 | The prose works of N.P. Willis |  |
THE AUTHOR OF PENCILLINGS BY THE WAY,
TO THE READER OF THIS EDITION.
A word or two of necessary explanation, dear reader.
I had resided on the Continent for several years, and
had been a year in England, without being suspected.
I believe, in the societies in which I lived, of any habit
of authorship. No production of mine had ever
crossed the water, and my Letters to the New-York
Mirror, were (for this long period, and I presumed
would be for ever), as far as European readers were
concerned, an unimportant and easy secret. Within
a few months of returning to this country, the Quarterly
Review came out with a severe criticism on the
Pencillings by the Way, published in the New York
Mirror. A London publisher immediately procured
a broken set of this paper from an American resident
there, and called on me with an offer of £300 for an
immediate edition of what he had—rather less than
one half of the Letters in this present volume. This
chanced on the day before my marriage, and I left immediately
for Paris,—a literary friend most kindly undertaking
to look over the proofs, and suppress what
might annoy any one then living in London. The
book was printed in three volumes, at about $7 per
copy, and in this expensive shape three editions were
sold by the original publisher. After his death a duodecimo
edition was put forth, very beautifully illustrated;
and this has been followed by a fifth edition,
lately published, with new embellishments, by Mr.
Virtue. The only American edition (long ago out of
print) was a literal copy of this imperfect and curtailed
book.
In the present complete edition, the Letters objected
to by the Quarterly, are, like the rest, re-published as
originally written. The offending portions must be,
at any rate, harmless, after being circulated extensively
in this country in the Mirror, and prominently quoted
from the Mirror in the Quarterly,—and this being
true, I have felt that I could gratify the wish to be put
fairly on trial for these alleged offences—to have a
comparison instituted between my sins, in this respect,
and Hamilton's, Muskau's, Von Raumer's, Marryat's
and Lockhart's—and so to put a definite value and
meaning upon the constant and vague allusions to
these iniquities with which the critiques of my contemporaries
abound. I may state as a fact, that the
only instance in which a quotation by me from the
conversation of distinguished men gave the least of
fence in England, was the one remark made by Moore
the poet at a dinner party, on the subject of O'Connell.
It would have been harmless, as it was designed to be,
but for the unexpected celebrity of my Pencillings;
yet with all my heart I wished it unwritten.
I wish to put on record in this edition (and you need
not be at the trouble of perusing them unless you
please, dear reader!) an extract or two from the London
prefaces to “Pencillings,” and parts of two articles
written apropos of the book's offences.
The following is from the Preface to the first London
edition:—
“The extracts from these Letters which have appeared
in the public prints, have drawn upon me much
severe censure. Admitting its justice in part, perhaps
I may shield myself from its remaining excess by a
slight explanation. During several years' residence
in Continental and Eastern countries, I have had opportunities
(as attaché to a foreign Legation) of seeing
phases of society and manners not usually described
in books of travel. Having been the Editor, before
leaving the United States, of a monthly review, I
found it both profitable and agreeable to continue my
interest in the periodical in which that Review was
merged at my departure, by a miscellaneous correspondence.
Foreign courts, distinguished men, royal
entertainments, &c., &c.,—matters which were likely
to interest American readers more particularly—have
been in turn my themes. The distance of America
from these countries, and the ephemeral nature and
usual obscurity of periodical correspondence, were a
sufficient warrant to my mind that the descriptions
would die where they first saw the light, and fulfil only
the trifling destiny for which they were intended.
I indulged myself, therefore, in a freedom of detail
and topic which is usual only in posthumous memoirs
—expecting as soon that they would be read in the
countries and by the persons described, as the biographer
of Byron and Sheridan that these fruitful and
unconscious themes would rise from the dead to read
their own interesting memoirs! And such a resurrection
would hardly be a more disagreeable surprise to
that eminent biographer, than was the sudden appearance
to me of my own unambitious Letters in the
Quarterly Review.
