LATROBE'S RAMBLER.
LATROBE'S RAMBLER.
The Rambler in North America, 1832-33. By Charles Joseph Latrobe, Author of "The Alpenstock," &c. New York; Harper and Brothers.
Mr. Latrobe is connected with a lineage of missionaries. He belongs to an English family long and honorably distinguished by their exertions in the cause of Christianity. His former work, "The Alpenstock," we have not seen—but the London Quarterly Review calls it "a pleasing and useful manual for travellers in Switzerland." The present volumes (dedicated to Washington Irving, whom Mr. L. accompanied in a late tour through the Prairies,) consist of thirty-seven letters addressed to F. B. Latrobe, a younger brother of the author. They form, upon the whole, one of the most instructive and amusing books we have perused for years.
By no means blind to our faults, to our foibles, or to our political difficulties, Mr. Latrobe has travelled from Dan to Beersheba without finding all barren. His observations are not confined to some one or two subjects, engrossing his attention to the exclusion, or to the imperfect examination, of all others. His wanderings among us have been apparently guided by a spirit of frank and liberal curiosity; and he deserves the good will of all Americans, (as he has most assuredly secured their esteem) by viewing us, not with a merely English eye, but with the comprehensive glance of a citizen of the world.
To speak in detail of a work so subdivided as "The Rambler in North America," would occupy too much of our time. We can, of course, only touch, in general terms, upon its merits and demerits. The latter, we can assure our readers, are few indeed. One instance, nevertheless, of what must be considered false inference from data undeniably correct, is brought to bear so pointedly against our social and political principles, and is, at the same time, so plausible in itself, and so convincingly worded, as to demand a sentence or two of comment. We quote the passage in full, the more willingly, as we perceive it dwelt upon with much emphasis, by the London Quarterly Review.
"There are certain signs, perhaps it might be said of the times, rather than of their peculiar political arrangements, which should make men pause in their judgment of the social state in America. The people are emancipated from the thraldom of mind and body which they consider consequent upon upholding the divine right of kings. They are all politically equal. All claim to place, patronage, or respect, for the bearer of a great name is disowned. Every man must stand or fall by himself alone, and must make or mar his fortune. Each is gratified in believing that he has his share in the government of the Union. You speak against the insane anxiety of the people to govern—of authority being detrimental to the minds of men raised from insignificance—of the essential vulgarity of minds which can attend to nothing but matter of fact and pecuniary interest—of the possibility of the existence of civilization without cultivation,—and you are not understood! I have said it may bethe spirit of the times, for we see signs of it, alas, in Old England; but there must be something in the political atmosphere of America, which is more than ordinarily congenial to that decline of just and necessary subordination, which God has both permitted by the natural impulses of the human mind, and ordered in His word; and to me the looseness of the tie generally observable in many parts of the United States between the master and servant—the child and the parent—the scholar and the master—the governor and the governed—in brief the decay of loyal feeling in all the relations of life, was the worst sign of the times. Who shall say but that if these bonds are distorted and set aside, the first and the greatest—which binds us in subjection to the law of God—will not also be weakened, if not broken? This, and this alone, short-sighted as I am, would cause me to pause in predicting the future grandeur of America under its present system of government and structure of society."
In the sentence beginning, "I have said it may be the spirit of the times, for we see signs of it, alas, in Old England,but there must be something,"&c.Mr. Latrobe has involved himself in a contradiction. By the words, "but there must be something in the political atmosphere of America which is more than ordinarily congenial to"insubordination, he implies (although unintentionally) that our natural impulses lead us in this direction—and that these natural impulses are permitted by God, we, at all events, are not permitted to doubt. In the words immediately succeeding those just quoted, he maintains (what is very true) that "subordinationwas both permitted by God in the natural impulses of the human mind, and ordered in His word." The question thus resolves itself into a matter ofthenandnow—of times past and times present—of the days of the patriarchs and of the days of widely disseminated knowledge. The infallibility of the instinct of those natural impulses which led men to obey in the infancyof all things, we have no intention of denying—we must demand the same grace for those natural impulses which prompt men to govern themselves in the senectitude of the world. In the sentence, "Who shall say but that if these bonds are distorted and set aside, the first and the greatest—which binds us in subjection to the law of God—will not also be weakened, if not broken?" the sophistry is evident; and we have only a few words to say in reply. In the first place, the writer has assumed that those bonds are "distorted" and "set aside" which are merely slackened to an endurable degree. In the second place, the "setting aside" these bonds, (granting them to be set aside) so far from tending to weaken our subjection to the law of God, will the more readily confirm that subjection, inasmuch as our responsibilities to man have been denied, through the conviction of our responsibilities to God, and—to God alone.
