Mr. Herman Melville has been well known for a dozen years past, both in this country and Europe, as the author of a number of tales, the most popular and best of which are stories of the sea, such as "Typee, "Omoo," and "Moby Dick." Of late years, Mr. M. has turned his attention to another species of composition more akin to the modern novel. "Pierre, or the Ambiguities," is an example of this; highly extravagant and unnatural, but original and interesting in its construction and characters. His last production, "The Confidence Man," is one of the dullest and most dismally monotonous books we remember to have read, and it has been our unavoidable misfortune to peruse, in the fulfillment of journalistic duty, a number of volumes through, which nothing but a sense of obligation would have sustained us. "Typee," one of, if not the first of his works, is the best, and "The Confidence Man" the last, decidedly the worst. So Mr. M.'s authorship is toward the nadir rather than the zenith, and he has been progressing in the form of an inverted climax.
"Fayaway" is the most attractive and best-known character Mr. M. has drawn, and there are few who do not have sentimental recollections of the fair, lithe, graceful Indian girl, with all the instinctive delicacy and refinement and charmfulness, which the highest circles of society often fail to exhibit.
But to Mr. Melville's lecture, which he had often delivered in the cities of the East, and of which report has spoken very favorably. Smith & Nixon's Hall was about two-thirds filled with a highly intelligent and cultivated auditory, when the lecturer, an unremarkable, quiet, self-possessed-looking man, seemingly about thirty-five or six years of age, with brown hair, whiskers and mustache, bronze complexion, above the medium stature, appearing not unlike the captain of an American merchantman, presented himself before them.
Mr. M. remarked, at the outset, that it might be supposed the only proper judge of statues would be a sculptor; but he believed others than the artist could appreciate and see the beauty of the marble art of Rome. All men admired and were drawn to flowers, though utterly destitute of a knowledge of botany. Burns' description of the daisy was far superior to that of Linnaeus; the world had given its verdict in favor of the poet.
On entering Rome, the visitor was greeted by thousands of statues, who, as representatives of the mighty past, hold out their hands to the present, and made the connecting link of centuries. The lecturer would not linger among the numerous statues of the Seven-hilled City, but hasten to the Vatican. There was Demosthenes, who resembled a modern advocate, face thin and haggard, and his body lean. The arm that had gesticulated and swayed with its movement the souls of the Athenians, was small and shrunken. He looked as if a glorious course of idleness would be beneficial. Titus had a short, thick figure, and a round face, expressive of cheerfulness, good-humor and joviality; and yet all know how different was his character from this outward seeming. Socrates reminded one of an Irish comedian. Julius Caesar's bust indicated a practical, business-like turn of mind, and gave one the idea that he would make an excellent financier or President of the New York and Erie Railroad. Seneca wore a pinched and weasened appearance; would have made a good pawnbroker, and his semblance was just; but it was well known that he was avaricious and grasping, and dealt largely in mortgages and loans, and drove hard bargains even at that day. Nero was delicate in feature, and resembled a dissipated and fast young man--such as one meets on race-courses. Plato was a Greek Grammont or Chesterfield: his hair was oiled and pomatumed, and carefully parted as a modern belle's. He might have composed his works under the hand of the barber, or a modern valet-de-chambre.
The lecturer stated that five thousand Romans, habited in the costume of the present day, would not, if placed in the Corso, be recognized from our own countrymen.
Tiberius was handsome, was refined, and even pensive in expression. A lady had remarked in the lecturer's hearing: "Why, he does not look so bad." Had he looked badly, he would not have been Tiberius. He was melancholy without pity, and sensitive without affection. He was, perhaps, the most wicked of men. The Apollo was so wonderful a creation that it was impossible to give any idea of its sublimity; all admired, all were attracted to it; it was almost worshipped by every one who came within its presence. Visitors looked at it in silence and in awe. There seemed to be in the Apollo something that answered the divine longings of our nature, and which Faith told us could not be gratified on earth. The Venus--which was at Florence--was lovely, beautiful, but far less great than the Apollo. She was exceedingly refined, delicious in everything; but she was of the earth and Apollo was divine. The Laocoon was grand and impressive, and gained half its significance from its symbolism--the fable that it represented--humanity struggling with destiny. Otherwise it would be no more that [than] Paul Potter's "Boar Hunt" at Amsterdam.
The lecturer spoke in fervid and eloquent terms of the influence of the statues of Rome; of the delight they inspired and the instruction they furnished. They were the works of visionaries and dreamers, but they were realizations of soul, the representatives of the ideal. They were grand, beautiful and true, and they spoke with a voice that echoed through the ages. Governments had changed; empires had fallen; nations had passed away; but these mute marbles remained--the oracles of time, the perfection of art.
We boasted much of our progress, of our energy, of our achievements; but did all our triumphs equal those of the horses and divinities that stood there silent, the incarnations of grandeur and of beauty? The ancients lived while those statues endured, and seemed to breathe inspiration through that world, giving purpose, shape and impetus to what was created high, or grand, or beautiful. While the Colosseum stands, will Rome; and when Rome falls, the world.
We have no space to refer to all that Mr. Melville mentioned, but must say that his lecture, occupying nearly two hours in delivery, was exceedingly interesting and eloquent, abounding in admirable specimens of such word-painting as his best works contain. His discourse was classic and beautiful, and by far the best that has yet been delivered this season before the Library.
His delivery was, in some respects, agreeable, but not in others--it was monotonous and often indistinct, but not devoid of impressiveness, which sometimes approached the ministerially solemn.
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