“The reader will see (for every Letter containing the
in the English papers) that I have in some
slight measure corrected these Pencillings by the
Way. They were literally what they were styled—
notes written on the road, and despatched without a
second persual; and it would be extraordinary if, between
the liberty I felt with my material, and the haste
in which I scribbled, some egregious errors in judgment
and taste had not crept in unawares. The Quarterly
has made a long arm over the water to refresh
my memory on this point. There are passages I
would not re-write, and some remarks on individuals
which I would recal at some cost, and would not willingly
see repeated in these volumes. Having conceded
thus much, however, I may express my surprise
that this particular sin should have been visited upon
me, at a distance of three thousand miles, when the
reviewer's own literary fame rests on the more aggravated
instance of a book of personalities published
under the very noses of the persons described. Those
of my Letters which date from England were written
within three or four months of my first arrival in this
country. Fortunate in my introductions, almost embarrassed
with kindness, and, from advantages of comparison
gained by long travel, qualified to appreciate
keenly the delights of English society, I was little disposed
to find fault. Everything pleased me. Yet in
one instance—one single instance—I indulged myself
in stricture upon individual character, and I repeat it
in this work, sure that there will be but one person in
the world of letters who will not read it with approbation—the
editor of the Quarterly himself. It was expressed
at the time with no personal feeling, for I had
never seen the individual concerned, and my name had
probably never reached his ears. I but repeated what
I had said a thousand times, and never without an indignant
echo to its truth—an opinion formed from the
most dispassionate perusal of his writings—that the
editor of that Review was the most unprincipled critic
of his age. Aside from its flagrant literary injustice,
we owe to the Quarterly, it is well known, every spark
of ill-feeling that has been kept alive between England
and America for the last twenty years. The sneers,
the opprobrious epithets of this bravo in literature,
have been received in a country where the machinery
of reviewing was not understood, as the voice of the
English people, and an animosity for which there was
no other reason, has been thus periodically fed and
exasperated. I conceive it to be my duty as a literary
man—I know it is my duty as an American—to lose
no opportunity of setting my heel on the head of this
reptile of criticism.”
The following is part of an article, written by myself,
on the subject of personalities, for a periodical in
New-York:—
“There is no question, I believe, that pictures of
living society where society is in very high perfection,
and of living persons, where they are “persons of
mark,” are both interesting to ourselves, and valuable
to posterity. What would we not give for a description
of a dinner with Shakspere and Ben Jonson—
of a dance with the Maids of Queen Elizabeth—of a
chat with Milton in a morning call? We should say
the man was a churl, who, when he had the power,
should have refused to `leave the world a copy' of
such precious hours. Posterity will decide who are
the great of our time—but they are at least among
those I have heard talk, and have described and quoted,
and who would read without interest, a hundred
years hence, a character of the second Virgin Queen,
caught as it was uttered in a ball-room of her time?
or a description of her loveliest Maid of Honor, by
one who had stood opposite her in a dance, and wrote
it before he slept? or a conversation with Moore or
Bulwer?—when the Queen and her fairest maid, and
Moore and Bulwer have had their splendid funerals,
and are dust, like Elizabeth and Shakspere?
“The harm, if harm there be in such sketches,
is in the spirit in which they are done. If
they are ill-natured or untrue, or if the author says
aught to injure the feelings of those who have admitted
him to their confidence or hospitality, he is to
blame, and it is easy, since he publishes while his
subjects are living, to correct his misrepresentations,
and to visit upon him his infidelities of friendship.
“But (while I think of it) perhaps some fault-finder
will be pleased to tell me, why this is so much deeper
a sin in me than in all other travellers. Has Basil
Hall any hesitation in describing a dinner party in the
United States, and recording the conversation at table?
Does Miss Martineau stick at publishing the portrait
of a distinguished American and faithfully recording
all he says in a confidential tête-à-tête? Have Captain
Hamilton and Prince Pukler, Von Raumer and Captain
Marryat, any scruples whatever about putting
down anything they hear that is worth the trouble, or
of describing any scene, private or public, which
would tell in their book, or illustrate a national peculiarity?
What would their books be without this class
of subjects? What would any book of travels be,
leaving out everybody the author saw, and all he
heard? Not that I justify all these authors have done
in this way, for I honestly think they have stepped
over the line which I have but trod close upon.
Surely it is the abuse and not the use of information
thus acquired that makes the offence.
The most formal, unqualified, and severe condemnation
recorded against my Pencillings, however, is
that of the renowned Editor of the Quarterly, and to
show the public the immaculate purity of the forge
where this long-echoed thunder is manufactured, I
will quote a passage or two from a book of the same
description, by the Editor of the Quarterly himself.
`Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk,' by Mr. Lockhart,
are three volumes exclusively filled with portraits of
persons, living at the time it was written in Scotland,
their conversation with the author, their manners,
their private histories, etc., etc. In one of the letters
upon the `Society of Edinburgh,' is the following
delicate passage:—
“Even you, my dear Lady Johnes, are a perfect
tyro in this branch of knowledge. I remember, only
your might the legs of Col. B—, those flimsy,
worthless things that look as if they were bandaged
with linen rollers from the heel to the knee. You
may say what you will, but I still assert, and I will
prove it if you please by pen and pencil, that, with
one pair of exceptions, the best legs in Cardigan are
Mrs. P—'s. As for Miss J— D—'s, I think
they are frightful.'
“Two pages farther on he says:—
“`As for myself, I assure you that ever since I spent
a week at Lady L—'s, and saw those great fat girls
of her waltzing every night with that odious De
B—, I can not endure the very name of the thing.'
“I quote from the second edition of these letters, by
which it appears that even these are moderated passages.
A note to the first of the above quotations runs
as follows:—
“`A great part of this letter is omitted in the Second
Edition in consequence of the displeasure its publication
gave to certain ladies in Cardiganshire. As for
the gentleman who chose to take what I said of him
in so much dudgeon, he will observe, that I have allowed
what I said to remain in statu quo, which I certainly
should not have done, had he expressed his resentment
in a proper manner.'
“So well are these unfortunate persons' names known
by those who read the book in England, that in the
copy which I have from a circulating library, they are
all filled out in pencil. And I would here beg the
reader to remark that these are private individuals,
compelled by no literary or official distinction to come
out from their privacy and figure in print, and in this,
if not in the taste and quality of my descriptions, I
claim a fairer escutcheon than my self-elected judge
—for where is a person's name recorded in my letters
who is not, either by tenure of public office, or literary,
or political distinction, a theme of daily newspaper
comment, and of course fair game for the traveller.
“I must give one more extract from Mr. Lockhart's
book, an account of a dinner with a private merchant
of Glasgow.
“`I should have told you before, that I had another
visiter early in the morning, besides Mr. H. This
was a Mr. P—, a respectable merchant of the place,
also an acquaintance of my friend W—. He came
before H—, and after professing himself very sorry
that his avocations would not permit him to devote
his forenoon to my service, he made me promise to
dine with him. * * My friend soon joined me,
and observing from the appearance of my countenance
that I was contemplating the scene with some
disgust,' (the Glasgow Exchange) “My good fellow,'
said he, `you are just like every other well-educated
stranger that comes into this town; you can not
endure the first sight of us mercantile whelps. Do
not, however, be alarmed; I will not introduce you to
any of these cattle at dinner. No, sir! You must
know that there are a few men of refinement and polite
information in this city. I have warned two or three
of these raræ aves, and depend upon it, you shall have
a very snug day's work.' So saying he took my arm,
and observing that five was just on the chap, hurried
me through several streets and lanes till we arrived in
the —, where his house is situated. His wife was,
I perceived, quite the fine lady, and, withal, a little of
the blue stocking. Hearing that I had just come
from Edinburgh, she remarked that Glasgow would be
seen to much more disadvantage after that elegant
city. `Indeed,' said she, `a person of taste, must, of
course, find many disagreeables connected with a residence
in such a town as this; but Mr. P—'s business
renders the thing necessary for the present, and
one can not make a silk purse of a sow's ear—he, he,
he!' Another lady of the company carried this affectation
still farther; she pretended to be quite ignorant
of Glasgow and its inhabitants, although she had lived
among them the greater part of her life, and, by the
by, seemed no chicken. I was afterward told by my
friend Mr. H—, that this damsel had in reality sojourned
a winter or two in Edinburgh, in the capacity
of lick-spittle or toad-eater to a lady of quality, to
whom she had rendered herself amusing by a malicious
tongue; and that during this short absence, she
had embraced the opportunity of utterly forgetting
everything about the West country.
