temperament, has driven me from society, not as a misanthrope—not as a
misogynist, but as a cold intellectualist. I must henceforth look for my
enjoyment to the abstract pleasures of the understanding. A heart which
was formed to open and expand in the atmosphere which gladdens the
fireside, must stifle its emotions in the bustle of political life, in
the fierce encounter of contending minds, or in the endless, absorbing
pursuit of gain. I must hereafter dissever the mind from the heart, and
content myself with being the civilized savage, which all men would have
been, if woman had never existed, or if the religion she reveres had
never exalted her character. For with all his boasting, what is man’s
mind, without _her_ influence? It is like the rough sketch of the
painter, in which the prominent parts only are developed. As it requires
the utmost refinement of his art, to give these rugged outlines grace
and beauty, to call into being the living landscape and the speaking
eye; thus it is, beautifully, the part of woman, to fill out the rugged
outlines of man’s mind, with those refined virtues, which embellish his
character. It is for her to touch with the radiance of Mercy, the stern
lineaments of Justice; she must shade away Ferocity, with the tints of
Mildness; she must hide every blemish, with the coloring of her own
purity; she must brighten every dark spot, with the brilliancy of her
own innocence; she must throw over the roughness of the whole, the magic
of her own refined sensibility.
Such has been the experience of a Sensitive Man: it is not without a
moral for those who are not too wise to learn from the errors of others.
THE WHALE’S LAST MOMENTS.
A LAMP-LIGHT MUSING.
I’m king—I’m king of the ‘vasty deep,’
My palace down ’mid the rocks I keep,—
But what see I now o’er the waters sweep?
Indeed—’tis a foe!—a foe!
Ah! fatal shaft!—and a crimson wave!—
But I’ll flee, I’ll flee to my ocean cave;
My palace there—it shall be my grave,
And the deep shall o’er me flow.
Yet, death to the foe!—for again I come
Up, up from the depths of my ocean home—
But, ah!—in a shroud of the white sea-foam
An expiring thing I lie.
And I see, in this darkly flashing light,
Which coldly falls on my misty sight,
Like the elfish glare of a polar night,
The future before my eye.
And ah! no more can I call my own
This ocean kingdom and coral throne;
But tyrant man must be lord alone
Of the earth, and the air, and sea;
And my pure spirit he’ll bear away
To the lamp-lit land of the sleeping day,
There only to own his constant sway,
And his tireless vassal be.
Aye, there, in the bannered hall of state,
A radiant spirit, I’ll nightly wait,
And throw new light on the long debate,
And thwart Ambition’s schemes.
I’ll sit me down by the statesman, too,
Engage in whatever he chance to do,
Read all his documents through and through,
And enlighten his darkest dreams.
I’ll then to the hall of mirth advance,
Pour Love’s own light on the joyous dance,
Give life and point to the speaking glance,
And charms to the blushing fair.
At night I’ll visit the student’s room,
And I’ll scatter the ancient mist of gloom
Which darkly hangs over Learning’s tomb,
And the classical mummies there.
I’ll help him fathom the depths of Time,
Or up the heights of Parnassus climb,
Or sport in the babbling brooks of rhyme,
Or—for want of sense—make _dashes_;—
Thus all I’ll serve—but I’ll have my pay—
Revenge—and that in my own good way;—
A dwelling I’ll touch—it shall be my prey—
And a city shall burn to ashes!
REVIEW.
_“The Partisan,” a Tale of the Revolution. By the author of “The
Yemassee,” “Guy Rivers,” &c._
There are two ways of acquiring literary reputation—the one is by an
author’s _real merits_, the other by his _puffs_. Of the former method
nothing need be said, but the latter merits the severest censure.
Puffs, have become the publisher’s, and in a great degree the author’s,
living. So completely is it the publisher’s trade, and so firm withal is
his hold upon the nose of that stupid _gull_, the public, that he can
make a book, which contains one page that will be read in a newspaper,
as an extract, “the best novel of the season,” and can exalt “the most
stupid ass that brays on paper,” to a place “among our first novelists.”
Authorship has, in fact, become a _trade_. The writer presents his
manuscript to the publisher, with information that another novel is in
the works. The latter prints it, and sends it forth, with a few feeble
puffs, “damning with faint praise,” and the poor bantling, fathered by a
head without brains, is worse than still-born. But the parties concerned
are not a whit uneasy; they know of a revivifying principle, _all_
powerful. In a short time, another work is announced, by the same
author. Now all is “ripe for the harvest.” The well paid journals and
periodicals are loud in their praises. “This work fully answers the high
expectations raised by the author’s first production. The uncommon
genius and talents displayed in that, led us to expect nothing less than
the work before us. Owing to the author’s want of celebrity, his first
effort did not meet with the success which those acquainted with its
merits had anticipated. This might have discouraged a genius of lower
order, and less conscious of its powers, but the second trial promises
an ample reward for both—in fame, as well as profit.” The scheme works.
The greedy public swallow the dose, and smack their lips—for they are
_told_ that it is good. Both of the works go off with a rapid sale, and
the author is now sure of reaping profit, and, for the time, fame, from
whatever trash he inflicts upon the community, for “his name is among
our first novelists,” and he himself puts on “the distant air of
greatness,” puffed into the belief that he is a genius.
This is labor most _unproductive_ to the country. It is but forging
titles to literary fame,—it is climbing in some other way than by the
door of merit,—a practice most disgraceful in itself, and most poisonous
to our literature and literary reputation. This latter effect is full
obvious, for the system brings dullness to an equality with genius and
merit, and even gives it an advantage over them. They will not stoop to
such means for success, but shrink back disgusted and discouraged,
unable to compete with their inferior rival. It could not have been a
rival of itself, but, backed by such base allies, _dullness_ becomes too
strong for the single arm of _genius_. Nor is this all. We have spoken
chiefly with reference to novels and novelists. Novels supply much of
the reading of youth, and by them, therefore, in a great degree, the
taste of the young is formed. Their own judgment is not ripe, and youth
rely upon that of others, to furnish suitable models of taste. By the
recommendations of those who should be judges, they are too apt to adopt
the trash with which the press is teeming, and their judgment is
affected and taste formed by its influence. Not only their style, but
the mind itself is affected. False standards of literary merit arise,
and literature itself must become corrupt. As the country is young, and
our literature forming, those who are readers now, will soon become
writers,—theirs will be the pens, which shall, in no small degree, give
us literary character, and every taste and style thus perverted, will by
so much detract from our reputation. The evil is one, therefore, which
every literary man, who desires for our country a literary renown of
which she may be proud, should be active in subduing, lest our fame be
sacrificed to the _money speculations_ of the selfish.
Among the authors, who, with their works, have been puffed into
notoriety, the author of “Martin Faber,” “Guy Rivers,” “The Yemassee,”
and last of all, “The Partisan,” stands conspicuous. It may be said,
that this is a bold assertion to make of a popular writer. It certainly
would be, if we did not know that popularity is no sure test of merit.
When “Guy Rivers, a tale of Georgia,” by the author of “Martin Faber,
the story of a criminal,” was announced, although we had never before
heard of this same “story of a criminal,” yet such hearty praises
accompanied the announcement, that we hoped indeed another Cooper had
raised the “torch of genius,” and was about to dazzle the world with its
rays. An enthusiast in our wishes for the glory of American literature,
we were delighted with the prospect, and eagerly sought to complete our
happiness by perusing the promising volumes. We read and were not
satisfied, yet looked forward for better things; for we had noted the
motto of the book—
“Who wants
A sequel, may read on. Th’ unvarnished tale
That follows, will supply the place of one.”
We finished, and were disappointed. We had expected something of
genius—the rich, fervid style—the original thought—the bright and
glowing paintings of natural beauty, or the thrilling description of
high-wrought human energies, that stirs the soul. These we found not,
and then we waited for the cunning delineation of the human heart—its
workings, and—the “sequel.” Our reward was the “unvarnished tale.” The
work bears no mark of a mind capable of original conceptions. The
descriptions of natural scenery, throughout this and all the author’s
works, are but imitations of the works of masters, served up in dim and
changed colors. The thoughts are trite; and the sample piece, the
tit-bit, that was served up to _water_ the mouth of the public—we mean
the description of the destruction of the Georgia guard, which occupies
by far the fairest page of the work—is but a scene familiar in plot and
story. Guy Rivers himself is but a sorry deformity of one of those dark
spirits, which require the genius of a Byron or Bulwer to throw an
interest around them, and the hero has hardly a character. We can only
conceive of him as a love-sick somebody, to whom is given the name of
Ralph Colleton.