We recommend "The Rambler" to the earnest attention of our readers. It is the best work on America yet published. Mr. Latrobe is a scholar, a man of intellect and a gentleman.
THE SOUTH-WEST.
THE SOUTH-WEST.
The South-West. By a Yankee. New York: Published by Harper and Brothers.
This work, from the pen of Professor Ingraham, rivals the book of which we have just been speaking, in degree—although not in quality—of interest. Mr. Latrobe has proved himself a man of the world, an able teacher, and a philosopher. Professor Ingraham is an amusing traveller, full of fun, gossip, and shrewd remark. In all that relates to the "Mechanics of book-writing," the Englishman is immeasurably the superior.
Mr. I. in his "Introduction," informs us that his work "grew out of a private correspondence, which the author, at the solicitation of his friends, has been led to throw into the present form, modifying in a great measure the epistolary vein, and excluding, so far as possible, such portions of the original papers as were of too personal a nature to be intruded upon the majesty of the public—while he has embodied, so far as was compatible with the new arrangement, every thing likely to interest the general reader." The aim of the writer, we are also told, has been to present the result of his experience and observations during a residence of several years in that district of our country which gives the title to the work. It is, indeed, a matter for wonder that a similar object has never been carried into execution before. The South-West, embracing an extensive and highly interesting portion of the United States, is completelycaviareto the multitude. Very little information, upon whose accuracy reliance may be placed, has been hitherto made public concerning these regions of Eldorado—and were the volumes of Professor Ingraham absolutely worthless in every other respect, we should still be inclined to do them all possible honor for their originality in subject matter. But the "South-West" is very far from worthless. In spite of a multitude of faults which the eye of rigid criticism might easily detect—in spite of some inaccuracies in point of fact, many premature opinions, and an inveterate habit of writing what neither is, nor should be English, the Professor has succeeded in making a book, whose abiding interest, coming home to the bosoms and occupations of men, will cause any future productions of the same author to be looked for with anxiety.
The "Yankee," in travelling Southward, has evidently laid aside the general prejudices of a Yankee—and, viewing the book of Professor Ingraham, as representing, in its very liberal opinions, those of a great majority of well educated Northern gentlemen, we are inclined to believe it will render essential services in the way of smoothing down a vast deal of jealousy and misconception. The traveller from the North has evinced no disposition to look with a jaundiced eye upon the South—to pervert its misfortunes into crimes—or distort its necessities into sins of volition. He has spoken of slavery as he found it—and it is almost needless to say that he found it a very different thing from the paintings he had seen of it in red ochre. He has discovered, in a word, that while thephysicalcondition of the slave isnotwhat it has been represented, the slave himself is utterly incompetent to feel themoralgalling of his chain. Indeed, we cordially agree with a distinguished Northern contemporary and friend, that the Professor's strict honesty, impartiality, and unprejudiced common sense, on the trying subject which has so long agitated our community, is the distinguishing and the most praiseworthy feature of his book. Yet it has other excellences, and excellences of a high character. As a specimen of the picturesque, we extract a passage beginning at page 27, vol. i.
"'Keep away a little, or you'll run that fellow down,' suddenly shouted the captain to the helmsman; and the next moment the little fishing vessel shot swiftly under our stern, just barely clearing the spanker boom, whirling and bouncing about in the wild swirl of the ship's wake like a 'Masallah boat' in the surf of Madras.
"There were on board of her four persons, including the steersman—a tall, gaunt old man, whose uncovered gray locks streamed in the wind as he stooped to his little rudder to luff up across our wake. The lower extremities of a loose pair of tar-coated duck trowsers, which he wore, were incased, including the best part of his legs, in a pair of fisherman's boots, made of leather, which would flatten a rifle ball. His red flannel shirt left his hairy breast exposed to the icy winds, and a huge pea-jacket, thrown, Spanish fashion, over his shoulders, was fastened at the throat by a single button. His tarpaulin—a little narrow-brimmed hat of the pot-lid tribe, secured by a ropeyarn—had probably been thrown off in the moment of danger, and now hung swinging by a lanyard from the lower button-hole of his jacket.
