it is, like a fishing-boat in a fog.' Where there is such a ground-swell of language, there can be no great depth of ideas. Yet there _are_ good ideas in some of the lines in these ten-score of pages, borne down though they be, and almost smothered, with words. For the most part, however, the volume presents but a farrago of crude expressions, ideas, and pictures, some poetical and others 'quite the reverse,' aggregated in a rude and undigested mass. The writer treats, under nineteen divisions, of Man as child, father, teacher, citizen, farmer, mechanic, merchant, soldier, statesman, etc.; and from some of these we propose to select a few examples of Mr. MATHEWS'S thoughts and style poetical. The following stanza is taken from the advice given to 'the father' of an infant:

'A soul distinct and sphered, its own true star, Shining and _axled_ for a separate way.'

An 'axled soul' is good, as POLONIUS would say; but it is not much better than one or two equally original expressions which ensue:

'BE thou a Heaven of truth and cheerful hope, Clear as the clear round midnight at its full; And he, the Earth beneath that elder cope-- And each 'gainst each for highest mastery pull: The child and father, each shall fitly be-- Hope in the evening vanward paling down, The one--the other younger Hope upspringing, With the glancing morning for its crown.'

The writer counsels 'the citizen' not to 'overstalk' his brother, but to show in his mien 'each motion _forthright_, calm, and free;' and he farther advises in the words following, to wit:

'FEEL well with the poised ballot in thy hand, Thine unmatched sovereignty of right and wrong: 'Tis thine to bless or blast the waiting land, _To shorten up its life or make it long_.'

In the annexed stanza there is an assortment of similes, the like of which one seldom encounters in so brief a compass. The lines are addressed to 'the farmer;' and we are acquainted with several excellent persons among that indispensable class of the community, to whom we should like to hear Mr. MATHEWS _read_ them! It would be a 'rich treat' to hear their opinion of such pellucid poetry:

'WHEN cloud-like whirling through the stormy State Fierce Revolutions rush in wild-orbed haste, On the still highway stay their darkling course, And soothe with gentle airs their fiery breast; Slaking the anger of their chariot-wheels In the cool flowings of the mountain brook, While from the cloud the heavenward prophet casts His mantle's peace, and _shines his better look_.'

Cloud-like revolutions stopping on the highway to slake their chariot-wheels in a mountain-brook! If that isn't 'original poetry' we know not what is. Now the opening of the piece from which the above stanza is taken we have no doubt is considered by the writer quite inferior to it; but to our conception, the nature and simplicity which it preserves for a moment are worth all the striking figures to which we have alluded. 'The mechanic,' whose business is to 'shape and _finish forth_ iron and wood,' comes in for his share of rythmical counsel:

'LET consecrate, whate'er it strikes, each blow, From the small whisper of the tinkling smith, Up to the big-voiced sledge that heaving slow Roars 'gainst the massy bar, and tears Its entrail, glowing, as with angry teeth-- Anchors that hold a world should thus-wise grow.'

Observe the felicitousness of the foregoing poetical terms. The 'tinkling smith,' and the 'big-voiced sledge' _roaring_ against an iron bar, and tearing out its _entrails_ with angry _teeth_! Could appropriateness and power of metaphor reach much beyond this? 'Not good,' we suspect. We thought to have given our friends, 'the merchants,' a lift with Mr. MATHEWS'S moral instruction; but we can only remind them, with his assistance, that

'Undimmed _the man_ should through _the trader_ shine, And show the soul _unbabied_ by his craft.'

'Next comes the soldier,' to whom Mr. MATHEWS thus addresses himself:

'With grounded arms, and silent as the mountains, Pause for thy quarrel at the _marbled sea_.'

'Marbled sea' is good; as good as 'the mobled queen.' It might perhaps assist the effect a little, if the reader knew what it meant. Possibly the writer knows; yet we doubt it. The next stanza presents a cloudy vision of the sublime obscure:

'THOUGH sleeps the war-blade in the _amorous_ sheath, And the dumb cannon stretches at _his leisure_-- When strikes the shore a hostile foot--out-breathe Ye grim, loud guns--ye fierce swords work your pleasure! And sternly, in your stubborn socket set, For life or death--_your hilt upon the stedfast land_, Your glance upon the foe, thou sure-set bayonet, Firm 'gainst a world's shock in your _fastness_ stand!'

'The statesman' is not less felicitously 'touched off' than the soldier:

'DEEPER to feel, than quickly to express, And then alone in the consummate act; _Reaps not the ocean, nor the free air tills_, But keeps within his own peculiar tract; Confirms the State in all its needful right, Nor strives to draw within its general bound; For gain or loss, for glory or distress, The rich man's hoard, the _poor man's patchy ground_.'

'Hold, enough!' doubtless exclaims the reader. Yet could we go on to the end of the volume with just such 'poetry' as this. We must ask the farther attention of 'the curious' to be directed to the work itself, while we proceed to glance for a moment at the production last cited at the head of this notice.

