HAWKS OF HAWK-HOLLOW.

_The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow; a Tradition of Pennsylvania. By the author

of Calavar and the Infidel. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard._

By _The Gladiator_, by _Calavar_, and by _The Infidel_, Dr. Bird has

risen, in a comparatively short space of time, to a very enviable

reputation; and we have heard it asserted that his last novel '_The

Hawks of Hawk-Hollow_,' will not fail to place his name in the very

first rank of American writers of fiction. Without venturing to

subscribe implicitly to this latter supposition, we still think very

highly of him who has written _Calavar_. Of this last mentioned work,

and of the _Infidel_, we have already given our opinion, although not

altogether as fully as we could have desired: and we regret that

circumstances beyond our control have prevented us from noticing the

_Hawks of Hawk-Hollow_ until so late a day as the present.

Had this novel reached us some years ago, with the title of, '_The

Hawks of Hawk-Hollow: A Romance by the author of Waverley_,' we should

not perhaps have engaged in its perusal with as much genuine

eagerness, or with so dogged a determination to be pleased with it at

all events, as we have actually done upon receiving it with its proper

title, and under really existing circumstances. But having read the

book _through_, as undoubtedly we should have done, if only for the

sake of Auld Lang Syne, and for the sake of certain pleasantly

mirthful, or pleasantly mournful recollections connected with

_Ivanhoe_, with the _Antiquary_, with _Kenilworth_, and above all with

that most pure, perfect, and radiant gem of fictitious literature the

_Bride of Lammermuir_--having, we say, on this account, and for the

sake of these recollections read the novel from beginning to end, from

Aleph to Tau, we should have pronounced our opinion of its merits

somewhat in the following manner.

"It is unnecessary to tell us that this novel is written by Sir Walter

Scott; and we are really glad to find that he has at length ventured

to turn his attention to American incidents, scenery, and manners. We

repeat that it was a mere act of supererogation to place the words 'By

the author of Waverley' in the title page. The book speaks for itself.

The style vulgarly so called--the manner properly so called--the

handling of the subject to speak pictorially, or graphically, or as a

German would say plastically--in a word the general air, the _tout

ensemble_, the prevailing character of the story, all proclaim, in

words which one who runs may read, that these volumes were indited 'By

the author of Waverley.'" Having said thus much, we should resume our

_critique_ as follows.

"The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow is, however, by no means in the _best_

manner of its illustrious author. To speak plainly it is a positive

failure, and must take its place by the side of the Redgauntlets, the

Monasteries, the Pirates, and the Saint Ronan's Wells."

All this we should perhaps have been induced to say had the book been

offered to us for perusal some few years ago, with the supposititious

title, and under the supposititious circumstances aforesaid. But alas!

for our critical independency, the case is very different indeed.

There can be no mistake or misconception in the present instance, such

as we have so fancifully imagined. The title page (here we have it) is

clear, explanatory, and not to be misunderstood. The Hawks of {44}

Hawk-Hollow, A Tradition of Pennsylvania, that is to say a novel, is

written, so we are assured, not by the author of Waverley, but by the

author of that very fine romance Calavar--not by Sir Walter Scott,

Baronet, but by Robert M. Bird, M.D. Now Robert M. Bird is an

American.

We will endeavour to give an outline of the story. In a little valley

bordering upon the Delaware, and called Hawk-Hollow from a colony of

hawks who time out of mind had maintained possession of a blasted tree

at its _embouchure_, resided, some fifty years ago, one Gilbert, an

English emigrant. He had seven sons, all of whom displayed in early

life a spirit of desperate and reckless adventure, and a love of the

wild life of the woods and mountains. Oran was the name of the eldest,

and at the same time the most savage and intractable of the seven. The

disposition thus evinced obtained for these young desperadoes the

_sobriquet_ of the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow. Gilbert, the father, falls

heir to a rich estate in England, and after making a vain attempt to

settle in that country and educate his children as gentlemen, returns

at length to the valley of Hawk-Hollow, so much more congenial to the

temper and habits of his sons. A fine but fantastic manor-house is

erected, and the family acquire consideration in the land. In the

meantime Mr. Gilbert's first wife dying, he weds another, who bears

him a daughter, Jessie. At the opening of the tale, however, a Captain

Loring resides upon the estate, and in the mansion of the Gilberts,

holding them as the agent or tenant of a certain Col. Falconer, who is

a second edition of Falkland in Caleb Williams,--and who has managed

to possess himself of the property at Hawk-Hollow, upon its

confiscation on account of the tory principles and conduct of the

Hawks.