"As his little vessel struggled like a drowning man in the yawning concave made by the ship, he stood with one hand firmly grasping his low, crooked rudder, and with the other held the main sheet, which alone he tended. A short pipe protruded from his mouth, at which he puffed away incessantly; one eye was tightly closed, and the other was so contracted in a network of wrinkles, that I could just discern the twinkle of a gray pupil, as he cocked it up at our quarter-deck, and took in with it the noble size, bearing, and apparel of our fine ship.
"A duplicate of the old helmsman, though less battered by storms and time, wearing upon his chalky locks a red, woollen, conical cap, was 'easing off' the foresheet as the little boat passed; and a third was stretching his neck up the companion ladder, to stare at the 'big ship,' while the little carroty-headed imp, who was just the old skipperrazeed, was performing the culinary operations of his little kitchen under cover of the heavens."
The portions of the book immediately relating to New Orleans—its odd buildings—its motley assemblageof inhabitants—their manners and free habitudes, have especially delighted us; and cannot fail, of delighting, in general, all lovers of the stirring and life-like. A novelist of talent would find New Orleans the place of all places for the localities of a romance—and in such case he might derive important aid from the "South-West" of Professor Ingraham. At page 140, vol. i, we were much interested in the following account of a fire.
"As I gained the front of this mass of human beings, that activity which most men possess, who are not modelled after 'fat Jack,' enabled me to gain an elevation whence I had an unobstructed view of the whole scene of conflagration. The steamers were lying side by side at the Levée, and one of them was enveloped in wreaths of flame, bursting from a thousand cotton bales, which were piled, tier above tier, upon her decks. The inside boat, though having no cotton on board, was rapidly consuming, as the huge streams of fire lapped and twined around her. The night was perfectly calm, but a strong whirlwind had been created by the action of the heat upon the atmosphere, and now and then it swept down in its invisible power, with the 'noise of a rushing mighty wind,' and as the huge serpentine flames darted upward, the solid cotton bales would be borne round the tremendous vortex like feathers, and then—hurled away into the air, blazing like giant meteors—would descend heavily and rapidly into the dark bosom of the river. The next moment they would rise and float upon the surface, black unshapely masses of tinder. As tier after tier, bursting with fire, fell in upon the burning decks, the sweltering flames, for a moment smothered, preceded by a volcanic discharge of ashes, which fell in showers upon the gaping spectators, would break from their confinement, and darting upward with multitudinous large wads of cotton, shoot them away through the air, filling the sky for a moment with a host of flaming balls. Some of them were borne a great distance through the air, and falling lightly upon the surface of the water, floated, from their buoyancy, a long time unextinguished. The river became studded with fire, and as far as the eye could reach below the city, it presented one of the most magnificent, yet awful spectacles, I had ever beheld or imagined. Literally spangled with flame, those burning fragments in the distance being diminished to specks of light, it had the appearance, though far more dazzling and brilliant, of the starry firmament. There were but two miserable engines to play with this gambolling monster, which, one moment lifting itself to a great height in the air, in huge spiral wreaths, like some immense snake, at the next would contract itself within its glowing furnace, or coil and dart along the decks like troops of fiery serpents, and with the roaring noise of a volcano."
Having spoken thus far of the "South-West," in terms of commendation, we must now be allowed to assert, in plain words, what we have before only partially hinted, that the Professor is indebted, generally, for his success, more to the innate interest of his subject matter, than to his manner of handling it. Numerous instances of bad taste occur throughout the volumes. The constant straining after wit and vivacity is a great blemish. Faulty constructions of style force themselves upon one's attention at every page. Gross blunders in syntax abound. The Professor does not appear to understand French. This is no sin in itself—but to quote what one does not understand is a folly. Turks' Headsà la Grec, for example, is ridiculous—see page 34, vol. i. Bulls too are occasionally met with—which are none the better for being classical bulls. We cannot bear to hear of Boreas blowing Zephyrs.
POETRY OF LIFE.
POETRY OF LIFE.
The Poetry of Life. By Sarah Stickney, Author of "Pictures of Private Life." Philadelphia: Republished by Carey, Lea, and Blanchard.
These two volumes are subdivided as follows. Characteristics of Poetry—Why certain objects are, or are not poetical—Individual Associations—General Associations—The Poetry of Flowers—The Poetry of Trees—The Poetry of Animals—The Poetry of Evening—The Poetry of the Moon—The Poetry of Rural Life—The Poetry of Painting—The Poetry of Sound—The Poetry of Language—The Poetry of Love—The Poetry of Grief—The Poetry of Woman—The Poetry of the Bible—The Poetry of Religion—Impression—Imagination—Power—Taste—Conclusion.