The next work dealt out to the public is “The Yemassee,” and to this we
can only afford a passing remark, as our principal business is with “The
Partisan.” “The Yemassee” is the best production of this author. When
speaking of the _best_ of such works, we mean it has the fewest faults.
The author advertises that he shall insist upon its being considered a
_romance_, and (as near as we can gather from his remarks) that he has a
right to say and do as he chooses. Some of the scenes might have been
made exciting, did it not seem that the writer had measured his paper,
and said “this description shall fill _so much_.” It might be read with
some interest, perhaps, by one who had never read “The Last of the
Mohicans.” But those who have, should wait until the memory of the
latter has become faded and dim. There is enough in the story, to have
made a pretty tale of fifty pages; at least, it then would have had one
merit, which now it has not—brevity.
The last production from the pen of this author is “The Partisan, a tale
of the Revolution.” As the author is very particular, and at times a
little dictatorial in his _advertisements_, let us look there for what
he promises, and then examine the tale for the fulfillment.
“The title of the work, indeed, will persuade the reader to look rather
for a true description of that mode of warfare, (the partisan,) than for
any consecutive story, comprising the fortunes of a single personage.
This he is solicited to keep in mind.” Again, “I have entitled it ‘The
Partisan, a tale of the Revolution’—it was intended to be particularly
such. The characters, many of them are names in the nation, familiar as
our thoughts; [the author’s thoughts are very familiar.] Gates, Marion,
De Kalb, and the rest, are all the property of our country.” He says,
“My aim has been to give a story of events, rather than of persons”—that
“A sober desire for history—the unwritten, the unconsidered, but
veracious history—has been with me, in this labor, a sort of principle.”
What, then, are we to presume from this, is to be the character of the
work? Certainly, that it is to be almost entirely historical. Yet as it
is entitled a tale, we might of course suppose that the fortunes of some
individual, a fictitious person or one little known, was to be the
_chain_, into which should be woven the adventures of the famous
men—Marion, De Kalb, and others, whose names the author mentions. It is
to be “a story of events, rather than of persons.” And what does the
work prove to be? Not an event, in which either of these Generals was
active, or in any great degree interested, is mentioned, except what is
related in some of the one hundred pages, devoted to describing the
battle and defeat of Gates by Cornwallis, which pages are almost the
last of the work. To bring in this event, the author makes a long march
with his hero, who, after all, was not engaged in the action. The story
does not naturally bring us there: so, after all, it is only by a
_forced march_, that any of the characters, set before us in the
advertisement, are introduced. His censures upon Gates are severe. Since
the laurels, won at Saratoga, were shed in the flight from Camden, that
General has never been a favorite with his countrymen. There never were
wanting hands to use the dagger against the fame of the fallen great;
yet those are not to be envied, who thus can stab the slain.
We may now ask, are all the author’s promises but so much “ado about
nothing?” Let us see, by examining further. The principal characters
are, Major Singleton, the hero and ‘Partisan,’ an officer under Marion;
Colonel Walton, uncle to the ‘hero,’ and father to the heroine; Dick
Humphries, a co-partisan; and John Davis, the at first unsuccessful
rival of a British sergeant, who is in love with the sister of
Humphries. Besides these, there are a number of lesser characters, who
figure not a little. The most conspicuous of these are, a mad man or
devil-maniac, who has a most outlandish habit of haw-hawing, after the
manner of _a wolf_, about his wife, who has been murdered most cruelly
by the tories: his name is Frampton—and the glutton Porgy, who helps the
author to no small quantity of matter, for filling his pages, while he
helps himself, to fill his stomach. The female characters are, Katherine
Walton,—the hero’s sister, Emily Singleton; and Bella Humphries. These
are the principal _dramatis personæ_; of course, there are the
_soldiers_, _attendants_, &c.
