ÆäÀÌÁö À̹ÌÁö
PDF
ePub

Eschylus did partially; but none before Turner had lifted the veil from the face of nature; the majesty of the hills and forests had received no interpretation, and the clouds passed unrecorded from the face of the heavens which they adornedof the earth to which they ministered."

Now, we have nothing to say of the merits of this distinguished artist. We live too near his day, are too much distracted by the eager arguments and impassioned declamation of his friends and foes, to form any thing like a calm, unbiased judgment of his exact position in the great assembly of landscape painters. Bitter detraction and unmeasured eulogy fell to his lot during life, and the feelings which gave rise to both are still kept alive. When both alike have died, then we may be able to get at the truth in reference to his great merits.

There remain to be noticed, two departments of the art, Portrait painting, and that higher class of pictures, which are usually designated as Historical and Ideal, but are more commonly known by the appellation of High Art. It would be manifestly doing injustice to ourselves and our readers, to introduce these important subjects at the end of an article, already sufficiently extended. It is our intention, therefore, at some future day, to devote a separate paper to their consideration.

For the present, we shall content ourselves with having stated the general principles on which all art should be based, and with having thereby laid a foundation for any future remarks on this theme that we may deem worthy the attention of our readers.

29

ART. VI.-RUTH HALL; A Domestic Tale of the Present Time. By FANNY FERN. New York: published by Mason Brothers. 1855.

NOWHERE is the present activity of the female mind more prominently displayed than in literature. Christianity reclaimed woman from the serfdom of barbarism and the sensualism of Gentile civilization, and modern enlightenment, if not yet permitting her the ballot-box, has welcomed her to the walks of poetry, romance and history; she has free use of pen and pulpit. English literature is especially rich in female authors, some of whom have shown as much force, tenderness and truth, as if they had been born sons instead of daughters of genius. "Pendennis" excepted, we know of no modern book more manly, more vigorous, or more impassioned than "Jane Eyre," or "Villette ;" and certainly not one, save, perhaps, the finest parts of the "Caxtons" and "My Novel," to compare with the biblical pathos and simplicity of "Ruth," by Mrs. Gaskins. We are also disposed to rank Miss Strickland with any of the chroniclers and annalists of the day, and to place the name of Mrs. Jamieson high on the list of authors of the first rank. But such efforts and such successes are comprehensible, and within the province of difficult possibility. We can believe that woman, restored to speech after centuries of silence, should have something to saysome truths to utter, some secrets to reveal to her mates and her masters; and it is natural that we should listen to the opening of the sweet mouths sealed fast for all the ages since Sappho sang. We can even understand the momentary triumph of "Uncle Tom," (and such black saints are never bred out of the house of bondage.) The dramatic picturesqueness and home-life or nationality of Mrs. Stowe's book, to say nothing of its political interest and eloquent fanaticism, sufficiently explain its sale and popularity. But "Ruth Hall," the title of the book which we have quoted, is another matter. The volume itself, and its immense circulation, are eminently deserving the serious consideration of every Review that pretends to keep pace with the present fruitful steps of time.

"Ruth Hall" contains four hundred small but well-filled pages, parceled into ninety chapters. It is printed in good style, on good paper, in pretty binding, for a fair price. We fear to state the exact number of editions struck off, or copies sold; they are said to exceed those of any contemporary work, and, beyond all doubt, the work has proved an unquestionable and palpable hit. In the other volumes to which we have referred, and in every other book of equal size we remember to have read, there was more or less intrinsic evidence of cause and effect; but here, the cause of the effect is wholly extrinsic-and not merely extrinsic, but apparently non-existant, or so infinitely remote, as to be in reality imperceptible. If any one, after a diligent perusal of "Ruth Hall," could fathom the secret of its power, and pierce the mystery of its spell, it would spare us the pains of the patient investigation we are now about pursuing. To foretell its success from the untried manuscript, would have been one of the few feats of prophecy vouchsafed to the present generation, and we shall salute such a seer with mysterious awe. If publishers were not in the habit of doing things with their eyes shut, Messrs. Mason Brothers would come in for a larger share of our reverence than we usually bestow upon our fellow-mortals. But, it is comparatively easy, when some impossible deed is done by apparently unequal agency, to explain the suggestive and illuminating fact by purely natural causes.