In a Preface remarkable for neatness of style and precision of thought, Miss Stickney has very properly circumscribed within definite limits the design of her work—whose title, without such explanation, might have led us to expect too much at her hands. It would have been better, however, had the fair authoress, by means of adifferenttitle, which her habits of accurate thinking might have easily suggested, rendered this explanation unnecessary. Except in some very rare instances, where a context may be tolerated, if not altogether justified, a work, either of the pen or the pencil, should contain within itself every thing requisite for its own comprehension. "The design of the present volumes," says Miss Stickney, "is to treat of poetic feeling, rather than poetry; and this feeling I have endeavored to describe as the great connecting link between our intellects and our affections; while the customs of society, as well as the license of modern literature, afford me sufficient authority for the use of the wordlifein its widely extended sense, as comprehending all the functions, attributes, and capabilities peculiar to sentient beings."
We remember having read the "Pictures of Private Life" with interest of no common kind, and with a corresponding anxiety to know something more of the author. In them were apparent the calm enthusiasm, and theanalytical love of beauty, which are now the distinguishing features of the volumes before us. We have perused the "Poetry of Life" with an earnestness of attention, and a degree of real pleasure very seldom excited in our minds. It is a work giving evidence of more profundity than discrimination—with no ordinary quantum of either. What is said, if not always indisputable, is said with a simplicity, and a scrupulous accuracy which leave us, not for one moment, in doubt of what is intended, and impress us, at the same time, with a high opinion of the author's ability. Miss Stickney's manner is very good—her English pure, harmonious, in every respect unexceptionable. With a strong understanding, and withal a keen relish for the minor forms of poetic excellence—astrictnessof conception which will ever prevent her from running into gross error—she is still, we think, insufficiently alive to thedelicaciesof the beautiful—unable fully to appreciate theenergiesof the sublime.
We were forcibly impressed with these opinions, in looking over, for the second time, the chapter of our fair authoress, "On the Poetry of Language." What we have just said in relation to her accuracy of thought and expression, and her appreciation of the minor formsof poetic excellence, will be exemplified in the passage we now quote, beginning at page 187, vol. i.
"There can scarcely be a more beautiful and appropriate arrangement of words, than in the following stanza from Childe Harold:
"Without committing a crime so heinous as that of entirely spoiling this verse, it is easy to alter it so as to bring it down to the level of ordinary composition; and thus we may illustrate the essential difference between poetry and mere versification.
"It is impossible not to be struck with the harmony of the original words as they are placed in this stanza. The very sound is graceful, as well as musical; like the motion of the winds and waves, blended with the majestic movement of a gallant ship. 'The sails were filled' conveys no association with the work of man; but substitute the wordtrimmed, and you see the busy sailors at once. The word 'waft' follows in perfect unison with the whole of the preceding line, and maintains the invisible agency of the 'light winds;' while the word 'glad' before it, gives an idea of their power as an unseen intelligence. 'Fading' is also a happy expression, to denote the gradual obscurity and disappearing of the 'white rocks;' but the 'circumambient foam' is perhaps the most poetical expression of the whole, and such as could scarcely have proceeded from a low or ordinary mind."
All this is well—but what follows is not so. "It may be amusing"—says Miss Stickney, at page 189, "to see how a poet, and that of no mean order, can undesignedly murder his own offspring"—and she proceeds to extract, from Shelley, in illustration, some passages, of whose exquisite beauty she has evidently not the slightest comprehension. She commences with
"Sicken" is here italicized; and the author of the "Poetry of Life" thinks the word so undeniably offensive as to render a farther allusion to it unnecessary. A few lines below, she quotes, in the same tone of criticism, the terrific image in the Ode to Naples.
And again, on the next page, from the same author—
Miss Stickney should immediately burn her copy of Shelley—it is to her capacities a sealed book.
MISS SEDGWICK'S SKETCHES.
MISS SEDGWICK'S SKETCHES.
Tales and Sketches. By Miss Sedgwick, Author of "The Linwoods," "Hope Leslie," &c. &c. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard.
This volume includes—A Reminiscence of Federalism—The Catholic Iroquois—The Country Cousin—Old Maids—The Chivalric Sailor—Mary Dyre—Cacoëthes Scribendi—The Eldest Sister—St. Catharine's Eve—Romance in Real Life—and the Canary Family.
