The Sun.
London, England, 1849-05-29 00:00:00

HERMAN MELVIL LE'sNE IV WORK

MARDI: AND A VOYAGE THITHER.
By Herman Melville, Author of " Typee" and
" Omoo." 3 Vols.
Having just finished reading the whole of this sin-
gular and fantastic production, we would now endea-
vour to deal with it exactly as it deserves. I'lr.
Melville, although the author of merely three works,
of which the present is the latest, is no stranger, as an
author, to ourselves. His " Typee' " indeed, as beau-
tiful as a chapter by Bernardin de St. Pierre, as fresh
in colouring as a description by Rene, as fascinating
as a narrative by Defoe, had, from the first moment
of its perusal, rendered its writer one of our dear
favourites. We looked, therefore, to the volumes
under consideration with peculiar interest, an interest
arising from our respect for the abilities of that
American sailor who, although merely a man before
the mast, evinced all the intellectual cultivation of a
scholar, all the eloquence of a rhetorician, and all
those inherent graces, and that unconscious refine-
ment which constitute the character of a gentle-
man. Such, at least, is the position of life claimed
for himself by Mr. Melville. If we are to be-
lieve him, his talents and his tastes, when
taken into account with his calling, as an
old " salt" familiar with the habits and language
of a ship's forecastle, are cause for our highest admi-
ration. At first it was conjectured that the very,
name of the writer was an assumption, and that con-
sequently little more reliance could be placed on
the exactitude of his delineation of his own fortunes
than in any other "yarn" known to be decidedly
fabulous. Here, however, we find him dedicating
"Mardi" to his brother Allan Melville; and reiterat-
ing his assertions as to the nature of his profession,
where he exclaims (Vol. 1., p. 21), " No, no, .1 was
never better than my vocation ; and mine have
been many. I showed as brown a chest, and as
hard a hand as the tarriest tar of them all." Never-
theless, while we find our faith in the title and indi-
viduality of our author, strengthened by his new
composition, we have found all credence in the reality
even of the most probable incidents described by him
slipping away, bit by bit, even to the last rag, during
the examination of these three strange and eccentric
volumes. So long as the author talked about the
South Sea whaler, bight the Arcturion, so long as
he told us about old Jan the Viking, we could swal-
low everything; but when, after parting com-
pany with the skipper and his vessel,
the two adventurers traverse the ocean
among its grizzly monsters, the inhabitants
sometimes terrible, sometimes beautiful, of the deep
sea ; when we fall in with the Parki, stained and
almost slippery with blood ; when we make the ac-
quaintance of that vagabond Samoa and his hellkite
opartner
dAe
rns n; a to o
when,; wh
after
rwt
he
emeet with r
deirt
of thecanoe
the
prie st
andfull
the capture of 'ilia!), we sail towards Mardi ; when
the writer takes shelter under the disguise of the
demigod Taji, and, becoming domesticated in Odo,
acquires the friendship of its Sovereign, King Media
—then good bye to reason, to common sense, and to
credulity ! We are afloat in the cloudy regions of
dreamland, impelled onwards this way and that by
the breath of every vacillating whim, our sky the
mysterious infinitude of metaphysics, our ocean the
surges of a boundless and in many respects a very
gorgeous imagination. Mardi, to speak as definitively
as possible of a work so vapour-like and almost hypo-
thetical, is more of a romance than a voyage,
and more of an allegory than a romance.
And yet, while we say thus much—
the opening of the production reads like
a passage from Basil Hall—and the closing of it
rather like a rhapsody than either a romance or
an allegory. Unequal as the book is, nevertheless, it
is tolerably clear, from the circumstance of our hav-
ing penned every one of the 1,019 rages, that it
possesses some powerful attraction. Fascination,
strictly speaking, it has none. Occasionally its
language is stilted to the very proximity of bombast.
Sometimes the ideas are mystical to the very verge of
nonsense. And yet we are lured on, in spite of these
obstacles, chapter after chapter, until we arrive at the
"Finis." The reason of this is that the work is alto-
gether a curiosity— curious in style, in character, in
incident, and rendering the reader curious also by
congeniality. At the moment we are about to throw
the volume down from sheer despair of ever discover-
ing any adequate purpose in the narrative, we light
upon such a passage as the following—being a
description of a sudden hurricane in the midst of a
tropical calm :
" A long ;calm in the 'boat, and now, God help us,
another in the brigantine. It was airless and profound.
"In that hot calm, we lay axed and frozen in like
Parry at the Pole. The sun played upon the glassy sea
like the sun upon the glaciers.
" At the end of two days we lifted up our eyes and
beheld a low, creeping, hungry cloud expanding like an
army, wing and wing, along the eastern horizon. In-
stantly Jeri bade me take heed.
" Here be it said, that though for weeks and weeks
reign over the equatorial latitudes of the Pacific, the
mildest and sunniest of days ; that nevertheless, when
storms do come, they come in their strength, spending
in a few, brief blasts their concentrated rage. They come
like the Mamelultes : they charge, and away.
" It wanted full an hour to sunset ; but the sun was
well nigh obscured. It seemed toiling among bleak
Scythian steeps in the hazy back-ground. Above the
storm-cloud flitted ominous patches of scud, rapidly ad-
vancing and receding : Attila's skirmishers thrown
forward in the van of his Hune. Beneath, a fitful sha-
dow slid along the surface. As we gazed, the cloud
came nearer; accelerating its approach.
" With all haste we proceeded to furl the sails, which,
owing to the calm, had been hanging loose in the brails;
and by help of a spare boom, used on the forecastle-
deck as a sweep or great oar, we endeavoured to cast
the brigantine's head before the foe.
" The storm seemed about to overtake us ; but we felt
no breeze. The noiseless cloud stole on ; its advancing
shadow lowering over a distinct and prominent milk-
white crest upon the surface of the ocean. But now this
line of surging foam came rolling down upon us like a
white charge of cavalry, mad Hotspur and plumed Murat
at its head; pouring right forward in a continuous frothy
cascade, which curled over, and fell upon the glassy sea
before it.

