still sufficiently intense to render the approaching frigates but dimly
visible, except when a gush of fire would stream from their ports,
lighting up, for the moment, with a ghastly glare, the smoke-encircled
hull, the tall masts, and the thousand mazes of the hamper. Often the
whole three vessels would discharge their broadsides at once, when it
would seem for an instant as if we were girdled by fire. Then, as the
smoke settled on their decks, they would disappear wholly from our
sight, and only become again distinguishable, when they belched forth
their sulphureous flame once more. In the west, the scene was even more
magnificent, for in that quarter, was unexpectedly the nearest of the
three men-of-war, and as she came up to us close-hauled, she yawed
whenever she fired, and then steadily discharged her pieces, doing more
damage than all her other consorts. The gallant manner in which she
delivered her fire—the measured, distinct booming of her long
twenty-fours—and more than all, the inky hue of the sky, in the
background, brought out into the boldest relief, by the light of her
guns, made up a picture of gloomy grandeur, which the imagination can
compare to nothing, except the fitful, ghastly gleams of light shooting
across the darkness of that infernal realm, which Dante has painted with
his pen of horror. While, however, I was gazing awe-struck, on this
scene, I noticed that the dark bank of clouds behind the frigate, was
visibly in motion, rolling up towards us. Our superior officer had,
perhaps, noticed the same phenomenon, and knowing what it portended, had
remained by his antagonist, when otherwise, our only chance of escape
would have been in an early flight. Some of the older tars now perceived
the approaching tempest, and paused instantaneously from the combat.
Indeed, not a moment was to be lost. I had scarcely time to look once
more in the direction of the other frigates, and then turn again to the
westward, before our antagonist in that quarter, was completely shut in
by the squall. The wind had, meantime, died away, leaving us rocking
unquietly in the swell. A pause of a minute ensued, a pause of the most
breathless suspense. The men had instinctively left their guns, and
stood awaiting the directions of their leaders to whom they looked in
this emergency. We were happily nearly before the wind, which could now
be seen lashing the foam from the billows, and driving down upon us with
the speed of a race-horse. Another instant and the squall would be upon
us. All this, however, had passed, in less time than is occupied in the
relation, for scarcely a minute had elapsed, since I first saw the
approaching squall, before Captain Smythe shouted,
“Stand by to clew down—quick there all!”
The command was not an instant too soon. His opening words were heard
distinctly in the boding calm that preceded the squall, but the
concluding sentence was lost in the hissing and roaring of the hurricane
that now swept across our decks. The captain saw that it was useless to
attempt to speak in the uproar, and waving his hand for the
quartermaster to keep her away, while the men instinctively clewed down
the topsail-yards, and hauled out the reef-tackles, he awaited the
subsidence of the squall. For five minutes we went skimming before the
tempest, like a snow-flake in a storm. On—on—on, we drove, the fine
spray hissing past us on the gale, and the shrill scream of the wind
through our hamper deafening our ears. Whither we were going, or what
perils might meet us in our mad career, we knew not. We were flying
helplessly onward, enclosed by the mist, at the mercy of the winds. Even
if the intensity of the squall would have allowed us to bring by the
wind and reef, prudence would dictate that we should run before the
hurricane, as the only chance of escaping from the clutches of our foes.
Yet, surrounded as we were by the merchantmen of the fleet, we knew not
but the next moment, we might run down some luckless craft, and perhaps
by the collision, sink both them and ourselves.
For nearly half an hour we drove thus before the hurricane. More than
once we fancied that we heard the shrieks of drowning men, rising high
over all the uproar of the tempest, but whether they were in reality the
cries of the dying or only the sounds created by an overheated
imagination and having no existence except in the brain of the hearer,
God only knows! A thousand ships might have sunk within a cable’s length
of us, and not a prayer of the sufferers, not a shriek of despair have
met our ears. There was a fearfulness in that palpable darkness, which
struck the most veteran heart with an awe akin to fear. When men can
look abroad and see the real extent of the peril which surrounds them
they can dare almost anything; but when surrounded by darkness their
imaginations conjure up dangers in every strange intonation of the
tempest, in every new outbreak of the surge. They tremble at what they
cannot behold; in the language of the scripture “their joints are loosed
with fear.”