The story, which is without a plot, (and in this I suppose the great
difference consists between a “history of events,” and novels
generally,) amounts about to this: The hero is introduced towards the
close of the day, makes one proselyte—John Davis—meets Humphries, and
with him goes by night to the “Cypress Swamp;” in the morning suppresses
with his “_swamp suckers_,” a party of tories, which had been sent
against them; after which they cut off a supply of provisions, &c.,
destined for the camp of the enemy: then, placing his camp near the
plantation of his uncle, he starts at night, and, with Humphries, visits
“the Oaks,” the dwelling place of Col. Walton, and arriving, finds that
Col. Proctor, who has also a love for the daughter of the Colonel, is
already there; so, hiding in “the Oaks,” he overhears some conversation
between the British officer and Kate, who are walking with Col. Walton
and the sister, which conversation makes our hero feel better; and when
the British officer is gone, the hiders come forth, and with their
friends enter the mansion, make a visit, and shortly return to the camp;
encounter a hurricane; meet Goggle, one of the tory prisoners, whom they
had taken in the morning, and who had enlisted with them, and now
escaped; and, after endeavoring in vain to take him, they pay a visit to
his witch mother, all for no purpose; and finally reach their camp;
while Goggle goes to his mother, and sends her to Proctor with
information, and then returns to the camp of the “Partisan;” and this
finishes the first volume, so far as the principal character is
concerned.
In the second volume, our hero again visits “the Oaks,” and while
standing by the bed side of his dying sister, is informed that Proctor,
with a company of soldiers, has arrived; he refuses to fly at first, but
at last escapes from the window, is pursued, and nearly taken, but
escapes, and the next moment meets Col. Walton with a troop, the Colonel
having been forced to take up arms for or against his country: they
turn, take Proctor, let him go; and the next day our hero goes to join
Marion, while Col. Walton joins Gates; and on his way, Singleton
surprises Gaskens, a tory leader, with his party; Gates refusing to
accept the proffered aid of Marion, the latter General, with our hero,
departs; the battle is fought, Col. Walton taken, and carried to
Dorchester, to be tried and executed, but is rescued at the scaffold by
Singleton, who thus wins cousin Kate, and marries her _we suppose_, for
the author leaves us in the dark as to the “consummation most devoutly
to be wished for.”
This is the outline, and we will now examine parts more minutely. The
author, in the first thirty pages, proceeds to introduce the hero to the
reader, in the bar-room of the “Royal George” at Dorchester, which
“belongs to Ashley no longer,” and gives a tedious account of sundry
_bullyings_ and threats, between the two rivals, Sergeant Hastings and
John Davis, a doughty Goose-creeker, which ended without many blows,
thanks to the benign influence of the pretty bar maid, whose influence
seems directly the reverse of the heifer in Virgil’s Comparison. The
next thirty pages bring our hero to the swamp, and on the ride thither,
Humphries gives a learned disquisition upon the manner of building
causeways through the swamp, which he proves most conclusively should be
built with a “back bone,” and logs placed “up and down the road.” In the
following, we have a description of some twenty men, who are under arms
in the swamp. “The gloomy painter would have done much with the scene
before them,” says our author. Would that the gloomy painter _had_ done
it, or some one, who would have done more in fewer words. It is a fault
with this author, as it is with all who have a lack of genius or vivid
imagination, that, instead of seizing upon the prominent and striking
points in a scene, and sketching them with a bold hand, leaving the
picture to be filled out by the awakened imagination of the reader, he
tires, by giving minute descriptions of every tree, grape vine, and pool
of water, and the appearance and position of each individual, as if
all-important to the “story,” as well as to the mind of the reader. As
the surprize of the tories is the first thing like an incident, that we
find in the work, although we are through with half of the first volume,
was this one of even common interest, it should be here transcribed, but
it is too prolix, and the most of it is the chase of Frampton, the
maniac, after a hang-man tory corporal, who at length became dreadfully
_bit_ by the maniac’s sword. The rest of the work has little more of
interest, than that which we have thus seen: it is all the transactions
of a few men in a swamp, to illustrate the partisan warfare in the
south, without interest or useful information. The work is made up of
these _illustrations_, and the trivial adventures of an individual.
There is nothing startling enough to please, or to excite but a drowsy
interest. Notwithstanding the author tells us that it is his aim “to
delineate with all the rapidity of one, who, with the mystic lantern,
runs his uncouth shapes and varying shadows along the gloomy wall,
startling imagination, and enkindling curiosity,” his delineations are
slow, and imagination and curiosity are left to their slumbers. The
author who promises a novel purely historical, in which true history is
his chief object, promises much—such promises it requires no ordinary
mind to fulfill; and the work before us must be looked upon only as a
novel—one, in which fiction, as usual, supplies most of the material.