The swelling prelude to '_The Career of Puffer Hopkins_' is kindred in assumption and manner with the preface to the 'Comedy,' to which we have already adverted. 'CERVANTES, SMOLLET, FIELDING, and SCOTT, to say nothing of more recent examples,' are modestly invoked, to show that the author cannot justly be charged with caricaturing. We yield the point, without the examples. A caricature always bears some resemblance to an original; but Mr. MATHEWS'S characters have _no_ originals. They are in no respect _vraisemblant_. Take his whole catalogue of names, (in themselves _so_ 'funny!') his 'Hobbleshank,' 'Piddleton Bloater,' 'Mr. Gallipot,' 'Mr. Blinker,' 'Mr. Fishblaat,' 'Attorney Pudlin,' 'Mr. Fyler Close,' 'Alderman Punchwind,' 'Mr. Shirks,' 'Counsellor Blast,' 'Dr. Mash,' 'Mr. Bust,' 'Mr. Flabby,' etc.; analyze them, if possible, and tell us if any one of them ever had any thing like a counterpart in 'the heavens above, in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth?' Are they any more distinctive, _internally_, than 'the pie-faced man,' or the man 'with features like a dried codfish suddenly animated,' _externally_? 'Not a jot, not a jot,' will be the reply of every one who attentively scans them. The death of 'Fob' partakes in a good degree of the pathetic, and justifies the counsel which we gave the writer in our notice of 'The Motley Book.' It is however as evidently suggested by kindred scenes in the writings of DICKENS, as is the writer's raven and coffin-maker's apprentice. We have not the space, had we either the leisure or the inclination, to attempt a notice in detail of 'Puffer Hopkins.' We say 'attempt,' because it defies criticism. It has neither plot nor counterplot; neither head nor tail. Memory, it has been well said, is the best of critics; but we doubt if there be a scene or part of a scene, in the entire work, that could be segregated and recalled by the recollection of the reader. Aimless grotesqueness; the most laborious yet futile endeavors after wit; and a constant unsuccessful straining for effect; are its prominent characteristics. Take up the book, reader, open it _any where_, and peruse two pages; and if you do not acquit us entirely of undue depreciation in this verdict, place no faith hereafter in our literary judgment. Let us open it at random for an illustrative passage or two. In the following, Puffer (after receiving a lecture on political speech-making, in which among other things he is told, to 'roll his eye-balls back under the lid, and _smell of the chandelier_, though the odor isn't pleasant!') is thus further instructed:

'IT'S best to rise gradually with your hearers; and, if you can have a private understanding with one of the waiters, to fix a chair conveniently, a wooden-bottomed Windsor, mind, and none of your rushers; for it's decidedly funny and destroys the effect, to hear a gentleman declaiming about a sinking fund, or a penal code, or the abolition of imprisonment for debt, up to his belly in a broken chair-frame. As the passion grows upon you, plant your right leg on one of the rounds, then on the bottom, and finally, when you feel yourself at red-heat, spring into the chair, waive your hat, and call upon the audience to die for their country, their families and their firesides; or any other convenient reason. As Hobbleshank advanced in his discourse, he had illustrated its various topics by actual accompaniments; mounting first on his legs, then the bench, and ended by leaping upon the table, where he stood brandishing his broken hat, and shouting vociferously for more oysters.'

There are other suggestions; such as having 'immense telescopes constructed, and planted where they could command the interior of every domicil in the ward, and tell what was in every man's pot for dinner six days in a week;' together with a 'great ledger, with leaves to open like doors, on which should be a full-length likeness of each voter, drawn and colored to the life,' even 'down to his vest-buttons, and a mote in his eye!' Who shall say that _this_ isn't 'genuine humor?' Here too is 'a touch of _nature_,' such as Mr. MATHEWS delights in. An electioneerer or 'scourer' of the wards visits a theatrical 'lightning-maker,' (a highly _probable_ character,) at his laboratory, where the following witty dialogue ensues:

'THIS profession of yours,' said Puffer--he dared not call it a trade, although the poor workman was up to his eyes in vile yellow paste and charcoal-dust--'this profession, Sir, must give you many patriotic feelings of a high cast, Sir.'

'It does, Sir,' answered the lightning-maker, slightly mistaking his meaning; 'I've told the manager more than fifty times that lightning such as mine is worth ninepence a bottle, but he never would pay more than fourpence ha'penny: except in volcanoes; them's always two-quarters.'

'I mean, Sir,' continued the scourer, 'that when you see the vivid fires blazing on Lake Erie; when Perry's working his ship about like a velocipede, and the guns are bursting off, and the enemy paddling away like ducks; is not your soul then stirred, Sir? Do you not feel impelled to achieve some great, some glorious act? What do you do, what can you do, in such a moment of intense, overwhelming excitement?'

'_I_ generally,' answered the lightning-maker with an emphasis upon the personal pronoun, as if some difference of practice might possibly prevail, '_I_ generally takes a glass of beer, with the froth on.'

'But, Sir, when you see the dwelling-house roof, kindled by your bomb-shells, all a-blaze with the midnight conflagration: the rafters melting away, I may say, with the intense heat, and the engines working their pumps in vain; don't you think then, Sir, of some peaceful family, living in some secluded valley, broken in upon by the heartless incendiary with his demon-matches, and burning down their cottage with all its outhouses?'

'In such cases,' answered the lightning-maker, 'I thinks of my two babies at home, with their poor lame mother; and I makes it a point, if my feelings is very much wrought up, as the prompter says, to run home between the acts to see that all's safe, and put a bucket of water by the hearth. Isn't that the thing?'

'I think it is; and I'm glad to hear you talk so feelingly,' answered Puffer Hopkins; 'our next mayor's a very domestic-minded man; just such a man as you are; only I don't believe he'd be so prudent and active about the bucket on the hearth.'

'At this, the lightning-maker smiled pleasantly to himself, and _unconsciously thrust a large roll of brimstone in his cheek_.'

Oh, for modern schepen, to laugh himself to death at this fine 'burst' of nature and of wit! Holding both his sides, how would he guffaw at that brimstone mistake! 'How _can_ you make me laugh so, when I am so sick?' Well, well; it _is_ funny, certainly; but wait until you read this fragment of 'burning satire' upon the political press: