If she is sad, however, she "lifts the drowned stars of her impatient, suffering eyes," or lowers them with a "moist look;" or she strays in "confused red misery," or in a "passionate scarlet hurry," which is as extraordinary in its way as an angry gray arrow. When her father dies, she stands "long and craped," with a "black elbow" resting on the chimney-place; while her various methods of blushing take up half the volume. Never, indeed, was there a heroine who blushed so much about so little. Sometimes it is merely a matter of "flaming cheeks," or of the "young roses of her cheeks," or of the "mortified carmine of her cheeks," or of her "hot bloom," or of her "beautiful hot red roses." Sometimes it is the "deep color of mingled shame and joy;" while on more especial occasions we are assured that her face is "made all of poppies," that it "changes from poppy-color to milk, and back from milk to poppy-color," that it "keeps shifting from frightened white to mortified red, and back again," and, better than all, that "cheek and chin and pearl-fair throat grow all one rose-red flame," with which triumph of compound adjectives we will close our quotations, only remarking that Gillian's blushing chin rivals the achievement of Ursula in "John Halifax," who, we are gravely told, colored over her throat, neck, and arms.
All honor to the lady Olivia, who has taught us how to make a rational inventory of a woman's charms! "Item, two lips indifferent red; item, two gray eyes with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth." To these let us add, item, one blush indifferent rosy, and then have done with the subject forever.
A.R.
* * * * *
LITERATURE OF THE DAY.
"Nathaniel Parker Willis." By Henry A.Beers.
"Edgar Allan Poe." By George E. Woodbury.
(American Men of Letters Series.)
Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
The American Men of Letters Series is giving us some excellent biographies, well written, the facts well assimilated and grouped, and the whole treatment so accurate and graphic as to be full not only of instruction but of entertainment. Formerly American biography was so deficient in just those qualities which endear English biographical literature to us, that we were inclined to believe that the fault was inherent in Americans and American life, that our days and works lacked picturesqueness and color and left no salient points for the chronicler to seize. We now see that the meagre harvests of former biographers were due to their hasty and superficial generalizations. For at least three of the volumes in this series—the life of James Fenimore Cooper and the two now before us—may be favorably compared with the best work in the English Men of Letters Series, which is indeed high praise. Unusual and striking as were the incidents in the life of Cooper, they had completely dropped out of sight of the present generation. The biographers of Willis and Poe had no such advantage. Willis is still remembered, not only as a litt?teur and journalist, but as a man about town, while legend has never ceased to be busy with the memory of Poe, so that the traditions of his strange career are curiously linked to and incorporated with his best-known works.
The present estimate of Willis as a literary man is so slight that it seems almost like impaling a butterfly to apply critical tests to his writings. Professor Beers has nevertheless made it a profitable and interesting study to follow him through his career, which was, upon the whole, singularly fortunate. Few authors have possessed so happy a knack of making the present moment both enjoyable and profitable. His personal endowments were all in his favor, and no sooner was he launched in Europe than he gained a great social success. England, in particular, opened some of its pleasantest circles to him. Not only did Lady Blessington take him up, but he became a favorite with many of the most lofty and exclusive members of the aristocracy. Never was opportunity more auspicious, for Willis was a born worshipper of refinements and luxuries. He had starved in America for beauty and color, and dear to him were all these adjuncts of a highly-civilized life. It was his mission to reproduce for Americans lively impressions in letters to newspapers at home, and in stories and sketches, in which he drew freely not only upon his own experiences, but upon all the hints and suggestions he could pick up. His industry and ingenious expedients were well rewarded: in fact, one is a little surprised to find that in 1842 he was writing four articles monthly for four magazines, and receiving one hundred dollars for each, which makes a sum total of almost five thousand a year. He was, besides, handsomely paid for his books both in England and at home, and had generally on hand some writing for illustrated volumes of travel, so that for many years he may easily be said to have made seven or eight thousand a year.
No greater contrast to Willis—the man of the world, who knew how to turn every habit, talent, and instinct to account—could be found than poor Poe, all whose opportunities were wasted, spoiled, or flung away. It is the most difficult thing in the world to arrive at anything like a complete idea of the identity of so fantastic a man as the author of the "Raven." The faults, inconsistencies, and contradictions of his character perplex and dismay one the more closely one looks into his letters and the minor incidents of his career. Mr. Woodbury has, however, acquitted himself well in this difficult task, and has in many cases separated truth from long-accepted fiction and given us a clear picture of what has hitherto been blurred and distorted by unfaithful friends and foes. The story is a most hopeless and pitiful one, its gloom brightened and its bitterness sweetened by but few of the consolations which belong to average human lives. The causes of this are apparent enough: they were constituents of Poe's brain and heart; but for him to have been otherwise organized would have been for his unique work to have had no existence.
Recent Fiction.