since, has but recently found its way to this side of the Potomac. Our
attention has been attracted towards it by some notice of its contents
in the Richmond Enquirer, whose principal editor we will do him the
justice to say, has always manifested a lively interest in the
productions of American genius. Mr. Ritchie is entitled to the more
praise for his efforts in behalf of domestic literature, not only on
account of his active and absorbing labors as a political writer, but
because, also, we are sorry to add, the subject is one in which
southern taste and intelligence have, for the most part, evinced but
little concern. It is but too common for our leading men, professional
as well as others, to affect something like a sneer at every native
attempt in the walks of polite literature. Their example, we fear, has
imparted a tone to the reading circles generally, and has served to
beget that inordinate appetite for every thing _foreign_ which has
either obtained a fashionable currency abroad--or occasioned some
_excitement_ in that busy, noisy, gossipping class of society, whose
merit is so vastly disproportioned to its influence. We have often
known the sentimental trash and profane ribaldry of some popular
Englishman eagerly sought after, and as eagerly devoured, whilst the
pure and genuine productions of native genius have remained neglected
on the bookseller's shelf, and quietly surrendered to oblivion. That
this does, in some measure, proceed from an unenlightened and
uncultivated public taste, we do not doubt; but it is much more the
fruit of a slavish and inglorious dependence upon accidental
circumstances,--a spiritless, and we might add, a cowardly apprehension
of appearing _singular_--that is, of not chiming in with the shallow,
vain and heartless tittle-tattle of the self-styled _beau monde_ and
_corps elite_ of society. It is not the fault of the bookseller. The
undertaker, who prepares the coffin and shroud, has as little
participation in the death of the person for whom they are intended.
The bookseller is but the caterer of the public palate; and if that
palate is diseased, he is no more answerable for it, than the milliners
and mantuamakers who are busily occupied in deforming the fairest part
of creation, are censurable for the false taste of their customers.
We did not intend by the foregoing observations, to bespeak any
extraordinary share of public favor towards the poems of Miss Davidson.
What we have said in relation to the neglect of American talent, was
designed to have a general and not particular application.
Notwithstanding we hear that the poems before us have been
extravagantly praised beyond the Atlantic, we are not so intoxicated by
a little foreign flattery as to believe that they are destined to
immortality. Some may console themselves, if they please, for the whole
ocean of obloquy and contempt cast upon us from the British press, by
regarding with favorable eyes this little rivulet of praise bestowed
upon the juvenile efforts of a lovely and interesting girl. We are not
of that number; we shall endeavor to decide upon the work before us,
unbiassed by trans-atlantic opinion--and we shall render precisely that
judgment which we would have done if that opinion had been pronounced
in the usual tone of British arrogance and contumely.
Regarding the volume before us as a literary production merely, and
supposing it to have been the offspring of a matured mind, we do not
think that it possesses any considerable merit. Estimating its
contents, however, as the first lispings of a child of genius,--as
furnishing proofs of the existence of that ethereal spark which, under
favorable circumstances, might have been kindled into a brilliant
flame, we do consider it as altogether extraordinary. We do not say
that these poems are equal to the early productions of Chatterton,
Henry Kirke White, or Dermody, those prodigies of precocious
talent,--but we entertain not a shadow of doubt if Miss Davidson had
lived, that she would have ranked among the highest of her own sex in
poetical excellence. In forming a correct judgment upon the offspring
of her muse, her youth is not alone to be considered. She had also to
contend with those remorseless enemies of mental effort,--poverty,
sorrow, and ill health; and it is, perhaps, a circumstance in her
history not unworthy of notice, that possessing a high degree of
personal beauty, and being on that account the object of much
admiration and attention, she did not suffer herself to be withdrawn
from the purer sources of intellectual enjoyment. Love indeed, seems to
have found no permanent lodgment in her heart. It might have stolen to
the threshold and infused some of its gentle influences, but she seems
to have been resolved to cast off the silken cord before it was too
firmly bound around her. Thus in the piece which bears the title of
_Cupid's Bower_, written in her fifteenth year.
"Am I in fairy land?--or tell me, pray,
To what love-lighted bower I've found my way?
Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled
In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild.
And is this Cupid's realm?--if so, good by!
Cupid, and Cupid's votaries, I fly;
No offering to his altar do I bring,
No bleeding heart--or hymeneal ring."
The longest, most elaborate, and perhaps best of her poems, is that
which gives the principal title to the volume. _Amir Khan_ is a simple
oriental tale, written in her sixteenth year, and is worked up with
surprising power of imagery for one so young. The most fastidious and
critical reader could not fail to be struck with its resemblance to the
gorgeous magnificence of Lalla Rookh; a resemblance, to be sure, which
no more implies equality of merit than does the brilliancy of the mock
diamond establish its value with that of the real gem. We give the
opening passage from the poem as a fair specimen of the rest, and from
which the reader may form a correct opinion of the style and
composition.
"Brightly o'er spire, and dome, and tower,
The pale moon shone at midnight hour,
While all beneath her smile of light
Was resting there in calm delight;
Evening with robe of stars appears,
Bright as repentant Peri's tears,
And o'er her turban's fleecy fold
Night's crescent streamed its rays of gold,
While every chrystal cloud of heaven,
Bowed as it passed the queen of even.
Beneath--calm Cashmere's lovely vale
Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale;
The amaranth and tuberose,
Convolvulus in deep repose,
Bent to each breeze which swept their bed,
Or scarcely kissed the dew and fled;
The bulbul, with his lay of love;
Sang mid the stillness of the grove;
The gulnare blushed a deeper hue,
And trembling shed a shower of dew,
Which perfumed e'er it kiss'd the ground,
Each zephyr's pinion hovering round.
The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow
Glitter'd beneath the moon's pale glow;
And wide the plantain's arms were spread,
The guardian of its native bed."
We venture to assert that if Thomas Moore had written Amir Khan at the
age of sixteen, there are thousands by whom it would be read and
admired who would hardly condescend to open Miss Davidson's volume; and
that too, without being able to assign any other or better reason than
that Moore is a distinguished and popular British bard, whereas the
other was an obscure country girl, who lived and died in the state of
New York.
The lines to the memory of Henry Kirk White, which were composed at
thirteen, are much superior to many elegiac stanzas written by poets of
some reputation at twenty-five or thirty. Of all her minor pieces
however, those which were written at fifteen seem to us to possess the
greatest merit, if we except the _Coquette_, a very spirited production
in imitation of the Scottish dialect, composed in her fourteenth year.
The following are the two first stanzas:
"I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest,
My Ellen's lost for aye;
My heart is sair and much distressed,
I surely soon must die.
I canna think o' wark at a',
My eyes still wander far,
_I see her neck like driven snaw,
I see her flaxen hair._"
The image of the snowy neck and flaxen hair of the beautiful but unkind
fair one, presented so strongly to the rejected lover, as to prevent
his performing his daily work, strikes us as highly poetical and true
to nature, as we doubt not all genuine lovers will testify. Burns wrote
many, very many verses, which were much superior, but Burns wrote some
also, which were not so good. _Ruth's answer to Naomi_, must be
allowed, we think, to be a good paraphrase of that most affecting
passage of scripture. We must give the whole to the reader.
"Entreat me not, I must not hear,
Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear;
Thy answer's written deeply now
On this warm cheek and clouded brow;
'Tis gleaming o'er this eye of sadness
Which only near _thee_ sparkles gladness.
The hearts _most_ dear to us are gone,
And _thou_ and _I_ are left alone;
Where'er thou wanderest, I will go,
I'll follow thee through joy or wo;
Shouldst thou to other countries fly,
Where'er thou lodgest, there will I.
Thy people shall my people be,
And to thy God, I'll bend the knee;
Whither thou fliest, will I fly,
And where thou diest, I will die;
And the same sod which pillows thee
Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me."[1]
[Footnote 1: We subjoin the passage of scripture paraphrased by Miss
Davidson, and also another paraphrase which has been ascribed to the
Hon. R. H. Wilde of Georgia. Our readers can compare and decide between
them.
"And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from
following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go: and where thou
lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my
God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried."
Nay, do not ask!--entreat not--no!
O no! I will not leave thy side,
Whither thou goest--I will go--
Where thou abidest--I'll abide.
Through life--in death--my soul to thine
Shall cleave as fond, as first it clave--
Thy home--thy people--shall be mine--
Thy God my God--thy grave my grave.]
We present an extract from a piece called "_Woman's Love_," as a
specimen of Miss Davidson's management of blank verse, a form of poetic
diction which Montgomery thinks the most unmanageable of any. The fair
authoress might not herself have experienced that holy passion, but she
certainly knew how deep and imperishable it is when once planted in the
female bosom.