During the happier days of the Gilberts, the life of this Falconer was

preserved by three of them, upon a certain occasion of imminent peril.

He however, being badly wounded, they convey him to their father's

house, and Jessie, their sister, attends him in the character of

nurse. She loves him. He returns her love with gratitude and perhaps

some little actual affection, not however sufficient to banish from

his mind the charms or the wealth of a lady of whom he had been

previously enamored--the daughter of a gentleman who had succored and

patronised him at a time when he needed aid, and who discarded him

upon perceiving the growing intimacy between his child and his

_protegé_. Grateful however for the kindness and evident affection of

Jessie, and intoxicated with her beauty, he marries her in a moment of

madness and passion--prevailing upon her to keep the marriage a secret

for a short time. At this critical juncture, Falconer, who has already

risen to honors and consideration in the world, as an officer of the

Colonial army, receives overtures of reconciliation both from his old

patron and his daughter. His former flame is rekindled in his bosom.

He puts off from day to day the publication of his marriage with

Jessie, and, finally, goaded by love and ambition, and encouraged by

the accidental death of the regimental chaplain who married him, as

well as by that of the only witness to the ceremony, he flies from

Jessie who is about to become a mother, and leaving herself and

friends under the impression that the rite of marriage had been a mere

mockery for the purpose of seduction, throws himself at once into the

arms of his first love, and at length espouses her, a short time

before the decease of Jessie, who dies in bringing a son into the

world.

The wrath of the brothers of Jessie, has doomed this child to

destruction--but their mother, at this same period giving birth to a

still-born infant, an exchange is brought about through the

instrumentality of an old nurse Elsie Bell, who plays an anomalous

part in the story, being half witch, and half gentlewoman. The effect

of this exchange is that the still-born child of Mrs. Gilbert is

buried as the offspring of Jessie, while her real offspring, is sent

to the West Indies, to be nurtured and educated by a sister of Mr.

Gilbert. The boy thus sent was called Hyland, after one of the Hawks

who perished in the rescue of Col. Falconer.

Such are the events which, at the opening of the story, have broken up

the family of the Gilberts, and effected their ruin.

"The sons no longer hunted with the young men of the county, but went,

as in their war expeditions, alone: and when others thrust themselves

into their company they quarrelled with them, so that they began to be

universally feared and detested. To crown all, as soon as the

Revolution burst out they went over to the enemy: and, being

distributed among the wild and murderous bands of savages forming on

the north-western frontiers, they soon obtained a dreadful notoriety

for their deeds of daring and cruelty. Of course this remarkable

defection of the sons, caused the unlucky father to be suspected and

watched. He was accused at last of aiding and abetting them in their

treasonable practices, and soon, either from timidity or a

consciousness of guilt, he fled, seeking refuge within the royal

lines. This was sufficient for his ruin: for, after the usual legal

preliminaries, he was formally outlawed, as his sons had been before,

and his property confiscated. He died soon afterwards, either at New

York, or Jamaica."

Hyland, the son of Falconer by Jessie, but the supposed youngest

brother of the Hawks, returns after many years, to his native country

with the intention of accepting a British commission; but seeing more

closely, and with his own eyes, the true principles which actuated the

colonists, he finally relinquishes that design. In the meantime

visiting the Hawk-Hollow under the assumed name of Herman Hunter, and

in the character of a painter, he becomes enamored of Catherine, the

daughter of Captain Loring. The attachment is mutual, although the

lady is already betrothed to Henry, the son of Col. Falconer, a rather

gentlemanly, although a very dissipated and good-for-nothing

personage. Difficulties thicken of course. Miss Harriet Falconer, a

copy in many respects of Di Vernon, becomes, for some very trivial

reason, a violent enemy of Herman Hunter, and even goes so far as to

suspect him of being connected with the outlawed Hawks of the Hollow.

Captain Loring, on the other hand, is his firm friend--a circumstance

which restores matters to a more proper equilibrium, and much

flirtation is consequently carried on, in and about the old mansion

house and pleasure grounds of the Gilberts. In the meantime an attempt

is made, by some unknown assassin, upon the life of Col. Falconer, at

New York; and the county is thrown into a panic, by the rumor that

Oran, the eldest brother of the Hawks, is not dead, as was supposed,

but in existence near the Hollow with a desperate band of refugees,

and ready to pounce upon {45} the neighboring village of Hillborough.

Miss Harriet Falconer busies herself in a very unlady-like manner to

ferret out the assassin of her father. Plot and counterplot follow in

rapid succession. New characters appear upon the scene. A tall

disciple of Roscius called Sterling, is, among others, very

conspicuous, thrusting his nose into every adventure, and assuming by

turns, although in a very slovenly way, the character of a Methodist

preacher, of a pedlar, of a Quaker, and of a French dancing master.

Elsie Bell, the old witch, prophecies, predicates, and prognosticates;

and in short matters begin to assume a very serious and inexplicable

aspect. Hyland Gilbert _alias_ Herman Hunter, the painter, is drawn

into an involuntary connection with his supposed brother Oran, the

refugee, and some circumstances coming to light not very much to his

credit, he is obliged to flee from the mansion of the gallant

Captain--not, however, until he has declared his passion for the

daughter, into the ear of the daughter herself. Through the

instigation of Harriet Falconer, the day is at length fixed for the

marriage of her brother Henry with Catherine Loring. Accident delays

the ceremony until night, when, just as the lady is hesitating whether

she shall say _yes_, or _no_, the tall gentleman ycleped Sterling who

has managed, no one knows how, to install himself as major-domo, chief

fiddler, and master of ceremonies at the wedding, takes the liberty of

knocking the bridegroom on the head with his violin, while Oran, the

refugee, jumps in at one window with a gang of his followers, and

Hyland Gilbert, _alias_ Herman Hunter, the painter, popping in at

another, carries off the bride at a back door _nemine contradicente_.

The bird being flown, the hue and cry is presently raised, and the

whole county starts in pursuit. But the affair ends very lamely.

Precisely at the moment when Hyland Gilbert, _alias_ Herman Hunter,

the painter, has carried his mistress beyond any prospect of danger

from pursuit, he suddenly takes it into his head, to change his mind

in relation to the entire business, and so, turning back as he came,

very deliberately carries the lady home again. He himself, however,

being caught, is sentenced to be hung--all which is exceedingly just.

But to be serious.

The crime with which the young man is charged, is the murder of Henry

Falconer, who fell by a pistol shot in an affray during the pursuit.

The criminal is lodged in jail at Hillborough--is tried--and, chiefly

through the instrumentality of Col. Falconer, is in danger of being

found guilty. But Elsie Bell now makes her appearance, and matters

assume a new aspect. She reveals to Col. Falconer the exchange of the

two infants--a fact with which he had been hitherto unacquainted--and

consequently astounds him with the information that he is seeking the

death of his own son. A new turn is also given to the evidence in the

case of the murder by the death-bed confession of Sterling, who owns

that he himself shot the deceased Henry Falconer, and also attempted

the assassination of the Colonel. The prisoner is acquitted by

acclamation. Col. Falconer, is shot by mistake while visiting his son

in prison. Harriet dies of grief at the exposure of her father's

villainy, and of her own consequent illegitimacy. Hyland Gilbert and

Catherine are united. Oran, the refugee, who fired the shot by which

Col. Falconer was accidentally killed, being hotly pursued, and

dangerously wounded, escapes, finally, to his fastnesses in the

mountains, where, after a lapse of many years, his bones and his rifle

are identified. Thus ends the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow.

We have already spoken of the character of Elsie Bell. That of Harriet

Falconer, is forced, unnatural, and overstrained. Catherine Loring,

however, is one of the sweetest creations ever emanating from the

fancy of poet, or of painter. Truly feminine in thought, in manner,

and in action, she is altogether a conception of which Dr. Bird has

great reason to be proud. Phoebe, the waiting maid, (we have not

thought it worth while to mention her in our outline,) is a mere

excrescence, and, like some other personages in the tale, introduced

for no imaginable purpose. Of the male _dramatis personæ_ some are

good--some admirable--some execrable. Among the good, we may mention

Captain Caliver of the Dragoons. Captain Loring is a _chéf d'oeuvre_.

His oddities, his infirmities, his enthusiasm, his petulancy, his

warm-heartedness, and his mutability of disposition, altogether make

up a character which we may be permitted to consider original,

inasmuch as we have never seen its prototype either in print, or in

actual existence. It is however true to itself, and to propriety, and

although at times verging upon the _outré_, is highly creditable to

the genius of its author. Oran, the refugee, is well--but not

excellently drawn. The hero Hyland, with whom we were much interested

in the beginning of the book, proves inconsistent with himself in the

end; and although to be inconsistent with one's self, is not always to

be false to Nature--still, in the present instance, Hyland Gilbert in

prison, and in difficulty, and Herman Hunter, in the opening of the

novel, possess none of the same traits, and are not, in point of fact,

identical. Sterling is a mere mountebank, without even the merit of

being an original one: and his death-bed repentance is too ludicrously

ill-managed, and altogether too manifestly out of place, to be

mentioned any farther. Squire Schlachtenschlager, the Magistrate, is

the best personification of a little brief authority in the person of

a Dutchman, which it has ever been our good fortune to encounter.

In regard to that purely mechanical portion of Dr. Bird's novel, which

it would now be fashionable to denominate its _style_, we have very

few observations to make. In general it is faultless. Occasionally we

meet with a sentence ill-constructed--an inartificial adaptation of

the end to the beginning of a paragraph--a circumlocutory mode of

saying what might have been better said, if said with brevity--now and

then with a pleonasm, as for example. "And if he wore a mask in his

commerce with men, it was like that _iron_ one of the Bastile, which

when put on, was put on for life, and was at the same time _of

iron_,"--not unfrequently with a bull proper, videlicet. "As he spoke

there came into the den, eight men attired like the two first _who

were included in the number_." But we repeat that upon the whole the

style of the novel--if that may be called its style, which style is

not--is at least _equal_ to that of any American writer whatsoever.

In the style _properly_ so called--that is to say in the prevailing

tone and manner which give character and individuality to the book, we

cannot bring ourselves to think that Dr. Bird has been equally

fortunate. His subject appears always ready to fly away from him. He

dallies with it continually--hovers incessantly round {46} it, and

about it--and not until driven to exertion by the necessity of

bringing his volumes to a close, does he finally grasp it with any

appearance of energy or good will. The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow is

composed with great inequality of manner--at times forcible and

manly--at times sinking into the merest childishness and imbecility.

Some portions of the book, we surmise, were either not written by Dr.

Bird, or were written by him in moments of the most utter mental

exhaustion. On the other hand, the reader will not be disappointed, if

he looks to find in the novel many--very many well sustained passages

of great eloquence and beauty. We open the book at random, and one

presents itself immediately to our notice. If Dr. Bird has a general

manner at all--a question which we confess ourselves unable to

decide--the passage which we are about to quote is a very fair,

although perhaps rather too favorable specimen of that manner.

"Thus whiling away the fatigue of climbing over rocks, and creeping

through thickets with a gay rattle of discourse, the black-eyed maiden

dragged her companion along until they reached a place where the

stream was contracted by the projection on the one bank of a huge mass

of slaty rock, and on the other, by the protrusion of the roots of a

gigantic plane-tree--the sycamore or button-wood of vulgar speech.

