New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1874-01-30
TIE MEDIOCRE IN LETTERS.

as he should be celebrity, or, if you please
nOt0riety. II is so incOmprehenslDie that
the editions of the "Proverbial Philosophy"
should have been so many times repeated.
Sometimes, when the London press has been
particularly hard upon Mr.. Upper, we borrow
the ook-maid's copy of the "P. ~ ana read
few pages of it to be sure that we have not
done the writer injustice. We are not sorry
for Mr.. Turner. for we are certain that the
thunderbolts of irate Jupiter could not knock
the self-complacency out of him; but 1T Is
critical fact that what Sir Charles Coldstream
said of tbe Pyramids is true of little Mr..
Turner's chef dgurre-" there is nothing IN
"it.r In one respect, indeed, 1t Is an import
ant book, and for one reason 1t deserves
place in every gentleman library. All perfect
things have loyeliness of their own, anu
this much read and much rdicued work Is
valuable because it is the perfection OF COM
monplace. Scientific gentlemen like to gaze
at rats in an exhausted receiver; 1t Is wen
sometimes to read page after page OF words
from which every trace of an original IDEA
has been extracted by the mysterious
chemistry of dullness. We might OBJ
serve this curious phenomenon In talk IL we
cared to take the trouble but 1t Is more con-
yenient to study it in books; for this parody
of wisdom piaues us more pleasantly in the
mock dignity of print. We shake our heads
waggshly at Nature and say, Madame, here
seems to be one of those vacuums which you
"have always prOfessed to abhOr. Please TO
"explain!" No explanation follows. Indeed,
we long ago came to the conclusion thai OF
literary vanity there can be no explanation.
I,amentable is it to consider that when our
conceit is at the highest we are most profuse
in our professions of humility. "a poor
thing" we say with the clown, but mine
town. while ir dozen little ways we are
unconsciously betraying our paternal or ma
ternal admiration of the weakling. 1t Is so IN
all branches of art And yet second rate or third
rate composer would not liken himself to
Haydu OF Beethoven IL ue nad not some sense
of the supreme excellence of those names.
small painter, if he thinks that he is like
Andrea del Sarto. Shows that he has some
idea of the greatness of that master. How.
then, is it that he so fatuously mistakes his
own metal There are men who are not
seniuses regiments and regiments of news
paper men, for instance, fair scholars, of good
tastes, doing good work every day upon
certain level, who are never betrayed for
abilities and who are only too glad to find a
market for their wares, without harboring
any nonsense about fame or any care for
any Odys praise except that OF the
gentleman who employs them. If they have
good name in their profession, are re-
garded in the trade as skilled wOrkmen. that
is sufficient for their souls. They have
pride of their own. They like money, but
they would not have Mr.. Tupper's standing
in the business for all the guineas which he
has received through his bookseller from a
defrauded public. No amount of praise ever
cheats them for moment into delicious
dream of their own greatness. Gradually
they acquire q great distaste for seeing their
names In print, and are fretful and indignant
whenever they happen to be pulled. Theirs
may not be a very elevated department of
letters, but, upon full consideration, we are
inclined to think it one of the pleasantest
and the healthiest.
But let us, if nobody has any objection re-
turn to the phenomenon of Upper Bad
writer's are useful, but we wish distinctly to
assert that the proverbial gentleman is not
bad writer. Since Cowper's friend Hayley
spun out his "Triumphs of Temper" there
has not been such a good writer-with moth
ing in him-as Mr.. Upper. He has a pro-
digious vocabulary; his assumption of wisdom
is the most impressive example of false lit
erary pretenses which, after lifetime spent
in reading books good and bad we have ever
encountered; he has whatever merits there
may be in persistency and industry aud he is
not like Satan Montgomery, sulphurOus, taw-
dry, and dsagreeable. 1t must in justice be said
of him that lie is rarely offensive. Even his
egoism is of q kind which disarms rebuke.
His laurels are not what he thinks them, but
doubtless he wears them pleasantly in that
pretty cottage of his of which we remember
to have seen print, and very much loved and
admired he no doubt is by his daughters, who
all write verses exactly like papa's. He prob
ably does not at all understand his true value
in the literary world, but he may rest assured
that it is considerable. To all young men and
women, still unhackneyed in scribbling verses,
still fairly ingenious and unspOiled, Mr..
Upper remains aud will .remain an awful
example of the worthlessness of multiplied
editions and of cheap popularity. For this he
seems to have been created. and well has he
played his predestinate part. OF no conse-
Quence whatever otherwise, his verses, both
prosaical and metrical, are inestimable as
specimens of the sounding brass and the tink-
ling cymbal. Why will not the dear young
people who are constantly sending us poetry
take warning from the predicament of this
much read aud much mentioned manf We