In this, as in the other works of this author, there is shown the want
of all those powers which mark genius. It has no deeply drawn
characters, no marks of deep insight into the human heart. There is
nothing about the hero, that should set him apart from other men in his
vocation; and Col. Walton, with a weakness that seems like dotage,
although he is in the prime of life, hesitates long between private
interest and patriotism; and is at last _driven_ to side with his
country—a character despised to the last—a lie upon the high minded
patriots of the south, who staked their princely fortunes and their
lives, in the cause of freedom. The other characters, by which the
author has endeavored to excite a higher interest, are Frampton and
Porgy. Both are failures, and the most accurate idea we get of the
latter, is where he is turned _grunter_, to catch three terrapins, that
are “_basking_ in the starlight,” upon a tree that has fallen into the
creek. Mr. Simms should never again attempt wit, or humor, unless when
he is dealing with the negro character, in which he sometimes succeeds.
Kate Walton is a high minded girl enough. We see but little of her; but
she should not have aimed the pistol at Col. Proctor; and when she
snapped it, the weapon should not have missed fire. Singleton shows
little sense of propriety, not to speak of affection, when he pressed
his suit the moment after leaving the bedside of his dying sister; and
the girl rebukes him well: “How can you know it—how can you feel it,
Robert, when you come from the presence of one already linked, as it
were, with heaven, and thus immediately urge to me so earthly a prayer?”
Emily Singleton—the fading flower—
“There is a beauty in woman’s decay;”
and no one,—the coldest hearted, cannot contemplate the scene—a lovely
woman, looking her last upon her existence here—“a flower gathered for
the tomb,” ere the sweet bud is fully opened—without being excited to
feeling. The death bed scene is affecting, and well portrayed. That, and
the description of the hurricane, are almost the only parts of the work
that command our feelings or admiration, and the rude entrance of a
stranger jars harshly upon us, and turns our sympathies to hate against
the intruder.
This author has few beauties of style—we believe that those who have
praised him most, have ventured only _to be silent_ concerning this.
There are no beauties of this description, to atone for want of
incident; nothing in the manner, to charm us into indifference to the
matter; and those who pretend to admire his writings the most, cannot
point out in them all, one sentence that contains peculiar beauty, or
originality of thought or expression. Mr. Simms at best is but an
imitator. His characters, so far as he delineates them, are familiar. We
can point out the original to each of them, in the writings of others.
We would not do an author wrong. We would be the last to discourage
talent, but we do not believe that Mr. Simms is one to give a helping
hand to our literature, but, on the reverse, he will injure it. Aside
from his works, we know nothing of him, and therefore cannot have “set
down aught in malice.” He proposes “a series” of works, of which “The
Partisan” is the first,—three to be devoted to the events of the
Revolution in South Carolina; and we cannot calculate the number
destined for other parts of the country. But he says, “I know not that I
shall complete, or even continue the series; much will depend upon the
reception of the present narrative.” There is then yet some small hope
that the threatened inundation may not flow upon us. Heaven grant that
voices enough may be raised to stay the coming flood, and say, “_peace,
be still_.”
GREEK ANTHOLOGY.—No. II.
HONEST FRIEND—
I call thee _honest_, because thou needs must be such, since thou art
reading what neither toucheth thy cupidity, nor enkindleth a flame of
self-dedicated love. I call thee _friend_, as in common courtesy I
should, till I perceive some demonstrations of enmity.
It is deep night. I have trimmed my lamp, taken a _turn_ across the
room, and am again seated at my pleasing toil. The Anthology lies open
before me—a brown, German page, rough, but scholarlike. I have pondered
each word and phrase, till they all bear a distinct and tangible
significance. I have been striving to draw forth the beauty that lies
locked in the cold, dead arms of an unspoken language. It requires a
mightier magician, and a more prevailing charm. Lines, that are instinct
with holy feeling, I have turned and labored with fruitless minuteness.
I can transcribe the form—but the _life_—where is it? My spirit weepeth
over its own stupidity. Yet not utterly am I in fault. I am a modern,
and an American, and almost—but _not quite_—a Yankee. I have breathed a
dollar-and-cent atmosphere. There is no soul—no enthusiasm in the land.
Utility—cold, base utility is the all-in-all. Money is the shibboleth of
rank and influence.
O cives, cives, quærenda pecunia primum.