All of these pieces, we believe, have been published before. Of most of them we can speak with certainty—for having, in earlier days, been enamored of their pervading spirit of mingled chivalry and pathos, we cannot now forget them even in their new habiliments. Old Maids—The Country Cousin—and one or two others, we have read before—and should be willing to read again. These, our ancient friends, are worthy of the pen which wrote "Hope Leslie" and "The Linwoods." "Old Maids," in spite of the equivocal nature of its title, is full of noble and tender feeling—a specimen of fine writing, involving in its melancholy details what we must consider the beau-ideal of feminine disinterestedness—thene plus ultraof sisterly devotion. The "Country Cousin" possesses all the peculiar features of the tale just spoken of, with something more of serious and even solemn thought. The "Chivalric Sailor" is full of a very different, and of a more exciting, although less painful interest. We remember its original appearance under the title of "Modern Chivalry." The "Romance of Real Life" we now read for the first time—it is a tale of striking vicissitudes, but not the best thing we have seen from the pen of Miss Sedgwick—that a story is "founded on fact," is very seldom a recommendation. "The Catholic Iroquois" is also new to us—a stirring history of Christian faith and martyrdom. The "Reminiscence of Federalism" relates to a period of thirty years ago in New England—is a mingled web of merriment and gloom—and replete with engrossing interest. "Mary Dyre" is a veracious sketch of certain horrible and bloody facts which are a portion of the History of Fanaticism. Mary is slightly mentioned by Sewal, the annalist of "the people called Quakers," to which sect the maiden belonged. She died in vindicating the rights of conscience. This piece originally appeared in one of our Souvenirs. "St. Catherine's Eve" is "une histoire touchante qui montre à quel point l'enseignement religieux pouvoit étre perverti, et combien le Clergé étoit loin d'etre le gardien des mœurs publiques"—the tale appertains to the thirteenth century. "Cacoëthes Scribendi" is told with equal grace and vivacity. "The Canary Family" is a tale for the young—brief, pointed and quaint. But the best of the series, in every respect, is the sweet and simple history of "The Eldest Sister."
While we rejoice that Miss Sedgwick has thought proper to condense into their present form these evidences of her genius which have been so long floating at random before the eye of the world—still we think her rash in having risked the publication so immediately after "The Linwoods." None of these "Sketches" have the merit of an equal number of pages in that very fine novel—and the descent from good to inferior (although the inferior be very far from bad) is most generally detrimental to literary fame.Facilis descensus Averni.
REMINISCENCES OF NIEBUHR.
REMINISCENCES OF NIEBUHR.
Reminiscences of an Intercourse with Mr. Niebuhr, the Historian, during a Residence with him in Rome, in the years 1822 and 1823. By Francis Lieber, Professor of History and Political Economy in South Carolina College. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard.
Mr. Niebuhr has exercised a very powerful influence on the spirit of his age. One of the most important branches of human science has received, not only additional light, but an entirely novel interest and character from his exertions. Those historiographers of Rome who wrote before him, were either men of insufficient talents, or, possessing talents, were not practical statesmen. Niebuhr is the only writer of Roman history who unites intellect of a high order with the indispensable knowledge of what may be termed the art, in contradistinction to the science, of government. While, then, we read with avidity even common-place memorials of common-place men, (a fact strikingly characteristic of a period not inaptly denominated by the Germans "the age of wigs,") it cannot be supposed that a book like the one now before us, will fail to make a deep impression upon the mind of the public.
Beyond hisRoman History, our acquaintance extends to only one or two of Mr. Niebuhr's publications. We remember theLife of his Father, of which an English translation was printed some time ago, in one of the tracts of the Library of Useful Knowledge, issued under the direction of the Society for the diffusion of Useful Knowledge—and, we have seenThe Description of the City of Rome(one volume of it) which appeared in 1829 or '30, professedly by Bunsen and Platner, but in the getting up of which there can be no doubt of Mr. Niebuhr's having had the greater share.The Representation of the Internal Government of Great Britain, by Baron Von Vincke, Berlin, 1815, was also written, most probably, by Mr. N. who, however, announced himself as editor alone. "I published," says he, in the Reminiscences we are now reviewing, "I published the work on Great Britain after that unfortunate time when a foreign people ruled over us (Germans) with a cruel sword, and a heartless bureaucracy, in order to show what liberty is. Those who oppressed us called themselves all the time the harbingers of liberty, at the very moment they sucked the heart blood of our people; and we wanted to show what liberty in reality is." A translation of anEssay on the Allegory in the first canto of Dante, written by our historian during his perusal of the poet, and intended to be read, or perhaps actually read, in one of the learned societies of Rome, is appended to the present volume. Mr. L. copied it, by permission of the author, from the original in Italian, which was found in a copy of Dante belonging to Mr. Niebuhr. This Essay, we think, will prove of deeper interest to readers of Italian than even Mr. Lieber has anticipated. Its opinions differ singularly from those of all the commentators on Dante—the most of whom maintain that the wood (la selva) in this famous Allegory, should be understood as the condition of the human soul, shrouded in vice; the hill (il colle) encircled by light, but difficult of access, as virtue; and the furious beasts (il fere) which attack the poet in his attempt at ascending, as carnal sins—an interpretation, always putting us in mind of the monk in theGesta Romanorum, who, speaking of the characters in the Iliad, says—"My beloved, Ulysses is Christ, and Achilles the Holy Ghost: Helen represents the Human Soul—Troy is Hell—and Paris the Devil."
