THE CAVALIERS OF VIRGINIA, or the Recluse of Jamestown. An Historical
Romance of the Old Dominion. By the author of a Kentuckian in New
York. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1834.
This work is by a Virginian,--and with that sort of partiality which
inclines us to espouse the literary claims of our native state, (too
long and too unjustly neglected,) we were predisposed to receive it
with favor. Some of the northern periodicals moreover had lauded its
merits, and we own that we felt some pride in the reflection that one
of the most interesting periods in our early colonial history, had
attracted a native adventurer in the field of historical romance. We
regret to say that we are much disappointed in the manner in which the
task has been executed. Our feelings and partialities, which were all
on the author's side,--we are compelled to surrender to the stern
demands of literary justice. The "Cavaliers," in our humble opinion,
is unworthy of the subject it was intended to illustrate,--and
although not entirely destitute of merit,--its faults are so numerous
and censurable, they greatly preponderate in the estimate we have
formed of the work. In the first place, the author has evidently
failed to make himself acquainted with the history of the age and the
character of the incidents which he has chosen as the groundwork of
his story. The portrait of Bacon, is but a poor and feeble likeness of
the original,--and that of Sir William Berkeley, is the merest
caricature of that brave, accomplished, but despotic vicegerent of
royal power. Bacon is represented as a kind of half frantic,
inconsiderate stripling--something of a dandy--but more of a wild and
reckless lover, whose thoughts were principally occupied by his "ladye
love;"--and but slightly, if at all, by the wrongs of his suffering
country. Far different indeed, was the noble and lofty heroism of the
real Bacon--a character which shines in the foreground of our ancient
history,--with a lustre, that despite of the efforts made to diminish
it, will vie with the Wallaces and Tells of other ages and countries.
Sir William Berkeley, though certainly a tyrant, was not the vulgar
insensate wretch which our author has made him. His ambition was made
of "sterner stuff," than to be employed upon petty schemes of
matrimonial alliance,--and the Knight, "in a blue velvet doublet and
pink satin breeches," is but an _outre_ representation of the ancient
and renowned Cavalier,--who had battled with the red man in his savage
lair,--and had exchanged the luxuries of English society, for the
perils and hardships of a wilderness.
There is another capital defect in our author, which if he ever hopes
for success, must be first overcome. He leaves his pictures, both of
character and incident, altogether unfinished,--and darts with a
meteor-like swiftness from subject to subject,--reminding the reader
of a show-box,--in which the eye scarcely lights upon one spectacle,
before it vanishes,--and is substituted by another and a different
one. This perpetual flash and glare, without even the merit of
distinctness, is far more painful than agreeable;--and the author
would do well, if he bestowed more pains in separating the several
parts of his story,--and a little more skill in the arrangement and
harmony of his coloring. In truth, if he intends to repeat his
efforts; and is really a _bona fide_ candidate for fame, we would
advise him to put more oil into his lamp, and expend some additional
labor in fitting his offspring for public exhibition. He does not
employ sufficient _thought_ in the composition of his narrative,--but
suffers his imagination (rich and vivid enough,) to run riot without
restraint or limit. The conduct of Bacon, after the interruption of
the marriage ceremony, as described in the first chapter of the second
volume--is the conduct of a bedlamite, rather than of a rational
being; and the whole scene of his mounting his fiery
courser,--plunging into the river and swimming to the opposite
shore,--his head bared to the "pitiless storm"--"the monsters of the
deep his playmates, and the ill-omened birds of night his fellows;" is
such a tissue of exaggeration and sublime fustian,--that what was
evidently intended for great effect, is in reality extremely
ludicrous. The hero indeed, acts so little like a man of sense, in
this nocturnal aquatic excursion, that the reader feels much more
sympathy for "the white silk breeches and graceful blue cloak," (which
were likely to be spoiled by the half saline element,) than for the
poor unfortunate wight of a bridegroom himself.
The author has moreover been guilty of a very strange mistake in his
geography. He makes his hero swim, "Leander-like," over the majestic
James,--which according to our reckoning, and agreeably to the map of
the country--would have landed him on the _south side_, in the very
respectable county of _Surry_;--but, to our utter amazement, the next
glimpse we have of him, he is rushing on his fleet courser into the
wilderness on the margin of the Chickahomony,--which our best informed
geographers have placed on the _north_ side of the ancient
_Powhatan_,--now called _James river_. Such mistakes are altogether
inexcusable,--and the more so as the author is a native of the "Old
Dominion," and ought to have been more circumspect in his topography.
Equally unfortunate is his arrangement of historical events,--for if
he had looked a little into our early writers, he would have found
that Bacon was never carried prisoner to the Eastern Shore; and that
the treachery of Larimore, did not betray the insurgent squadron into
the power of Berkeley, until _after_ the destruction of Jamestown.
These errors in chronology however, might have been forgiven, if the
author had otherwise redeemed himself from equally formidable
objections. The whole story of the Recluse,--and the miraculous
preservation of Bacon when an infant, as related by the old
nurse,--strike us as evincing poverty of invention, and as altogether
too absurd for an ordinary writer at least to use as materials for
romance. Scott, perhaps, might have turned them to some advantage;--at
all events, the matchless vigor and beauty of his style, would have
thrown a veil over other imperfections. The author might have made
something of Wyanokee, but unfortunately failed to do it,--and we
cannot say that we even felt interested in the sorrows of Virginia
Fairfax. The girl is well enough--very pretty--amiable--and all that,
but she wants force and individuality of character. The whole scene in
which the dying Mrs. Fairfax is exhibited in the bloody conflict with
the Indians in the neighborhood of Richmond, is particularly horrible,
and in wretchedly bad taste.
In taking our leave of the author, we would also advise him, when he
writes another romance, to "sink the shop,"--or rather the
_profession_; and not to describe the wounds and bruises of his
_dramatis personæ_ with that technical precision which only surgeons
and anatomists can fully comprehend. We would also recommend to him,
as a medical man, that when any unlucky hero of his is hereafter tied
to an Indian stake, by all means to have him rescued before the pine
splinters have actually pierced the flesh,--especially when that hero
is made so soon thereafter to perform a series of active exploits
requiring sound bodily health and great muscular exertion.
We have taken no pleasure in this free commentary upon the work before
us, and have only been induced to make it by a sense of duty. Its
author is evidently afflicted with a kind of rabid propensity to write
works of fiction; and, if he is resolved to gratify it, we do most
earnestly entreat him for his own sake and for the sake of his native
state, to invoke hereafter a little more reflection, a purer taste,
and a more enlightened judgment in aid of his labors.
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