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All men are of opinion that they have a will of
their own, and nothing vexes them more than any
assertion to the contrary. The great majority are
“led by the nose as easy as asses are;” yet as they
trot along in the wake of some shrewd fellow, who
is in turn led by some still shrewder than himself,
they actually imagine themselves free agents, that
their opinions are their own, and that their actions
are the result of those opinions. This delusion is
universal and very complete, and, (heaven knows
the reason,) it appears to be the most provoking
thing in the world to awaken any one from it.
Tell a man that he is a sad profligate, and he is
proud of the appellation; but tell him he is an honest
well meaning gentleman, though somewhat
liable to be guided by the example of others rather
than his own judgment, and he gets into a perfect
fury, and asks you what you take him for? A monkey
is an imitative animal, but nothing to a man,

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who is at once the most servile copyist in creation,
and a sturdy asserter of his moral independence—
a being who tells you it is his pleasure to do so and
so, because “every body does so.” He sacrifices
his ease and convenience, to do as other people do;
and eats, drinks, and sleeps, not when it suits himself,
but when it pleases others. The fashion of the
hour is a moral despotism, whose omnipotent decrees
he dares not dispute, however curious a figure he may
cut in obeying its mandates. The effect of this is
often singular in consequence of the inappropriateness
of the fashion to the individual, or the unhappy
attempts of the individual to assimilate with
the fashion. In dress, for instance, it is strikingly
so. Some lady and gentleman of sufficient notoriety
to entitle them to “set the fashion” for the season,
array themselves in such garments as they think
best adapted to their figure and complexion, and
such as will give prominency to their beauties, and
throw into the shade their defects. As soon as they
have arranged this to their satisfaction, it becomes
“the mode;” and the whole tribe of bipeds, great
and small, thick and thin, short and tall, judiciously
follow their example without any reference to the
shape or color heaven has given them. You will
see a brunette blackening her complexion by bringing
it in violent contrast with straw-color and lilac,

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because it is the fashion; and a blonde, looking
sickly and consumptive, by having glaring orange,
purple, or dark green, in the vicinity of her delicate
skin:—you will see a long column of humanity, of
no thickness at all, with a broad-brimmed beaver
on his head, and a sporting-jacket on his back;
and a short, pursy, corpulent individual waddling
along in a swallow-tailed coat and steeple-crowned
hat, all because it is the fashion! Yet these people
imagine they have a will of their own.

In literature the imitative principle has been, and
is, in full operation, though it is perhaps half intentional
and half unconscious. A master-spirit starts
from the crowd of men, strikes out some new course,
ranges through unexplored and unthought of regions,
and there reigns an object of wonder and
admiration. Immediately a whole troop of pigmies
attempt to tread in his giant footsteps, imitate his
faults, exaggerate his defects, and imagine, before
they advance one step up the hill of fame, that they
are nearly at its summit. It will be in the remembrance
of all, when Byron was in the zenith of his
glory, what an immense quantity of second-hand
misanthropy was afloat among the poetasters; how
they all set to work to draw their own portraits for
the amusement of the public, and what a precious
set of good-for-nothing vagabonds they made

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themselves out to be. They were all, according to their
own story, made up of splendid errors and useless
virtues, and were unanimously unhappy. It was for
a time a most ludicrous evil; for nothing can be more
ridiculous than to see a small mind playing the
egotist, and describing the agony of its feelings at
the same time that it is hunting for a rhyme, and
seeing that the line contains the requisite number
of syllables. This folly has in a great measure past
away; and the Waverley imitation fever, which succeeded,
has been much more rational in its motives,
and creditable in its results. True, historical novels
have become almost as much a drug in the market
as fashionable ones. The public is beginning to get
tired of the portraits of defunct kings, queens, and
courtiers; and the number of great men that have
been resuscitated and made to speak in the first person
singular, has become alarming. Indeed, our
novelists are perfect literary resurrection-men. Many
persons, because the great magician, Walter Scott,
can raise the spirits of the past, and make them act
and speak as they were wont, think they can do
the same—but the public do not. It is far from
pleasant to see these liberties taken with the mighty
dead, except by one as mighty as any of them,
Shakspeare excepted. Still there has been much
talent, learning, and research displayed in works of

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this description, by Horace Smith, Mr. James, and
others, which might have gained for their authors
great credit with posterity, as they have already with
the present generation, had not their merits been
overshadowed by those of their immortal prototype.
As it is, they will as surely go to the “oblivious
cooks” as every word of this essay will be forgotten
next week by the people who read it. For our
own poor taste, after Sir Walter Scott, in the present
age, give us Washington Irving's portraits of
great dead men. His Wouter Von Twiller, William
Klieft, and Peter Stuyvesant, are three as
finished pictures in the fine, quiet, rich old Dutch
school as any one need wish to look upon.