Almost all classes of men and women, almost all varieties of human beings, in every stage of civilization, and every occupation of life, have had books or ballads written or composed for their own especial and peculiar benefit. We presume, that the Pyramids were books in their way, immense folios, it is true, and not happily adapted for circulating libraries, but still lettered with language in which priest conversed with priest. Their standard works took form and expression in the graven obelisk. Athenian literature was early wedded to the plastic spirit of variety, and the sea-shore hymns and the mountain songs swelled into the primitive epic, which branched, in turn, into tragedy, comedy, ode, and pastoral. The performances at the games were as various as the tastes of the spectators. At those delicious feasts,

there was food alike for peasant and philosopher. Rome displayed equal variety. But when manuscripts were of such cost as to be only attainable by the rich, and only sought for by the cultivated, it was essential that a composition worth the parchment and the labor of copying, should be addressed to the highest class of minds, the highest order of intelligences. No matter whether the subject was logic or satire, didactic or dialectic, it was invariably for the highest possible tribunal. The song, the satire, the pastoral, the play, were penned, with most self-denying hand, to suit the exacting and delicate fastidiousness of the most refined taste. The author did his best, not merely from the imperative impulses of genius, but also from the necessity of the case.

When printing gave wings to the creeping manuscript, and instead of scattered torchlight, flashed broad daylight on the world, the same system was pursued. Variety became infinite. Books have been multiplying, with insect fecundity, for four centuries; there are books on every art, on every science, on every pursuit, for all ages, all tastes, and all employments; books on farming, on statistics, on dancing, fencing, boxing; books on the thumb, on the eye, on the hand, on the foot; books on horses and carsbooks on every thing. But their authors have steadily adhered to the fundamental principle of writing their best, of addressing the very highest audience they hoped to gather, of speaking to experts in the art they professed to treat of. Every blacksmith and every tailor has his own book; all classes have been written to, all but one have been fairly represented in type. The almost universal ability to read, and the consequent love of reading, have developed, in this nation of readers especially, an immense middle class of ordinary readers of average intelligence. This great middle class is composed four-fifths of women, inasmuch as the hard-worked men of the day have little leisure and less taste for any thing beyond the sphere of the counting-room. Although not entirely overlooked, this mighty audience has been sadly neglected by those who pretend to write for the instruction and delight of society. Thousands of common-place volumes have undoubtedly been circulated, a milk-and-water diet has been abundantly prepared-works of uncontroverted weakness and stale pulseless passion have teemed from every press.

But flat insipidity is not tolerated even by the middle class. "Ike Marvel" came near the mark once or twice, but the "Reveries of a Bachelor" was just a flight beyond his audience, and not quite the thing. Until the advent of "Ruth Hall," no writer had hit the nail precisely on the head; the small intelligences were yet without a pet-book, and gleaned but a scanty, precarious subsistence from annuals, albums, scrap-books, magazines and weekly newspapers. And when we consider the difficulty of reaching the sympathetic of this massed mediocrity, how many things must be attained and avoided in the composition of a suitable book, the nicety of casting exactly to their mould, it is not surprising that they were so long ungratified. In such a work, there must be nothing too abstruse or hidden for Nancy's penetration, or Nancy will either be bored to death and vote you an ass, or else shrewdly whisper to herself, "a little beyond my depth," and shrink back to shore. Again, the situations of the book must be such as are within the experiences of William. Is not the man to step out of himself and cultivate new postures? William will never know how to feel in an attitude in which he has never been, nor will he sympathize with those who are in such impossible positions. The scene must come home to his own little beat-he will not, he cannot enlarge his circle one inch beyond his daily round.

All the shadowy, subtle hinting, such as that which redeems "Hard Times" from littleness, must be studiously shunned. To the intellectual middle class, such things are in the nature of mocking side-winks, thumb-to-the-nose, and theatrical asides. Not the voice of a syren, or the flutter of an angel's wing, can lure Nancy beyond her depth. She is quick and sensitive tooshe knows that Hawthorne's Psychology was never meant for her; she has a disagreeable sense of insecurity and ridicule; she will never extend her hand to pull a flower in such a suspicious-looking garden, lest it should be laughed at as a weed. The work in question must be uniform, all of a piece and cold; no unequal surging, no throb of genius swelling the dead leaves; all must be smooth as an English lawn-the very flowers must not grow beyond a given height. What has Nancy to do with the storm

« ÀÌÀü°è¼Ó »