Above them, and beyond the crag, the channel of the rivulet widened

into a pool; and there was a plot of green turf betwixt the water and

the hill, on the farther bank, whereon fairies, if such had ever made

their way to the world of Twilight, might have loved to gambol under

the light of the moon. A hill shut up the glen at its upper extremity;

and it was hemmed in on the left, by the rocky and woody declivity

over which the maidens had already passed. Over this, and just behind

a black rounded shoulder that it thrust into the glen, a broad ray

from the evening sun shot across the stream, and fell in a rich yellow

flood over the vacant plot. There was something almost Arcadian in

this little solitude; and if instead of two well-bred maidens perched

upon the roots of the sycamore, on seats chosen with a due regard to

the claims of their dresses, there had been a batch of country girls

romping in the water, a passing Actæon might have dreamed of the piny

Gargaphy, its running well _fons tenui perlucidus unda_--and the

bright creatures of the mythic day that once animated the waters of

that solitary grot. But the fairy and the wood-nymph are alike unknown

in America. Poetic illusion has not yet consecrated her glens and

fountains; her forests nod in uninvaded gloom, her rivers roll in

unsanctified silence, and even her ridgy mountains lift up their blue

tops in unphantomed solitude. Association sleeps, or it reverts only

to the vague mysteries of speculation. Perhaps

A restless Indian queen,

Pale Marian with the braided hair,

may wander at night by some highly favored spring; perhaps some tall

and tawny hunter

In vestments for the chase arrayed,

may yet hunt the hart over certain distinguished ridges, or urge his

barken canoe over some cypress-fringed pool; but all other places are

left to the fancies of the utilitarian. A Greek would have invented a

God to dwell under the watery arch of Niagara; an American is

satisfied with a paper-mill clapped just above it."

Of the songs and other poetic pieces interspersed throughout the book,

and sometimes not aptly or gracefully introduced, we have a very high

opinion. Some of them are of rare merit and beauty. If Dr. Bird can

always write thus, and we see no reason for supposing the contrary, he

should at once, in the language of one with whom he is no doubt well

acquainted,

Turn bard, and drop the play-wright and the novelist.

In evidence that we say nothing more than what is absolutely just; we

insert here the little poem of _The Whippoorwill_.

Sleep, sleep! be thine the sleep that throws

Elysium o'er the soul's repose,

Without a dream, save such as wind

Like midnight angels, through the mind;

While I am watching on the hill

I, and the wailing whippoorwill.

Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill!

Sleep, sleep! and once again I'll tell

The oft pronounced yet vain farewell:

Such should his word, oh maiden, be

Who lifts the fated eye to thee;

Such should it be, before the chain

That wraps his spirit, binds his brain.

Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill!

Sleep, sleep! the ship hath left the shore,

The steed awaits his lord no more;

His lord still madly lingers by,

The fatal maid he cannot fly--

And thrids the wood, and climbs the hill--

He and the wailing whippoorwill.

Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill!

Sleep, sleep! the morrow hastens on;

Then shall the wailing slave be gone,

Flitting the hill-top far for fear

The sounds of joy may reach his ear;

The sounds of joy!--the hollow knell

Pealed from the mocking chapel bell.

Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill!

In conclusion: The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, if it add a single bay to the

already green wreath of Dr. Bird's _popular_ reputation, will not, at

all events, among men whose decisions are entitled to consideration,

advance the high opinion previously entertained of his abilities. It

has no pretensions to _originality_ of manner, or of style--for we

insist upon the distinction--and very few to originality of matter. It

is, in many respects, a bad imitation of Sir Walter Scott. Some of its

characters, and one or two of its incidents, have seldom been

surpassed, for force, fidelity to nature, and power of exciting

interest in the reader. It is altogether more worthy of its author in

its scenes of hurry, of tumult, and confusion, than in those of a more

quiet and philosophical nature. Like _Calavar_ and _The Infidel_, it

excels in the drama of action and passion, and fails in the drama of

colloquy. It is inferior, as a whole, to the _Infidel_, and vastly

inferior to _Calavar_.