_Barnwell, South Carolina_.
_July 1, 1835_.
This is, indeed, the quintessence of brevity. At all events it is
meant to be something better than such things usually are. It aims at
point. It affects excessive terseness, excessive appropriateness, and
excessive gentility. One might almost picture to the mind's eye the
exact air and attitude of the writer as he indited the whole thing.
Probably he compressed his lips--possibly he ran his fingers through
his hair. Now a letter, generally, we may consider as the substitute
for certain oral communications which the writer of the letter would
deliver in person were an opportunity afforded. Let us then imagine
the author of "The Partisan" presenting a copy of that work to
"Richard Yeadon, Jr. Esq. of South Carolina," and let us, from the
indications afforded by the printed Dedication, endeavor to form some
idea of the author's demeanor upon an occasion so highly interesting.
We may suppose Mr. Yeadon, in South Carolina, at home, and in his
study. By and bye with a solemn step, downcast eyes, and impressive
earnestness of manner, enters the author of "The Yemassee." He
advances towards Mr. Yeadon, and, without uttering a syllable, takes
that gentleman affectionately, but firmly, by the hand. Mr. Y. has his
suspicions, as well he may have, but says nothing. Mr. S. commences as
above. "_Dear Sir_," (here follows a pause, indicated by the comma
after the word "Sir"--see Dedication. Mr. Y. very much puzzled what to
make of it.) Mr. S. proceeds, "_My earliest_," (pause the second,
indicated by comma the second,) "_and_," (pause the third, in
accordance with comma the third,) "_perhaps_," (pause the fourth, as
shewn by comma the fourth. Mr. Y. exceedingly mystified,) "_most
pleasant rambles in the fields of literature_," (pause fifth) "_were
taken in your company_" (pause sixth, to agree with the dash after
'company.' Mr. Y.'s hair begins to stand on end, and he looks
occasionally towards the door,) "_permit me to remind you of that
period by inscribing the present volumes with your name_." At the
conclusion of the sentence, Mr. S. with a smile and a bow of mingled
benignity and grace, turns slowly from Mr. Y. and advances to a table
in the centre of the room. Pens and ink are there at his service.
Drawing from the pocket of his surtout a pacquet carefully done up in
silver paper, he unfolds it, and produces the two volumes of "The
Partisan." With ineffable ease, and with an air of exquisite _haut
ton_, he proceeds to inscribe in the title pages of each tome the name
of Richard Yeadon, Jr. Esq. The scene, however, is interrupted. Mr. Y.
feels it his duty to kick the author of "The Yemassee" down stairs.
Now, in this, all the actual burlesque consists in {118} merely
substituting things for words. There are many of our readers who will
recognize in this imaginary interview between Mr. Yeadon and Mr.
Simms, at least a family likeness to the written Dedication of the
latter. This Dedication is, nevertheless, quite as good as one half
the antique and lackadaisical courtesies with which we daily see the
initial leaves of our best publications disfigured.
"The Partisan," as we are informed by Mr. Simms in his Advertisement,
(Preface?) was originally contemplated as one novel of a series to be
devoted to our war of Independence. "With this object," says the
author, "I laid the foundation more broadly and deeply than I should
have done, had I purposed merely the single work. Several of the
persons employed were destined to be the property of the series--that
part of it at least which belonged to the locality. Three of these
works were to have been devoted to South Carolina, and to comprise
three distinct periods of the war of the Revolution in that State.
One, and the first of these, is the story now submitted to the reader.
I know not that I shall complete, or even continue the series." Upon
the whole we think that he had better not.
There is very little plot or connexion in the book before us; and Mr.
Simms has evidently aimed at neither. Indeed we hardly know what to
think of the work at all. Perhaps, with some hesitation, we may call
it an historical novel. The narrative begins in South Carolina, during
the summer of 1780, and comprises the leading events of the Revolution
from the fall of Charleston, to the close of that year. We have the
author's own words for it that his object has been principally to give
a fair picture of the province--its condition, resources, and
prospects--during the struggle between Gates and Cornwallis, and the
period immediately subsequent to the close of the campaign in the
defeat of the Southern defending army. Mr. S. assures us that the
histories of the time have been continually before him in the
prosecution of this object, and that, where written records were found
wanting, their places have been supplied by local chronicles and
tradition. Whether the idea ever entered the mind of Mr. Simms that
his very laudable design, as here detailed, might have been better
carried into effect by a work of a character _purely_ historical, we,
of course, have no opportunity of deciding. To ourselves, every
succeeding page of "The Partisan" rendered the supposition more
plausible. The interweaving fact with fiction is at all times
hazardous, and presupposes on the part of general readers that degree
of intimate acquaintance with fact which should never be presupposed.
In the present instance, the author has failed, so we think, in
confining either his truth or his fable within its legitimate,
individual domain. Nor do we at all wonder at his failure in
performing what no novelist whatever has hitherto performed.
Some pains have been taken in the preface of "The Partisan," to
bespeak the reader's favorable decision in regard to certain
historical facts--or rather in regard to the coloring given them by
Mr. Simms. We refer particularly to the conduct of General Gates in
South Carolina. We would, generally, prefer reading an author's book,
to reading his criticism upon it. But letting this matter pass, we do
not think Mr. S. has erred in attributing gross negligence, headstrong
obstinacy, and overweening self-conceit to the conqueror at Saratoga.
These charges are sustained by the best authorities--by Lee, by
Johnson, by Otho Williams, and by all the histories of the day. No
apology is needed for stating the truth. In regard to the "propriety
of insisting upon the faults and foibles of a man conspicuous in our
history," Mr. Simms should give himself little uneasiness. It is
precisely because the man _is_ conspicuous in our history, that we
should have no hesitation in condemning his errors.
With the events which are a portion of our chronicles, the novelist
has interwoven such fictitious incidents and characters as might
enable him to bind up his book in two volumes duodecimo, and call it
"The Partisan." The Partisan himself, and the hero of the novel, is a
Major Robert Singleton. His first introduction to the reader is as
follows. "It was on a pleasant afternoon in June, that a tall,
well-made youth, probably twenty-four or five years of age, rode up to
the door of the 'George,' (in the village of Dorchester,) and throwing
his bridle to a servant, entered the hotel. His person had been
observed, and his appearance duly remarked upon, by several persons
already assembled in the hall which he now approached. The new comer,
indeed, was not one to pass unnoticed. His person was symmetry itself,
and the ease with which he managed his steed, and the"--------but we
spare our readers any farther details in relation to either the tall,
well-made youth, or his steed, which latter they may take for granted
was quite as tall, and equally well made. We cut the passage short
with the less hesitation, inasmuch as a perfect fac-simile of it may
be found near the commencement of every fashionable novel since the
flood. Singleton is a partisan in the service of Marion, whose
disposition, habits, and character are well painted, and well
preserved, throughout the Tale. A Mr. Walton is the uncle of
Singleton, and has been induced, after the surrender of Charleston
(spelt Charlestown) to accept of a British protection, the price of
which is neutrality. This course he has been led to adopt, principally
on account of his daughter Katharine, who would lose her all in the
confiscation of her father's property--a confiscation to be avoided by
no other means than those of the protection. Singleton's sister
resides with Col. Walton's family, at "The Oaks," near Dorchester,
where the British Col. Proctor is in command. At the instigation of
Singleton, who has an eye to the daughter of Col. Walton, that
gentleman is induced to tear up the disgraceful protection, and levy a
troop, with which he finally reaches the army of Gates. Most of the
book is occupied with the ambuscades, bush fighting, and swamp
adventures of partisan warfare in South Carolina. These passages are
all highly interesting--but as they have little connexion with one
another, we must dismiss them _en masse_. The history of the march of
Gates' army, his fool-hardiness, and consequent humiliating
discomfiture by Cornwallis, are as well told as any details of a like
nature can be told, in language exceedingly confused, ill-arranged,
and ungrammatical. This defeat hastens the _dénouement_, or rather the
leading incident, of the novel. Col. Walton is made prisoner, and
condemned to be hung, as a rebel taken in arms. He is sent to
Dorchester for the fulfilment of the sentence. Singleton, urged by his
own affection, as well as by the passionate {119} exhortations of his
cousin Katharine, determines upon the rescue of his uncle at all
hazards. A plot is arranged for this purpose. On the morning appointed
for execution, a troop of horse is concealed in some underwood near
the scaffold. Bella Humphries, the daughter of an avowed tory, but a
whig at heart, is stationed in the belfry of the village church, and
her father himself is occupied in arranging materials for setting
Dorchester on fire upon a given signal. This signal (the violent
ringing of the church bell by Bella) is given at the moment when Col.
Walton arrives in a cart at the foot of the gallows. Great confusion
ensues among those not in the secret--a confusion heightened no little
by the sudden conflagration of the village. During the hubbub the
troop concealed in the thicket rush upon the British guard in
attendance. The latter are beaten down, and Walton is carried off in
triumph by Singleton. The hand of Miss Katharine is, as a matter of
course, the reward of the Major's gallantry.
Of the numerous personages who figure in the book, some are really
excellent--some horrible. The historical characters are, without
exception, well drawn. The portraits of Cornwallis, Gates, and Marion,
are vivid realities--those of De Kalb and the Claverhouse-like
Tarleton positively unsurpassed by any similar delineations within our
knowledge. The fictitious existences in "The Partisan" will not bear
examination. Singleton is about as much of a non-entity as most other
heroes of our acquaintance. His uncle is no better. Proctor, the
British Colonel, is cut out in buckram. Sergeant Hastings, the tory,
is badly drawn from a bad model. Young Humphries is a
braggadocio--Lance Frampton is an idiot--and Doctor Oakenburg is an
ass. Goggle is another miserable addition to the list of those
anomalies so swarming in fiction, who are represented as having
vicious principles, for no other reason than because they have ugly
faces. Of the females we can hardly speak in a more favorable manner.
Bella, the innkeeper's daughter is, we suppose, very much like an
innkeeper's daughter. Mrs. Blonay, Goggle's mother, is a hag worth
hanging. Emily, Singleton's sister, is not what we would wish her. Too
much stress is laid upon the interesting features of the consumption
which destroys her; and the whole chapter of abrupt sentimentality, in
which we are introduced to her sepulchre before having notice of her
death, is in the very worst style of times _un peu passés_. Katharine
Walton is somewhat better than either of the ladies above mentioned.
In the beginning of the book, however, we are disgusted with that
excessive prudishness which will not admit of a lover's hand resting
for a moment upon her own--in the conclusion, we are provoked to a
smile when she throws herself into the arms of the same lover, without
even waiting for his consent.
One personage, a Mr. Porgy, we have not mentioned in his proper place
among the _dramatis personæ_, because we think he deserves a separate
paragraph of animadversion. This man is a most insufferable bore; and
had we, by accident, opened the book when about to read it for the
first time, at any one of his manifold absurdities, we should most
probably have thrown aside "The Partisan" in disgust. Porgy is a
backwoods imitation of Sir Somebody Guloseton, the epicure, in one of
the Pelham novels. He is a very silly compound of gluttony, slang,
belly, and balderdash philosophy, never opening his mouth for a single
minute at a time, without making us feel miserable all over. The rude
and unqualified oaths with which he seasons his language deserve to be
seriously reprehended. There is positively neither wit nor humor in an
oath of any kind--but the oaths of this Porgy are abominable. Let us
see how one or two of them will look in our columns. Page 174, vol.
ii--"Then there was no tricking a fellow--persuading him to put his
head into a rope without showing him first how d----d strong it was."
Page 169, vol. ii--"Tom, old boy, why d----n it, that fellow's
bloodied your nose." Page 167, vol. ii--"I am a pacific man, and my
temper is not ungentle; but to disturb my slumbers which are so
necessary to the digestive organs--stop, I say--d----n!--don't pull
so!" Page 164, vol. ii--"Well, Tom, considering how d----d bad those
perch were fried, I must confess I enjoyed them." Page 164, vol.
ii--"Such spice is a d----d bad dish for us when lacking cayenne."
Page 163, vol. ii--"Dr. Oakenburg, your d----d hatchet hip is digging
into my side." Page 162, vol. ii--"The summer duck, with its glorious
plumage, skims along the same muddy lake, on the edge of which the
d----d bodiless crane screams and crouches." In all these handsome
passages Porgy loquitur, and it will be perceived that they are all to
be found within a few pages of each other--such attempts to render
profanity less despicable by rendering it amusing, should be frowned
down indignantly by the public. Of Porgy's philosophy we subjoin a
specimen from page 89, vol. ii. "A dinner once lost is never
recovered. The stomach loses a day, and regrets are not only idle to
recall it, but subtract largely from the appetite the day ensuing.
_Tears can only fall from a member that lacks teeth; the mouth now is
never seen weeping. It is the eye only; and, as it lacks tongue,
teeth, and taste alike, by Jupiter, it seems to me that tears should
be its proper business._" How Mr. Simms should ever have fallen into
the error of imagining such horrible nonsense as that in Italics, to
be either witty or wise, is to us a mystery of mysteries. Yet Porgy is
evidently a favorite with the author.
Some two or three paragraphs above we made use of these expressions.
"The history of the march of Gates' army, his fool-hardiness, &c. are
as well told as any details of a like nature can be told in language
exceedingly confused, ill-arranged, and ungrammatical." Mr. Simms'
English is bad--shockingly bad. This is no mere assertion on our
parts--we proceed to prove it. "Guilt," says our author, (see page 98,
vol. i.) "must always _despair its charm_ in the presence of the true
avenger"--what is the meaning of this sentence?--after much reflection
we are unable to determine. At page 115, vol. i, we have these words.
"He was under the guidance of an elderly, drinking sort of person--one
of the fat, beefy class, whose worship of the belly-god has given an
unhappy distension to that ambitious, though most erring member." By
the 'most erring member' Mr. S. means to say _the belly_--but the
sentence implies the _belly-god_. Again, at page 126, vol. i. "It was
for the purpose of imparting to Col. Walton the contents of that not
yet notorious proclamation of Sir Henry Clinton, with which he
demanded the performance of military duty from the persons who had
been paroled; and by means of which, on departing from the province,
he planted the seeds of that _revolting_ patriotism which {120}
finally overthrew his authority." It is unnecessary to comment on the
unauthorized use here, of the word 'revolting.' In the very next
sentence we see the following. "Colonel Walton received his guests
with his accustomed urbanity: _he received them alone_." This language
implies that Colonel Walton received those particular guests and no
others, and should be read with an emphasis on the word '_them_'--but
Mr. Simms' meaning is very different. He wishes to say that Col.
Walton was alone when his guests were ushered into his presence. At
page 136, vol. i, the hero, Singleton, concludes a soliloquy with the
ungrammatical phrase, "And yet none love her like me!" At page 143,
vol. i, we read--"'That need not surprise you, Miss Walton; you
remember that ours are British soldiers'--smiling, and with a bow was
the response of the Colonel." We have no great difficulty herein
_guessing_ what Mr. Simms wishes to say--his actual words convey no
meaning whatever. The present participle 'smiling' has no substantive
to keep it company; and the 'bow,' as far as regards its syntactical
disposition, may be referred with equal plausibility to the Colonel,
to Miss Walton, to the British soldiers, or to the author of "The
Partisan." At page 147, vol. i, we are told--"She breathed more freely
released from his embrace, and he then gazed upon her with a _painful
sort of pleasure_, her look was so clear, so dazzling, so spiritual,
so _unnaturally life-like_." The attempt at paradox has here led Mr.
Simms into error. The _painful sort of pleasure_ we may suffer to
pass; but _life_ is the most natural thing in the world, and to call
any object unnaturally life-like is as much a bull proper as to style
it artificially natural. At page 148, we hear "that the disease had
not yet _shown_ upon her system." Shown is here used as a neuter
verb--shown _itself_ Mr. S. meant to say. We are at a loss, too, to
understand what is intended, at page 149, vol. i, by "a look so pure,
so bright, so fond, so becoming of heaven, yet so hopeless of earth."
Becoming heaven, not _of_ heaven, we presume should be the phrase--but
even thus the sentence is unintelligible. At page 156, vol. i, a
countryman "loves war to the knife better than degradation to the
chain." This is a pitiable antithesis. In the first clause, the
expression '_to the_ knife' is idiomatic; in the second, the words
'_to the_ chain' have a literal meaning. At page 88, vol. i, we
read--"The half-military eye would have studiously avoided the ridge,"
&c. The epithet "_half-military_" does not convey the author's
meaning. At page 204, vol. i. Mrs. Blonay is represented as striding
across the floor "with a rapid movement hostile to the enfeebled
appearance of her frame." Here the forcing "_hostile_" to mean _not in
accordance with_, is unjustifiable. At page 14, vol. ii, these words
occur. "Cheerless quite, bald of home and habitation, they saw nothing
throughout the melancholy waste more imposing than the plodding
negro." The "_cheerless quite_" and the "_bald of home and
habitation_" would refer in strict grammatical construction to the
pronoun "_they_"--but the writer means them to agree with "_melancholy
waste_." At page 224, vol. i, we find the following. "The moon,
obscured during the early part of the night, had now sunk _westering_
so far," &c. At page 194, vol. ii, we are informed that "General Gates
_deigned_ no general consultation." At page 13, vol. ii. "Major
Singleton _bids the boy Lance Frampton in attendance_"--and at page
95, vol. ii, we have the singular phenomenon of "_an infant yet unborn
adding its prayer to that of its mother for the vengeance to which he
has devoted himself_"--a sentence which we defy his Satanic Majesty to
translate.