Dr. Francis Lieber himself is well known to the American public as the editor of the Encyclopædia Americana, in which compilation he was assisted by Edward Wigglesworth, and T. G. Bradford, Esqrs. The first original work of our author, we believe, was calledJournal of my Residence in Greece, and was issued at Leipzig in 1823. This book was written at the instigation of Mr. Niebuhr, who personally superintended the whole; Mr. L. reading to the historian and his wife, every morning at breakfast, what had been completed in the preceding afternoon. Since that period we have seen, from the same pen, onlyThe Stranger in America, in two volumes, full of interest and extensively circulated—and the book whose title forms the heading of this article.
Not the least striking portion of this latter work, is its Preface, embracing forty-five pages. Niebuhr's noble nature is, herein, rendered hardly more apparent than the mingled simplicity and enthusiasm of his biographer. The account given by Mr. L. of his first introduction to the Prussian minister—of the perplexing circumstances which led to that introduction—of his invitation to dinner, and consequent embarrassment on account of his scanty nether habiliments—of his final domestication in the house of his patron, and of the great advantages accruing to himself therefrom—are all related without the slightest attempt at prevarication, and in a style of irresistibly captivatingbonhommieandnaïveté.
Mr. Lieber went, in 1821, to Greece—led, as he himself relates, "by youthful ardor, to assist the oppressed and struggling descendants of that people, whom all civilized nations love and admire." With a thousand others, he was disappointed in the hope of rendering any assistance to the objects of his sympathy. He found it impossible either to fight, or to get a dinner—either to live or to die. In 1822, therefore he resolved, with many other Philhellenes, to return. Money, however, was scarce, and the adventurer had sold nearly every thing he possessed—but to remain longer was to starve. He accordingly "bargained with a Greek," and took passage at Missolonghi (Messalunghi) in a small vessel bound for Ancona. After a rough passage, during which the "tartan" was forced to seek shelter in the bay of Gorzola, the wished-for port was finally reached. Here, being altogether without money, Mr. Lieber wrote to a friend in Rome, enclosing the letter to an eminent artist. "My friend," says Mr. L. "happened to be at Rome, and to have money, and with the promptness of a German student, sent me all he possessed at the time." This assistance came very seasonably. It enabled the Philhellenist to defray the expenses of his quarantine at Ancona. Had he failed in paying them, the Captain would have been bound for the sum, and Mr. L. would have been obliged finally to discharge the debt, by serving as a sailor on board the Greek vessel.
Having, at length, obtained hispratica, he determined upon visiting Rome; and the anxiety with which he appears to have contemplated the defeat of his hopes in this respect is strikingly characteristic of the man. Hispassport was in bad order, and provisional, and he had to make his way with it through the police office at Ancona. He was informed too, that orders had been received from Rome forbidding the signature of passports in the possession of persons coming from Greece, except for a direct journey home. "You are a Prussian," said the officer, "and I must direct your passport home to Germany. I will direct it to Florence: your minister there may direct it back to Rome. Or I will direct it to any place in Tuscany which you may choose; for through Tuscany you must travel in order to reach Germany." Mr. L. assures us he never felt more wretched than on hearing this announcement. He had made his way round Rome without seeing the Eternal City. The examination of a map of Italy, however, gave him new hope. It pointed out to him how near the south-western frontier line of Tuscany approaches to Rome. The road from Ancona to Orbitello, he thought, was nearly the same as that to the object of his desires, and he therefore requested the officer to direct his passport to Orbitello. "Italians generally," says Mr. Lieber, "are exceedingly poor geographers." The gentleman whom he addressed, inquired of another in the adjoining room, whether Orbitello was in Tuscany, or belonged to the Papal territory. Mr. L. pointed out the place on the map: it was situated just within the colors which distinguished Tuscany from the other states of Italy. This satisfied the police, and the passport was made out.
