Letters from New York, Part III [pp. 308-312]

1849.3 * Letters from New York. 309
and expanded into a noble maturity. Many
writers had sprung up-some like flowers, some
like trees, some like fungi. A literary man was
no rara avis in terris. Mr. Cooper had seemingly forgotten this: he thought he should find
things, in all respects, precisely as he had left
them. He fully believed that Mr. Irving and
himself were the only living American authors
of any note whatsoever. He was undeceived
quickly and forcibly. His presence excited little
or no observation. Not a being turned to look
at him, as he walked, consciously celebrated, up
Broadway. No digit was pointed in his direction. Few, except his old friends, came to pay
their respects or "see the elephant." He was
not "dined" or " partied" more than any respectable gentleman would have been under the circumstances. Scarcely was he lionized at all.
He found himself' one of many."
Instead of receiving such neglect coolly, Mr.
Cooper scolded, and took upon himself the duties of an offended and unappreciated Mentor.
Among other matters which he had failed to note
was the advance in power of our newspaper
press. It was small enough when he first went
to Europe. It had, moreover, always lauded
him, even while he was gone (except on one
occasion, when he attributed a severe criticism
on the "Bravo" to the envy of the king of the
French) "to the top of his bent." What must
have been his surprise, his indignation, his scorn,
upon finding that the newspapers dared to animadvert upon the line of conduct he thought fit
to pursue-upon his severe comments on his na tive country, his invectives, his sarcasms, his ridi cule, his unconcealed contempt? Instead of meet ing the editors with their own weapons, in a fight
which he had wantonly commenced, on a field
of his own choosing (for he began in the news papers) he fled to the Sanctuary of the Law! in stituted numerous " civil suits" for libel, procured
indictments from Grand Juries, and did his "lit tle best" to annoy and worry the press into si lence. He failed lamentably. The press, even
to this day, continues its strictures on his books,
and proclaims "the truth with boldness." For
myself, I write utterly without prejudice. I would
praise Mr. Cooper's "new work," as the pub lishers say, as readily as another man's; but no
fears of so irate an author would deter me from
"scoring" him, when he merits such an applica tion. I hesitate not to pronounce "The Sea Lions" a very stupid novel, tedious, dismal; loose
in its style, ill-constructed, poorly begun, feebly
continued, and lamely ended; and, being an "in dependent American," I beg leave to observe to
the illustrious author in the words of Patrick
Henry, "if that is a libel, sir, make the most
of it!'
Do not, Mr. Editor, esteem me in a fault-finding mood, when I tell you that I am disappointed
in another book "just out." Mr. Melville's
"Mardi" is likewise a failure. The attempt was
considerable; the labor of production must have
been great, since every page fairly reeks with
"the smoke of the lamp." I read "Typee" with
very great pleasure, and was among the first to
set forth its extraordinary beauties, not readily
appreciated by the public. I also liked "Omoo,"
though wisely and not "too well." "Mardi"
is the superlative third in descending degrees.
" Typee" good; "Omoo" less good; " Mardi"
least good. Let me quote the latter's preface.
It is brief-and in this praiseworthy-almost "as
the posy of a ring." Le voici.
"Not long ago, having published two narratives of voyages in the Pacific, which, in many
quarters, were received with incredulity, the
thought occurred to me of indeed writing a romance of Polynesian adventure, and publishing
it as such: to see whether the fiction might not
possiblybe received for a verity; in some degree
the reverse of my former experience. This
thought was the germ of other,, which have resulted in Mardi."
The above clumsily expressed paragraph means,
I presume, that as Mr. Melville's facts have been
mistaken for fictions, he wishes to see if his fictions will be mistaken for facts. On this point
he may set his mind entirely at rest. Although
it is by no means a good way to make people
receive the false for the true, by forewarning them
of your design, there can be no reader so intensely verdant, as not to discern the grossness and
utter improbabilities of the fabrications in "Mardi." There is, moreover, a continual straining
after effect, an effort constantly at fine writing, a
sacrifice of natural ease to artificial witticism.
To borrow an expression from the stable, Mr.
Melville "feels his oats." He has been overfed
with praise. He has a reputation to lose, and he
must write up to it. He is "somebody." When
he, unconscious of his fine genius, created "Ty pee," he was nobody, on Fame's record. His
very name had a doubtful, romantic sound. It
was thought to be a mere "nom de plume." But
it was real, whatever was "Typee," and so it be came "'great in mouths of wisest censure."
What a pity! For we might have had more
such delightful books as Typee!
Mr. Irving's "Book of the Hudson" is cool
and pleasant summer reading. Its style is very
like the flow of a river "at its own sweet will."
Let me commend the charming volume to all
travellers.
I have not read Mr. Willis's "Rural Letters
and other Records of Thought at Leisure," ex cept in some of those parts of which the whole
Letters from New York.
309
1849.] 3