At length the fury of the squall began to subside, and the dark bank of
clouds which had encircled us, undulated, rolled to and fro, and finally
flew in ragged vapors away, flitting wildly past the stars that once
more twinkled in the sky. As the prospect brightened, we looked eagerly
around to see what damage the squall had occasioned. The fleet was
scattered hither and thither over the horizon, torn, shattered,
dismantled, powerless. Far up in the quarter from whence the hurricane
had burst could be faintly seen the body of the convoy; but on every
hand around some of the less fortunate ships were discoverable. Whether,
however, most of the merchantmen had attempted to lie-to, or whether we
had scudded before the gale with a velocity which none could rival, it
was evident that we had passed away like a thunderbolt from the rest of
the fleet, leaving them at a hopeless distance astern.
Owing to the rapidity with which our canvass had been got in, we
suffered no material injury; and, when the gale subsided and the wind
came out again from the north, we lost no time in hauling up and getting
the weather-gauge of the convoy. The ship was put once more in trim—the
crew then turned in, and the watches were left in undisturbed possession
of the decks. As I stood at my post and watched the bright stars
overhead, shining placidly upon me, or listened to the cry of “All’s
well!” passed from lookout to lookout across the deck, I could not help
contrasting the peace and silence of the scene with the fearful uproar
of the preceding hour.
When morning dawned, not a vestige of the fleet remained on the southern
seaboard. Our anxiety was now turned to the fate of the merchantman we
had captured and that of the prize-crew we had thrown into her. But
toward the afternoon watch, a sail was discovered on the horizon to
windward, and when we had approached within a proper distance we
recognized our prize. Our joy at rejoining may well be imagined.
The prize proved to be laden with a valuable cargo, and, as this was the
first capture of any moment we had made, it raised the spirits of the
men in a commensurate degree. The skipper of the merchantman could never
comprehend the justice of his capture. Like the generals whom Napoleon
has been beating at a later day, he protested that he had been taken
against all the rules of war.
After keeping company with us for a few days, the prize hauled up for
the coast with the intention of going into Newport. We subsequently
learned that she accomplished her aim, but not until she had run the
gauntlet of an English fleet. As for ourselves, we stood towards the
south on the look out for a new prize.
* * * * *
A LADY HEARD A MINSTREL SING.
BALLAD.
THE POETRY BY T. HAYNES BAYLY, ESQ.
THE MUSIC BY J. P. KNIGHT.
_Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_.
[Illustration: musical score]
[Illustration: musical score]
A Lady heard a Minstrel sing,
One night beneath her bower,
In wrath she cried, “oh! what can bring
A stranger at this hour?”
She clos’d the casement,— veil’d the lamp,
The Minstrel paus’d in sorrow,
Yet said, “tho’ now I must decamp,
I’ll try again to-morrow.”
The minstrel came again next night,
The lady was not sleeping!
She slily (tho’ she veil’d the light)
Was thro’ her casement peeping.
She heard him fondly breathe her name,
Then saw him go with sorrow;
And cried, “I wonder whence he came?
Perhaps he’ll come to-morrow.”
Again she heard the sweet guitar,—
But soon the song was broken:
Tho’ songs are sweet, oh! sweeter far
Are words in kindness spoken:
She loves him for himself alone,
Disguise no more he’ll borrow,
The minstrel’s rank at length is known,—
She’ll grace a court to-morrow.
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_Charles O’Malley, The Irish Dragoon. By Harry Lorrequer. With
Forty Illustrations by Phiz. Complete in One Volume. Carey &
Hart: Philadelphia._
The first point to be observed in the consideration of “Charles
O’Malley” is the great _popularity_ of the work. We believe that in this
respect it has surpassed even the inimitable compositions of Mr.
Dickens. At all events it has met with a most extensive sale; and,
although the graver journals have avoided its discussion, the ephemeral
press has been nearly if not quite unanimous in its praise. To be sure,
the commendation, although unqualified, cannot be said to have abounded
in specification, or to have been, in any regard, of a satisfactory
character to one seeking precise ideas on the topic of the book’s
particular merit. It appears to us, in fact, that the cabalistical words
“fun,” “rollicking” and “devil-may-care,” if indeed words they be, have
been made to stand in good stead of all critical comment in the case of
the work now under review. We first saw these dexterous expressions in a
fly-leaf of “Opinions of the Press” appended to the renowned “Harry
Lorrequer” by his publisher in Dublin. Thence transmitted, with
complacent echo, from critic to critic, through daily, weekly and
monthly journals without number, they have come at length to form a
pendant and a portion of our author’s celebrity—have come to be
regarded as sufficient response to the few ignoramuses who, obstinate as
ignorant, and fool-hardy as obstinate, venture to propound a question or
two about the true claims of “Harry Lorrequer” or the justice of the
pretensions of “Charles O’Malley.”
We shall not insult our readers by supposing any one of them unaware of
the fact, that a book may be even exceedingly _popular_ without _any_
legitimate literary merit. This fact can be proven by numerous examples
which, now and here, it will be unnecessary and perhaps indecorous to
mention. The dogma, then, is absurdly false, that the popularity of a
work is _primâ facie_ evidence of its excellence in some respects; that
is to say, the dogma is false if we confine the meaning of excellence
(as here of course it must be confined) to excellence in a literary
sense. The truth is, that the popularity of a book is _primâ facie_
evidence of just the converse of the proposition—it is evidence of the
book’s _demerit_, inasmuch as it shows a “stooping to conquer”—inasmuch
as it shows that the author has dealt largely, if not altogether, in
matters which are susceptible of appreciation by the mass of mankind—by
uneducated thought, by uncultivated taste, by unrefined and unguided
passion. So long as the world retains its present point of civilization,
so long will it be almost an axiom that no extensively _popular_ book,
in the right application of the term, can be a work of high merit, _as
regards those particulars of the work which are popular_. A book may be
readily sold, may be universally read, for the sake of some half or
two-thirds of its matter, which half or two-thirds may be susceptible of
popular appreciation, while the one-half or one-third remaining may be
the delight of the highest intellect and genius, and absolute _caviare_
to the rabble. And just as
_Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci_,
so will the writer of fiction, who looks most sagaciously to his own
_interest_, combine all votes by intermingling with his loftier efforts
such amount of less ethereal matter as will give general currency to his
composition. And here we shall be pardoned for quoting some observations
of the English artist, H. Howard. Speaking of _imitation_, he says:
The pleasure which results from it, even when employed upon the
most ordinary materials, will always render that property of our
art the most attractive with the majority, because it may be
enjoyed with the least mental exertion. _All_ men are in some
degree judges of it. The cobbler in his own line may criticize
Apelles; and popular opinions are never to be wholly disregarded
concerning that which is addressed to the public—who, to a
certain extent, are generally right; although as the language of
the refined can never be intelligible to the uneducated, so the
higher styles of art can never be acceptable to the multitude.
In proportion as a work rises in the scale of intellect, it must
necessarily become limited in the number of its admirers. For
this reason the judicious artist, even in his loftiest efforts,
will endeavor to introduce some of those qualities which are
interesting to all, as a passport for those of a more
intellectual character.
And these remarks upon painting—remarks which are mere truisms in
themselves—embody nearly the whole _rationale_ of the topic now under
discussion. It may be added, however, that the _skill_ with which the
author addresses the lower taste of the populace, is often a source of
pleasure because of admiration, to a taste higher and more refined, and
may be made a point of comment and of commendation by the critic.
In our review, last month, of “Barnaby Rudge,” we were prevented,
through want of space, from showing how Mr. Dickens had so well
succeeded in uniting all suffrages. What we have just said, however,
will suffice upon this point. While he has appealed, in innumerable
regards, to the most exalted intellect, he has meanwhile invariably
touched a certain string whose vibrations are omni-prevalent. We allude
to his powers of _imitation_—that species of imitation to which Mr.