"Love is
A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart,
When felt, as only woman love _can_ feel!
_Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower_
_Sinks on spring-flowers; deep, as a cave-locked fountain;_
_And changeless as the cypress' green leaves;_
_And like them, sad!_--She nourished
Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed
A passion unconfessed, till he she loved
Was wedded to another. Then she grew
Moody and melancholy; one alone
Had power to soothe her in her wanderings,
Her gentle sister;--but that sister died,
And the unhappy girl was left alone,
A _maniac_. She would wander far, and shunned
Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt
Was that dead sister's grave: and that to her
Was as a home."
We have italicised such of the lines as we think breathe the air and
spirit of genuine poetry. The snow flake has often been used as the
emblem of purity; but the snow flake reposing on beds of vernal
blossoms, is to us original as well as highly poetical. The
"cave-locked fountain" too, with its lone, deep, and quiet waters,
seems to us to express with force that profound and melancholy
sentiment which the writer intended to illustrate.
We shall conclude our selections with the one addressed _to a lady
whose singing resembled that of an absent sister_.
"Oh! touch the chord yet once again,
Nor chide me, though I weep the while;
Believe me, that deep, seraph strain
Bore with it memory's moonlight smile.
It murmured of an absent friend;
The voice, the air, 'twas all her own;
And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend
In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.
And days and months have darkly passed,
Since last I listened to her lay;
And sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast,
Since then, across my weary way.
Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear,
Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathing;
Hush, busy memory,--sorrow's tear
Will blight the garland thou art wreathing.
'Tis sweet, though sad--yes, I will stay,
I cannot tear myself away.
I thank thee, lady, for the strain,
The tempest of my soul is still;
Then touch the chord yet once again,
For thou canst calm the storm at will."
We beg the reader to bear it in mind that these are the productions of
a young, inexperienced, and almost uneducated girl, and that they are
not to be tried by the tests which are usually applied to more matured
efforts. In conclusion, we will say in the language of Dr. Morse, her
biographer, "that her defects will be perceived to be those of youth
and inexperience, while in invention, and in that mysterious power of
exciting deep interest, of enchaining the attention, and keeping it
alive to the end of the story; in that adaptation of the measure to the
sentiment, and in the sudden change of measure to suit a sudden change
of sentiment, in wild and romantic description, and in the congruity of
the accompaniments to her characters, all conceived with great purity
and delicacy, she will be allowed to have discovered uncommon maturity
of mind; and her friends to have been warranted in forming very high
expectations of her future distinction."
We are pleased to learn that it is in contemplation by Miss Davidson's
friends, to publish a new and improved edition of her works, with
various additions from her unpublished manuscripts.
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE; by the author of Pelham, Eugene Aram, &c.
_New York: Published by Harper & Brothers_--1834.
Mr. Bulwer's novels have acquired no inconsiderable degree of
popularity in the circles of fashionable literature. Whether they are
destined to survive the temporary admiration bestowed on them, is at
this time a subject of speculation; but in the next generation, will
become matter of fact. We are among those who think that they will
quietly glide into that oblivious ocean, which is destined to receive a
large proportion of the ever multiplying productions of this prolific
age. We do not say this either, in disparagement of many of those
labors of the mind which even intrinsic excellence cannot save from
perishing. Great and valuable as some of them undoubtedly are, such is
the onward march of intellect, and such the endless creations which
fancy and genius are continually rearing for man's gratification and
improvement,--to say nothing of the almost illimitable progress of
science, that posterity will find no room for the thousandth part of
our present stock of literature. We do not anticipate that Mr. Bulwer's
writings will be among the select few which will outlive the general
wreck; because, unless we are much mistaken, he is one of those authors
who write more for present than permanent fame. This is emphatically
the age of great moral and mental excitability. It is a period of
incessant restlessness and activity; and he who would expect to command
much attention, must seek to gratify the appetite for novelty and
variety, even at the expense of good sense, sound morality and correct
taste. We incline to the opinion that Mr. Bulwer has forgotten, that
society in the aggregate, frequently resembles the individual man; and
that whilst it often experiences paroxysms of unnatural excitement,
there are long lucid intervals of returning reason and sober
simplicity. The volume before us is not calculated, we think, to leave
any lasting impression, either of good or evil. Whilst it certainly
abounds in felicitous language, and contains passages of fine
sentiment, it is grossly defective both in plot and machinery; and if
it were worth while to descend to minute criticism, it would be easy to
point out many examples of false morality as well as false taste. Mr.
Bulwer seems to have been aware, in his preface, that he was making a
bold experiment upon popular favor, and accordingly he claims the
reader's "indulgence for the superstitions he has incorporated with his
tale--for the floridity of his style, and the redundance of his
descriptions." As if somewhat apprehensive, however, that that
indulgence might not possibly be granted, he assures the public that
"various reasons have conspired to make this the work, above all others
that he has written, which has given him the most delight (though not
unmixed with melancholy,) in producing, and in which his mind, for the
time, has been the most completely absorbed." A popular writer, thus
bespeaking the public approbation in advance, by stamping his last
production with his own decided preference, could not expect to be
treated uncourteously by his readers. In the first sentence of the
second chapter too, the author declares as follows: "I wish only for
such readers as give themselves heart and soul up to me: if they begin
to cavil, I have done with them; their fancy should put itself entirely
under my management." Now whether it proceeded from a spirit of
perverseness or not, we cannot tell; but we resolved when we read this
passage, neither to surrender our heart, fancy or judgment to Mr.
Bulwer's guidance. On the contrary, we determined to read the book and
decide on its merits, in the spirit of perfect impartiality and entire
independence. The story upon which the work is founded--at least that
part of it which treats of mortal affairs, consists of the simplest
materials. Trevylyan, a gentleman of "a wild, resolute and active
nature, who had been thrown upon the world at the age of sixteen, and
had passed his youth in alternate pleasure, travel and solitary study,"
falls in love with Gertrude Vane, a young girl, described as "the
loveliest person that ever dawned upon a poet's vision." A fatal
disease, "consumption in its most beautiful shape," had set its seal
upon her, and yet Trevylyan loved with an irresistible passion. With
the consent, rather than by the advice of the faculty and her friends,
the young and interesting invalid, attended by her father and lover,
goes upon a pilgrimage up the beautiful and romantic Rhine. From that
pilgrimage she never returned; but in one of those wild and legendary
spots which impart such interest to that celebrated stream--a spot
selected by herself as her last grassy couch, she breathed out her
gentle spirit, and quietly sunk to her lasting repose. Such is the
simple thread upon which Mr. Bulwer has contrived to weave a variety of
German legends and fairy fictions, having no necessary connection with
the main story, except that the principal episodes were suggested by
some remarkable scenery or some castellated ruin on the banks of the
Rhine. The _underplot_, if it may be so called, or the adventures of
Nymphalin, queen of the fairies, and her Elfin court, is altogether
unworthy of Mr. Bulwer's genius. It is rather a bungling attempt to
revive the exploded machinery of supernatural agency; and we moreover
do not perceive any possible connection or sympathy between these
imaginary beings and the principal personages of the tale. Apart from
other considerations, the actions and conversations of these roving
elves are destitute of all interest and attraction; and nothing in our
eyes appears more preposterous than the introduction of the Lord
Treasurer into Queen Nymphalin's train. We always thought that the
fairies were mischievous spirits--sometimes a little wicked, and often
very benevolent; but never before did we suspect that this ideal
population of the world of fancy, manifested any concern in the dry
subject of finance, or in the _unfairy-like_ establishment of a regular
exchequer. The story of "The Wooing of Master Fox," related for the
amusement of Queen Nymphalin, making every allowance for the author's
design in introducing it, is to our taste unutterably disgusting and
ridiculous.
We have no objection to the occasional use of the fairy superstition in
tales of fancy; no more than we have to the frequent classical
allusions to heathen mythology which distinguish the best writers. They
are pleasing and beautiful illustrations, when happily introduced. But
we do protest against lifting the veil from the world of imagination,
and investing its shadowy beings with the common place attributes, the
vulgar actions and frivolous dialogue of mere mortals. It is in truth
dispelling the illusion in which the spirit of poetry delights to
indulge. It takes away the most powerful charm from the cool and
sequestered grotto, the shady grove or moonlit bower. It vulgarises the
world of romance, and reduces the region of mind to a level with brute
sense, or even coarser matter.
Condemning as we do, in perfect good faith, these exceptionable
portions of Mr. Bulwer's volume, we take pleasure in awarding due
praise to some of the legends and stories introduced into the work, and
which are for the most part related by Trevylyan for the amusement of
Gertrude. Of these, we give the decided preference to "The Brothers"
and "The Maid of Malines." The latter indeed, strikes us as so finished
an illustration of some of the noble qualities of woman kind, that we
have determined to present it entire for the benefit of our readers.