Having hired a vetturino our traveller proceeded towards Orbitello. A few miles beyond Nepi, at the Colonneta, the road divides, and the coachman was desired to pursue the path leading to Rome. A bribe silenced all objections, and when near the city, Mr. L. jumped out of the carriage, and entered the Porta del Populo.
But it was impossible to dwell in Rome without the sanction of the police, and this sanction could not be obtained without a certificate from the Prussian minister that our friend's passport was in order. Mr. Lieber therefore "hoping that a scholar who had written the history of Rome could not be so cruel as to drive away thence a pilgrim without allowing him time to see and study it," resolved on disclosing his situation frankly to Mr. Niebuhr.
The Prussian minister resided at the Palazzo Orsini—he was engaged and could not be seen—but the secretary of the legation received the visiter kindly, and having learned his story, retired to an inner apartment. Soon afterwards he returned with a paper written in Mr. Niebuhr's own hand. It was the necessary permission to reside in Rome. A sum of money was at the same time presented to Mr. L. which the secretary assured him was part of a sum Prince Henry (brother to the reigning king,) had placed at the minister's disposal for the assistance of gentlemen who might return from Greece. Mr. L. was informed also that Niebuhr would see him on the following day. The result of the interview we must give in the words of our author.
When I went the next morning at the appointed time, as I thought, Mr. Niebuhr met me on the stairs, being on the point of going out. He received me with kindness and affability, returned with me to his room, made me relate my whole story, and appeared much pleased that I could give him some information respecting Greece, which seemed to be not void of interest to him. Our conversation lasted several hours, when he broke off, asking me to return to dinner. I hesitated in accepting the invitation, which he seemed unable to understand. He probably thought that a person in my situation ought to be glad to receive an invitation of this kind; and, in fact any one might feel gratified in being asked to dine with him, especially in Rome. When I saw that my motive for declining so flattering an invitation was not understood, I said, throwing a glance at my dress, "Really, sir, I am not in a state to dine with an excellency." He stamped with his foot, and said with some animation, "Are diplomatists always believed to be so cold-hearted! I am the same that I was in Berlin when I delivered my lectures: your remark was wrong."1No argument could be urged against such reasons.
1Das war Kleinlichwere his words.
I recollect that dinner with delight. His conversation, abounding in rich and various knowledge and striking observations; his great kindness; the acquaintance I made with Mrs. Niebuhr; his lovely children, who were so beautiful, that when, at a later period, I used to walk with them, the women would exclaim, "Ma guardate, guardate, che angeli!"—a good dinner (which I had not enjoyed for a long time) in a high vaulted room, the ceiling of which was painted in the style of Italian palaces; a picture by the mild Francia close by; the sound of the murmuring fountain in the garden, and the refreshing beverages in coolers, which I had seen, but the day before, represented in some of the most masterly pictures of the Italian schools;—in short, my consciousness of being at dinner with Niebuhr in his house in Rome—and all this in so bold relief to my late and not unfrequently disgusting sufferings, would have rendered the moment one of almost perfect enjoyment and happiness, had it not been for an annoyance which, I have no doubt, will appear here a mere trifle. However, reality often widely differs from its description on paper. Objects of great effect for the moment become light as air, and others, shadows and vapors in reality, swell into matters of weighty consideration when subjected to the recording pen;—a truth, by the way, which applies to our daily life, as well as to transactions of powerful effect;—and it is, therefore, the sifting tact which constitutes one of the most necessary, yet difficult, requisites for a sound historian.
My dress consisted as yet of nothing better than a pair of unblacked shoes, such as are not unfrequently worn in the Levant; a pair of socks of coarse Greek wool; the brownish pantaloons frequently worn by sea-captains in the Mediterranean; and a blue frock-coat, through which two balls had passed—a fate to which the blue cloth cap had likewise been exposed. The socks were exceedingly short, hardly covering my ankles, and so indeed were the pantaloons; so that, when I was in a sitting position, they refused me the charity of meeting, with an obstinacy which reminded me of the irreconcileable temper of the two brothers in Schiller's Bride of Messina. There happened to dine with Mr. Niebuhr another lady besides Mrs. Niebuhr; and my embarrassment was not small when, towards the conclusion of the dinner, the children rose and played about on the ground, and I saw my poor extremities exposed to all the frank remarks of quick-sighted childhood; fearing as I did, at the same time, the still more trying moments after dinner, when I should be obliged to take coffee near the ladies, unprotected by the kindly shelter of the table. Mr. Niebuhr observed, perhaps, that something embarrassed me, and he redoubled, if possible, his kindness.