“`The dinner was excellent, although calculated apparently
for forty people rather than sixteen, which
last number sat down. While the ladies remained in
the room, there was such a noise and racket of coarse
mirth, ill-restrained by a few airs of sickly sentiment
on the part of the hostess, that I really could neither
attend to the wine nor the dessert; but after a little
time a very broad hint from a fat Falstaff, near the foot
of the table, apparently quite a privileged character,
thank Heaven! sent the ladies out of the room. The
moment after which blessed consummation, the butler
and footman entered, as if by instinct, the one with a
huge punch bowl, the other with &c.”'
I do not thank Heaven that there is no parallel in
my own letters to either of these three extracts. It
is a thing of course that there is not. They are violations
of hospitality, social confidence, and delicacy,
of which even my abusers will allow me incapable.
Yet this man accuses me of all these things, and so
runs criticism!
And to this I add (to conclude this long Preface)
some extracts from a careful review of the work in
the North American:—
“`Pencillings by the Way,' is a very spirited
book. The letters, out of which it is constructed,
were written originally for the New York `Mirror,'
and were not intended for distinct publication. From
this circumstance, the author indulged in a freedom
of personal detail, which we must say is wholly unjustifiable,
and we have no wish to defend it. This
book does not pretend to contain any profound observations
or discussions on national character, political
condition, literature, or even art. It would be obviously
impossible to carry any one of these topics
thoroughly out, without spending vastly more time
and labor upon it than a rambling poet is likely to
men, who are qualified, by the nature of their previous
studies, to do this with any degree of edification to
their readers. But a man of general intellectual culture,
especially if he have the poetical imagination
superadded, may give us rapid sketches of other
countries, which will both entertain and instruct us.
Now this book is precisely such a one as we have
here indicated. The author travelled through Europe,
mingling largely in society, and visited whatever
scenes were interesting to him as an American, a
scholar, and a poet. The impressions which these
scenes made upon his mind, are described in these
volumes; and we must say, we have rarely fallen in
with a book of a more sprightly character, a more
elegant and graceful style, and full of more lively
descriptions. The delineations of manners are executed
with great tact; and the shifting pictures of
natural scenery pass before us as we read, exciting a
never-ceasing interest. As to the personalities which
have excited the wrath of British critics, we have, as
we said before, no wish to defend them; but a few
words upon the tone, temper, and motives, of those
gentlemen, in their dealing with our author, will not,
perhaps, be considered inappropriate.
“It is a notorious fact, that British criticism, for
many years past, has been, to a great extent, free
from all the restraints of a regard to literary truth.
Assuming the political creed of an author, it would
be a very easy thing to predict the sort of criticism
his writings would meet with, in any or all of the
leading periodicals of the kingdom. This tendency
has been carried so far, that even discussions of points
in ancient classical literature have been shaped and
colored by it. Thus, Aristophanes' comedies are
turned against modern democracy, and Pindar, the
Theban Eagle, has been unceremoniously classed
with British Tories, by the London Quarterly. Instead
of inquiring `What is the author's object?
How far has he accomplished it? How far is that
object worthy of approbation?'—three questions that
are essential to all just criticism; the questions put
by English Reviewers are substantially `What party
does he belong to? Is he a Whig, Tory, Radical,
or is he an American?' And the sentence in such
cases depends on the answer to them. Even where
British criticism is favorable to an American author,
its tone is likely to be haughty and insulting; like the
language of a condescending city gentleman toward
some country cousin, whom he is kind enough to
honor with his patronage.
Now, to critics of this sort, Mr. Willis was a tempting
mark. No one can for a moment believe that the
London Quarterly, Frazer's Magazine, and Captain
Marryat's monthly, are honest in the language they
hold toward Mr. Willis. Motives, wide enough from
a love of truth, guided the conduct of these journals.
The editor of the London Quarterly, it is well known,
is the author of `Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk,' a
work full of personalities, ten times more objectionable
than anything to be found in the `Pencillings.'
Yet this same editor did not blush to write and print
a long and most abusive tirade upon the American
traveller, for doing what he had himself done to a
much greater and more reprehensible extent; and, to
cap the climax of inconsistency, republished in his
journal the very personalities, names and all, which
had so shocked his delicate sensibilities. It is much
more likely that a disrespectful notice of the London
Quarterly and its editor, in these `Pencillings,' was
the source from which this bitterness flowed, than that
any sense of literary justice dictated the harsh review.