" Still, no breath of air. But of a sudden, like a
blow from a man's hand, and before our canvas could be
secured, the stunned craft, giving one lurch to port, was
stricken down on her beam-ends ; the roaring tide
dashed high up against her windward side, and drops of
brine fell upon the deck, heavy as drops of gore.
" Is was all a din and a mist ; a crashing of spars
and of ropes ; a horrible blending of sights and of
sounds ; as for an instant we seemed in the hot heart of
the gale ; our cordage, like harp-strings, shrieking above
the fury of the blast. The masts rose, and swayed, and
tkhee brigantine'sun to
som e
fidtirpipc
ke de
nt hbeui
ffr
atrucks
black hull, shaggy with sea-weed, lay panting on its flank
in the foam. brought tthloewstettheApnldain
" Frantically we clung to the uppermost bulwarks.
And now, loud above the roar of the sea, was suddenly
board a sharp, splintering sound, as of a Norway wood-
man felling a pine in the forest. It was brave Jarl, who
foremost of all had snatched from its rack against the
mainmast, the axe, always there kept.
" Cut the lanyards to windward 1' he cried ; and
again buried his axe into the mast. He was quickly
obeyed. And upon cutting the third lanyard of the
five, he shouted for us to pause. Dropping his axe, he
climbed up to windward. As he clutched the rail, the
wounded mast snapped in twain with a report like a
cannon. A slight smoke was perceptible where it broke.
The remaining lanyards parted. From the violent strain
upon them, the two shrouds flew madly into the air,
and one of the great blocks at their ends, striking Anna-
too upon the forehead, she let go her hold upon a stan-
chion. and sliding across the aslant deck, was swallowed
up in the whirlpool under our lea. Samoa shrieked.
But there was no time to mourn ; no hand could reach
to save.

" By the connecting stays, the mainmast carried over
with it the foremast ; when we instantly righted, and
for the time were saved ; my own royal Viking our sa-
viour.
" The first fury of the gale was gone. But far to
leeward was seen the even, white line of its onset, paw-
ing the ocean into foam. All round us, the sea boiled
like ten thousand cauldrons ; and through eddy, wave,
and surge, our ailment water-logged craft waded heavily;
every dead dash ringing hollow against her hull, like
blows upon a coffin.
"We floated a wreck. With every pitch we lifted
our dangling jib-boom into the air ; and beating against
ba .n d Yetllong-rolling
rhoel
irnagc k
billows; and s c
theud ofwh
it
thee c
rteeamm:
the side were the shattered fragments of the masts.
g,tearing foam, was subdued into immense
From these we made all haste to be free, by cutting the
rigging that held them.
crests like snow on the Andes. Ever and
" Soon, the worst of the gale was blown over. But
poised on their brows; when the furrowed
round looked like a panorama from Chim-
ii;,:olchnneneoesgattnhs:ieeeiwaxitarsetlremlahnnuarddonehgd
borer:).

few hours more. and the surget went down.
There was a moderate sea, a steady breeze, and a clear,
starry sky.
" Such was the storm that came after our calm."
Encouraged by the striking vigour of the narrative
we resume—and again our attention is attenuated to
the limits of exhaustion, when we are once more
induced to persevere by a similar excellence. This
has occurred with ourselves repeatedly during
the perusal of " Mardi," and this it is which
assures us that the production is neither wholly good
nor wholly bad. The author has trifled with his un-
disputed powers ; and, if he had not already secured
it by the charm of his " Typee," he would indubit-
ably have ruined his reputation by " Mardi." In
" Typee," and, in a measure, also in "Omoo," every-
thing was consistent. In " Mardi" everything is not
only inconsistent but incoherent, mad, extravagant.
Still " Mardi" is no book to be cast aside contemp-
tuously. It reveals too surprising an imagination to
be scorned. While it bids open defiance to all criti-
cism, it unwittingly propitiates criticism by its
novelty, its fantastic exuberance in the impossible.
Among other merits, Mr. Melville betrays that of
drollery, and even at rare intervals that of wit.
Speaking of Annatoo, that redoubtable beldame, he
tells us in so many words (Vol, I, p, 116), her