After dinner he proposed a walk, and asked the ladies to accompany us. I pitied them; but as a gentleman of their acquaintance had dropped in by this time, who gladly accepted the offer to walk with us, they were spared the mortification of taking my arm. Mr. Niebuhr, probably remembering what I had said of my own appearance in the morning, put his arm under mine, and thus walked with me for a long time. Afterour return, when I intended to take leave, he asked me whether I wished for any thing. I said I should like to borrow his History. He had but one copy, to which he had added notes, and which he did not wish, therefore, to lend out of his house; but he said he would get a copy for me. As to his other books, he gave me the key of his library to take whatever I liked. He laughed when I returned laden with books, and dismissed me in the kindest manner.
Mr. Lieber became the constant companion of Niebuhr in his daily walks after dinner, during one of which the proposition was discussed to which we have formerly referred—that of our author's writing an account of his journey in Greece. In March 1823, the minister quitted Rome, and took Mr. Lieber with him to Naples. By way of Florence, Pisa, and Bologna, they afterwards went to the Tyrol—and in Inspruck they parted. A correspondence of the most familiar and friendly nature was, however, kept up, with little intermission, until the death of the historian in 1831.
Mr. Lieber disclaims the design of any thing like a complete record of all the interesting or important sentiments of Niebuhr during his own residence with him. He does not profess to give even all the most important facts or opinions. He observes, with great apparent justice, that he lived in too constant a state of excitement to record regularly all he saw or heard. His papers too were seized by the police—and have undergone its criticism. Some have been lost by this process, and others in a subsequent life of wandering. Still we can assure our readers that those presented to us in the present volume, are of the greatest interest. They enable us to form a more accurate idea of the truly great man to whom they relate than we have hitherto entertained, and have moreover, not unfrequently, an interest altogether their own.
YOUNG WIFE'S BOOK.
YOUNG WIFE'S BOOK.
The Young Wife's Book; A Manual of Moral, Religious, and Domestic Duties. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard.
We can conscientiously recommend this little book, not only to that particular class of our fair friends for whom it is most obviously intended, but, in general, to all lovers of good reading. We had expected to find in it a series of mere homilies on the Duties of a Wife, but were agreeably disappointed. Such things are, no doubt, excellent in their way, but unhappily are rarely of much service, for the simple reason that they are rarely read. Unless strikingly novel, and well written, they are too apt to be disregarded. The present volume is made up of mingled amusement and instruction. Short and pithyLessons on Moral Duties, on theMinor Obligations of Married Life, onManners, onFashion, onDress—Dialogues, andAnecdotesconnected with subjects of a similar nature—form the basis of the book.
In one respect we must quarrel with the publication. Neither the title page, nor the Preface, gives us any information in regard to the biblical history of the work. It may be taken for granted that every reader, in perusing a book, feels some solicitude to know, for example,who wrote it;or (if this information be not attainable,) at leastwhere it was written—whether in his native country, or in a foreign land—whether it be original or a compilation—whether it be a new publication or are-publication of old matter—whether we are indebted for it to one author, or to more than one—in short, all those indispensable details which appertain to a bookconsidered merely as a book. The habit of neglecting these things, is becoming very prevalent in America. Works are dailyre-published, from foreign copies, without anyprimâ facieevidence by which we may distinguish them from original publications; and many a reader, of light literature especially, finds himself in the dilemma of praising or condemning unjustly as American, what, most assuredly, he has no good reason for supposing to be English.
In theYoung Wife's Booknow before us, areseventy-threearticles. Of these,oneis credited to the thirty-first chapter ofProverbs—ninetoStandford's Lady's Gift—andtwoto anOld English Divine. Somefourorfivebelong to theSpectator. Seven or eight we recognize as old acquaintances without being able to call to mind where we have seen them; and about fifteen or twenty bear internal evidence of a foreign origin. Of the balance we know nothing whatever beyond their intrinsic merit, which is, in all instances, very great. Judgment and fine taste have been employed, undoubtedly, in the book. As a whole it is excellent—but, for all we know to the contrary, it may have been originally written, translated, or compiled, in Philadelphia, in London, or in Timbuctoo.