THE MAID OF MALINES.
It was noonday in the town of Malines, or Mechlin, as the English
usually term it: the Sabbath bell had summoned the inhabitants to
divine worship; and the crowd that had loitered round the Church of St.
Rembauld, had gradually emptied itself within the spacious aisles of
the sacred edifice.
A young man was standing in the street, with his eyes bent on the
ground, and apparently listening for some sound; for, without raising
his looks from the rude pavement, he turned to every corner of it with
an intent and anxious expression of countenance; he held in one hand a
staff, in the other a long slender cord, the end of which trailed on
the ground; every now and then he called, with a plaintive voice,
"Fido, Fido, come back! Why hast thou deserted me?" Fido returned not:
the dog, wearied of confinement, had slipped from the string, and was
at play with his kind in a distant quarter of the town, leaving the
blind man to seek his way as he might to his solitary inn.
By and by a light step passed through the street, and the young
stranger's face brightened--
"Pardon me," said he, turning to the spot where his quick ear had
caught the sound, "and direct me, if you are not by chance much pressed
for a few moment's time, to the hotel _Mortier d'or_."
It was a young woman, whose dress betokened that she belonged to the
middling class of life, whom he thus addressed. "It is some distance
hence, sir," said she, "but if you continue your way straight on for
about a hundred yards, and then take the second turn to your right
hand--"
"Alas!" interrupted the stranger, with a melancholy smile, "your
direction will avail me little; my dog has deserted me, and I am
blind!"
There was something in these words, and in the stranger's voice, which
went irresistibly to the heart of the young woman. "Pray forgive me,"
she said, almost with tears in her eyes, "I did not perceive your--"
misfortune, she was about to say, but she checked herself with an
instinctive delicacy. "Lean upon me, I will conduct you to the door;
nay, sir," observing that he hesitated, "I have time enough to spare, I
assure you."
The stranger placed his hand on the young woman's arm, and though
Lucille was naturally so bashful that even her mother would laughingly
reproach her for the excess of a maiden virtue, she felt not the least
pang of shame, as she found herself thus suddenly walking through the
streets of Malines, alone with a young stranger, whose dress and air
betokened him of a rank superior to her own.
"Your voice is very gentle," said he, after a pause, "and that," he
added, with a slight sigh, "is the criterion by which I only know the
young and the beautiful." Lucille now blushed, and with a slight
mixture of pain in the blush, for she knew well that to beauty she had
no pretension. "Are you a native of this town?" continued he. "Yes,
sir; my father holds a small office in the customs, and my mother and I
eke out his salary by making lace. We are called poor, but we do not
feel it, sir."
"You are fortunate: there is no wealth like the heart's wealth,
content," answered the blind man mournfully.
"And Monsieur," said Lucille, feeling angry with herself that she had
awakened a natural envy in the stranger's mind, and anxious to change
the subject--"and Monsieur, has he been long at Malines?"
"But yesterday. I am passing through the Low Countries on a tour;
perhaps you smile at the tour of a blind man--but it is wearisome even
to the blind to rest always in the same place. I thought during church
time, when the streets were empty, that I might, by the help of my dog,
enjoy safely, at least the air, if not the sight of the town; but there
are some persons, methinks, who cannot even have a dog for a friend."
The blind man spoke bitterly,--the desertion of his dog had touched him
to the core. Lucille wiped her eyes. "And does Monsieur travel then
alone?" said she; and looking at his face more attentively than she had
yet ventured to do, she saw that he was scarcely above two-and-twenty.
"His father, his _mother_," she added, with an emphasis on the last
word, "are they not with him?"
"I am an orphan," answered the stranger; "and I have neither brother
nor sister."
The desolate condition of the blind man quite melted Lucille; never had
she been so strongly affected. She felt a strange flutter at the
heart--a secret and earnest sympathy, that attracted her at once
towards him. She wished that heaven had suffered her to be his sister.
The contrast between the youth and the form of the stranger, and the
affliction which took hope from the one, and activity from the other,
increased the compassion he excited. His features were remarkably
regular, and had a certain nobleness in their outline; and his frame
was gracefully and firmly knit, though he moved cautiously and with no
cheerful step.