Howard has reference—the _faithful_ depicting of what is called
still-life, and particularly of _character_ in humble condition. It is
his close observation and imitation of nature here which have rendered
him popular, while his higher qualities, with the ingenuity evinced in
addressing the general taste, have secured him the good word of the
informed and intellectual.
But this is an important point upon which we desire to be distinctly
understood. We wish here to record our positive dissent (be that dissent
worth what it may) from a very usual opinion—the opinion that Mr.
Dickens has done justice to his own genius—that any man ever failed to
do grievous wrong to his own genius—in appealing to the popular
judgment _at all_. As a matter of pecuniary policy alone, is any such
appeal defensible. But we speak, of course, in relation to fame—in
regard to that
——spur which the true spirit doth raise
To scorn delight and live laborious days.
That a perfume should be found by any “true spirit” in the incense of
mere popular applause, is, to our own apprehension at least, a thing
inconceivable, inappreciable,—a paradox which gives the lie unto
itself—a mystery more profound than the well of Democritus. Mr. Dickens
has no more business with the rabble than a seraph with a _chapeau de
bras_. What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba? What is he to Jacques
Bonhomme[3] or Jacques Bonhomme to him? The higher genius is a rare gift
and divine. Ὡπόλλων ου παντι φαεινεται, ος μιν ιδη, μεγας ουτος—not to
all men Apollo shows himself; _he_ is _alone great_ who beholds him.[4]
And his greatness has its office God-assigned. But that office is not a
low communion with low, or even with ordinary intellect. The holy—the
electric spark of genius is the medium of intercourse between the noble
and more noble mind. For lesser purposes there are humbler agents. There
are puppets enough, able enough, willing enough, to perform in
literature the little things to which we have had reference. For one
Fouqué there are fifty Molières. For one Angelo there are five hundred
Jan Steens. For one Dickens there are five million Smolletts, Fieldings,
Marryatts, Arthurs, Cocktons, Bogtons and Frogtons.
It is, in brief, the duty of all whom circumstances have led into
criticism—it is, at least, a duty from which _we_ individually shall
never shrink—to uphold the true dignity of genius, to combat its
degradation, to plead for the exercise of its powers in those bright
fields which are its legitimate and peculiar province, and which for it
alone lie gloriously outspread.
But to return to “Charles O’Malley,” and its popularity. We have
endeavored to show that this latter must not be considered in any degree
as the measure of its merit, but should rather be understood as
indicating a deficiency in this respect, when we bear in mind, as we
should do, the highest aims of intellect in fiction. A slight
examination of the work, (for in truth it is worth no more,) will
sustain us in what we have said. The plot is exceedingly meagre. Charles
O’Malley, the hero, is a young orphan Irishman, living in Galway county,
Ireland, in the house of his uncle, Godfrey, to whose sadly encumbered
estates the youth is heir apparent and presumptive. He becomes
enamoured, while on a visit to a neighbor, of Miss Lucy Dashwood, and
finds a rival in a Captain Hammersley. Some words carelessly spoken by
Lucy, inspire him with a desire for military renown. After sojourning,
therefore, for a brief period, at Dublin University, he obtains a
commission and proceeds to the Peninsula, with the British army under
Wellington. Here he distinguishes himself; is promoted; and meets
frequently with Miss Dashwood, whom obstinately, and in spite of the
lady’s own acknowledgment of love for himself, he supposes in love with
Hammersley. Upon the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo he returns home; finds
his uncle, of course, _just_ dead; and sells his commission to
disencumber the estate. Presently Napoleon escapes from Elba, and our
hero, obtaining a staff appointment under Picton, returns to the
Peninsula, is present at Waterloo, (where Hammersley is killed) saves
the life of Lucy’s father, for the second time, as he has already twice
saved that of Lucy herself; is rewarded by the hand of the latter; and,
making his way back to O’Malley Castle, “lives happily all the rest of
his days.”
In and about this plot (if such it may be called) there are more
absurdities than we have patience to enumerate. The author, or narrator,
for example, is supposed to be Harry Lorrequer as far as the end of the
preface, which by the way, is one of the best portions of the book.