Another furious attack on Mr. Willis's book appeared
in the monthly journal, under the editorial management
of Captain Marryat, the author of a series of
very popular sea novels. Whoever was the author of
that article, ought to be held disgraced in the opinions
of all honorable men. It is the most extraordinary
tissue of insolence and coarseness, with one exception,
that we have ever seen, in any periodical which pretended
to respectability of literary character. It carries
its grossness to the intolerable length of attacking
the private character of Mr. Willis, and throwing out
foolish sneers about his birth and parentage. It is
this article which led to the well-known correspondence,
between the American Poet and the British
Captain, ending in a hostile meeting. It is to be regretted
that Mr. Willis should so far forget the principles
of his New England education, as to participate
in a duel. We regard the practice with horror; we
believe it not only wicked, but absurd. We can not
possibly see how Mr. Willis's tarnished fame could be
brightened by the superfluous work of putting an additional
quantity of lead into the gallant captain. But
there is, perhaps, no disputing about tastes; and, bad
as we think the whole affair was, no candid man can
read the correspondence without feeling that Mr.
Willis's part of it is infinitely superior to the captain's,
in style, sense, dignity of feeling, and manly honor.
“But, to return to the work from which we have
been partially drawn aside. Its merits in point of
style are unquestionable. It is written in a simple,
vigorous, and highly descriptive form of English, and
rivets the reader's attention throughout. There are
passages in it of graphic eloquence, which it would be
difficult to surpass from the writings of any other
tourist, whatever. The topics our author selects, are,
as has been already stated, not those which require
long and careful study to appreciate and discuss; they
are such as the poetic eye would naturally dwell upon,
and a poetic hand rapidly delineate, in a cursory survey
of foreign lands. Occasionally, we think, Mr.
Willis enters too minutely into the details of the horrible.
Some of his descriptions of the cholera, and
the pictures he gives us of the catacombs of the dead,
are ghastly. But the manners of society he draws
with admirable tact; and personal peculiarities of distinguished
men, he renders with a most life-like vivacity.
Many of his descriptions of natural scenery
are more like pictures, than sketches in words. The
description of the Bay of Naples will occur as a good
example.
“It would be impossible to point out, with any degree
of particularity, the many passages in this book
whose beauty deserves attention. But it may be remarked
in general, that the greater part of the first
volume is not so fresh and various, and animated, as
the second. This we suppose arises partly from the
fact that France and Italy have long been beaten
ground; but Greece and Asia Minor have a newness
of interest about them, which can not but give more
vigor and elasticity to a traveller's description. Mr.
Willis's account of the Ionian Islands is exceedingly
lively; and his contrast between present scenes and
classic associations is highly amusing.
“We think most readers will find Mr. Willis's
sketches of Turkish scenes and Turkish life, the most
entertaining parts of his book. They are written
with great sprightliness, and will richly reward a careful
perusal.
“The last part of the book is a statement of the
author's observations upon English life and society;
and it is this portion, which the English critics affect
to be so deeply offended with. The most objectionable
passage in this is the account of a dinner at Lady
Blessington's. Unquestionably Mr. Moore's remarks
about Mr. O'Connell ought not to have been reported,
considering the time when, and the place where, they
were uttered; though they contain nothing new about
the great Agitator, the secrets disclosed being well
known to some millions of people who interest themselves
in British politics, and read the British newspapers.
We close our remarks on this work by referring
our readers to a capital scene on board a
Scotch steam-boat, and a breakfast at Professor Wilson's,
the famous editor of Blackwood, both in the
second volume, which we regret our inability to
quote.”
“Every impartial reader must confess, that for so
young a man, Mr. Willis has done much to promote
the reputation of American literature. His position
at present is surrounded with every incentive to a noble
ambition. With youth and health to sustain him
under labor; with much knowledge of the world acquired
by travel and observation, to draw upon; with
a mature style, and a hand practised in various forms
of composition, Mr. Willis's genius ought to take a
wider and higher range than it has ever done before.
We trust we shall meet him again, erelong, in the
paths of literature; and we trust that he will take it
kindly, if we express the hope, that he will lay aside
those tendencies to exaggeration, and to an unhealthy
tone of sentiment, which mar the beauty of some of
his otherwise most agreeable books”
| The prose works of N.P. Willis | |