But the greatest field for imitation is theatricals,
and here it is of the very worst species. The beauties
of a great actor are never attempted to be copied;
they are too difficult; but any unfortunate peculiarity
or bad and vicious habit is seized upon
with avidity and fondly cherished. Because John
Kemble was troubled with an asthmatic complaint,
all the Rollas, Catos, and Hamlets that came for
some time after him were likewise troubled with
asthma, and a short dry cough; with Macready
came the almost ridiculous stateliness of gesture
and fastidious arrangement of the garments, without
any of his fine qualities; and Kean's fame has

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been the means of introducing many a young man
on the stage, who could do nothing but imitate
those little Keanisms and physical defects which
occasionally disfigured his beautiful intellectual acting.
A would-be vocalist, with the voice of a raven,
thinks himself a good deal like Braham, because
in singing he can hold his hat precisely as he does,
and has succeeded in catching a few of that gentleman's
peculiarly awkward gestures. Talking of
singing—is the prevailing admiration of Italian
music and performances counterfeit or real, or a little
of both? Is it in imitation of the English who
imitate the French in this respect, or is it a genuine
indigenous feeling? The Italian is a noble school
of music, and it would be gratifying to perceive a
gradual relish for it; but it is apt to create mistrust
to see the exuberance of admiration expressed for it
all of a sudden by a large party of people, nineteentwentieths
of whom are neither familiar with the
music nor the language; and we are afraid there is
some truth in the anecdote now whispered round
the city, of a party of musical cognoscenti having
been thrown into a fit of enthusiasm by what they
supposed to be an Italian gentleman's manner of
giving a composition of Cimarosa's, but which,
words and air, eventually turned out to be a genuine
Welch ditty, howled out by one Taffy ap

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Shenkin, of Glamorganshire! Certain it is, that many
things pass off with great eclat when sung in a
foreign language by signors, signoras, or signorinas,
which would sound viley from the mouth of
plain Mr. Jobson, Mrs. Brown, or Miss Dobbs. The
blunt tradesman had really some reason to be astonished
when on inquiring if “signorina” did not
literally mean in Italian “great singer,” he was
given to understand that it was merely equivalent
to the simple English word “Miss.” We recollect
a gentleman of the name of Comer, formerly of this
city, who used to sing an Italian air with American
words to it—“When the banners of freedom are
waving”—without producing any marked effects;
but no sooner did the same gentleman replace the
Italian words, “Non piu andrai,” than it was instantly
recognised as something extremely fine, and
vociferously encored. Now, without meaning to
undervalue worthy foreigners who reach these
shores, it is probable that there is no small quantity
of affectation in the admiration expressed for them,
and that the majority applaud without having any
definite idea on the subject, in imitation of the few
who are supposed to know. Such foreigners are,
at the same time, both overrated and not sufficiently
appreciated—overrated as a whole, and not appreciated
in detail, for what is really meritorious. Our

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harsh northern dialect may not be so well adapted
to musical composition as that of the “sweet south,”
but it does not follow that every Italian composition
and singer must of necessity be superlatively fine;
and allowing our general inferiority, a song in a
language which a man understands, will always,
affectation aside, be more grateful to his ear than
the mere tinkle of soft sounds. The one, indeed,
goes no further than the ear, while the other, through
the medium of the understanding, reaches the heart,
and any song that does so is worth twenty others
that do not. If people would take the trouble to
consult their own judgments, feelings, and common
sense on such subjects, instead of being carried
away by vague ideas and learned-looking words,
they would find it to their interest; as it is, they let
others inoculate them with opinions which in time
they come to believe their own.

p091-362

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