Mr. Simms has one or two pet words which he never fails introducing
every now and then, with or without an opportunity. One of these is
"_coil_"--another, "_hug_"--another, and a still greater favorite, is
the compound "_old-time_." Let us see how many instances of the latter
we can discover in looking over the volumes at random. Page 7, vol.
i--"And with the revival of many _old-time_ feelings, I strolled
through the solemn ruins." Page 13, vol. i--"The cattle graze along
the clustering bricks that distinguish the _old-time_ chimney places."
Page 20, vol. i--"He simply cocked his hat at the _old-time_
customer." Page 121, vol. i--"The Oaks was one of those _old-time_
residences." Page 148, vol. i--"I only wish for mommer as we wish for
an _old-time_ prospect." Page 3, vol. ii--
"Unfold--unfold--the day is going fast,
And I would know this _old-time_ history."
Page 5, vol. ii--"The Carolinian well knows these _old-time_ places."
Page 98, vol. ii--"Look, before we shall have gone too far to return
to them, upon these _old-time_ tombs of Dorchester." Here are eight
_old-times_ discovered in a cursory glance over "The Partisan"--we
believe there are ten times as many interspersed throughout the work.
The _coils_ are equally abundant, and the _hugs_ innumerable.
One or two other faults we are forced to find. The old affectation of
beginning a chapter abruptly has been held worthy of adoption by our
novelist. He has even thought himself justifiable in imitating this
silly practice in its most reprehensible form--we mean the form
habitual with Bulwer and D'Israeli, and which not even their undoubted
and indubitable genius could render any thing but despicable--that of
commencing with an "_And_," a "_But_," or some other conjunction--thus
rendering the initial sentence of the chapter in question, a
continuation of the final sentence of the chapter preceding. We have
an instance of this folly at page 102, vol. ii, where Chapter XII
commences as follows: "_But_, though we turn aside from the highway to
plant or to pluck the flower, we may not linger there idly or long."
Again, at page 50 of the same volume, Chapter VII begins--"_And_ two
opposing and mighty principles were at fearful strife in that
chamber." This piece of frippery need only be pointed out to be
despised.
Instances of bad taste--villainously bad taste--occur frequently in
the book. Of these the most reprehensible are to be found in a love
for that mere _physique_ of the horrible which has obtained for some
Parisian novelists the title of the "French convulsives." At page 97,
vol. ii, we are entertained with the minutest details of a murder
committed by a maniac, Frampton, on the person of Sergeant Hastings.
The madman suffocates the soldier by thrusting his head in the mud of
a morass--and the yells of the murderer, and the kicks of the
sufferer, are dwelt upon by Mr. Simms with that species of delight
with which we have seen many a ragged urchin spin a cockchafer upon a
needle. At page 120, vol. i, another murder is perpetrated by the same
maniac in a manner too shockingly horrible to {121} mention. The
victim in this case is a poor tory, one Clough. At page 217, vol. i,
the booby Goggle receives a flogging for desertion, and Mr. S.
endeavors to interest us in the screeches of the wretch--in the cries
of his mother--in the cracking of the whip--in the number of the
lashes--in the depth, and length, and color of the wounds. At page
105, vol. ii, our friend Porgy has caught a terrapin, and the author
of "The Yemassee" luxuriates in the manner of torturing the poor
reptile to death, and more particularly in the writhings and spasms of
the head, which he assures us with a smile "_will gasp and jerk long
after we have done eating the body_."
One or two words more. Each chapter in "The Partisan" is introduced
(we suppose in accordance with the good old fashion) by a brief
poetical passage. Our author, however, has been wiser than his
neighbors in the art of the initial motto. While others have been at
the trouble of extracting, from popular works, quotations adapted to
the subject-matter of their chapters, he has manufactured his own
headings. We find no fault with him for so doing. The manufactured
mottos of Mr. Simms are, perhaps, quite as convenient as the extracted
mottos of his cotemporaries. All, we think, are abominable. As regards
the fact of the manufacture there can be no doubt. None of the verses
have we ever met with before--and they are altogether too full of
_coils_, _hugs_, and _old-times_, to have any other parent than the
author of "The Yemassee."
In spite, however, of its manifest and manifold blunders and
impertinences, "The Partisan" is no ordinary work. Its historical
details are replete with interest. The concluding scenes are well
drawn. Some passages descriptive of swamp scenery are exquisite. Mr.
Simms has evidently the eye of a painter. Perhaps, in sober truth, he
would succeed better in sketching a landscape than he has done in
writing a novel.