O’Malley then tells his own story. But the publishing office of the
“Dublin University Magazine” (in which the narrative originally
appeared) having been burned down, there ensues a sad confusion of
identity between O’Malley and Lorrequer, so that it is difficult, for
the nonce, to say which is which. In the want of copy consequent upon
the disaster, James, the novelist, comes in to the relief of Lorrequer,
or perhaps of O’Malley, with one of the flattest and most irrelevant of
love-tales. Meantime, in the story proper are repetitions without end.
We have already said that the hero _saves the life of his mistress
twice, and of her father twice_. But not content with this, he has _two_
mistresses, and _saves the life of both, at different periods, in
precisely the same manner_—that is to say, by causing his horse, in
each instance, to perform a Munchausen side-leap, at the moment when a
spring forward would have impelled him upon his beloved. And then we
have one unending, undeviating succession of junketings, in which
“devilled kidneys” are never by any accident found wanting. The unction
and pertinacity with which the author discusses what he chooses to
denominate “devilled kidneys” are indeed edifying, to say no more. The
truth is, that drinking wine, telling anecdotes, and devouring “devilled
kidneys” may be considered as the sum total, as the _thesis_ of the
book. Never in the whole course of his eventful life, does Mr. O’Malley
get “two or three assembled together” without seducing them forthwith to
a table, and placing before them a dozen of wine and a dish of “devilled
kidneys.” This accomplished, the parties begin what seems to be the
business of the author’s existence—the narration of unusually _broad
tales_—like those of the Southdown mutton. And here, in fact, we have
the _plan_ of that whole work of which the “United Service Gazette” has
been pleased to vow it “would rather be the author than of all the
‘Pickwicks’ and ‘Nicklebys’ in the world”—a sentiment which we really
blush to say has been echoed by many respectable members of our own
press. The general plot or narrative is a mere thread upon which
after-dinner anecdotes, some good, some bad, some utterly worthless, and
_not one truly original_, are strung with about as much method, and
about half as much dexterity, as we see ragged urchins employ in
stringing the kernels of nuts.
It would, indeed, be difficult to convey to one who has not examined
this production for himself, any idea of the exceedingly rough, clumsy,
and inartistical manner in which even this bald conception is carried
out. The stories are absolutely dragged in by the ears. So far from
finding them result naturally or plausibly from the conversation of the
interlocutors, even the blindest reader may perceive the author’s
struggling and blundering effort to introduce them. It is rendered quite
evident that they were originally “on hand,” and that “O’Malley” has
been concocted for their introduction. Among other _niaïseries_ we
observe the silly trick of whetting appetite by delay. The conversation
over the “kidneys” is brought, for example, to such a pass that one of
the speakers is called upon for a story, which he forthwith declines for
any reason, or for none. At a subsequent “broil” he is again pressed,
and again refuses, and it is not until the reader’s patience is fairly
exhausted, and he has consigned both the story and its author to Hades,
that the gentleman in question is prevailed upon to discourse. The only
conceivable result of this _fanfarronade_ is the ruin of the tale when
told, through exaggerating anticipation respecting it.
The anecdotes thus narrated being the staple of the book, and the
awkward manner of their interlocution having been pointed out, it but
remains to be seen what the anecdotes are, in themselves, and what is
the merit of their narration. And here, let it not be supposed that we
have any design to deprive the devil of his due. There are several very
excellent anecdotes in “Charles O’Malley” very cleverly and pungently
told. Many of the scenes in which Monsoon figures are rich—less,
however, from the scenes themselves than from the piquant, but by no
means original character of Monsoon—a drunken, maudlin, dishonest old
Major, given to communicativeness and mock morality over his cups, and
not over careful in detailing adventures which tell against himself. One
or two of the college pictures are unquestionably good—but might have
been better. In general, the reader is made to feel that fine subjects
have fallen into unskilful hands. By way of instancing this assertion,
and at the same time of conveying an idea of the tone and character of
the stories, we will quote one of the shortest, and assuredly one of the
best.
“Ah, by-the-by, how’s the Major?”
“Charmingly: only a little bit in a scrape just now. Sir
Arthur—Lord Wellington, I mean—had him up for his fellows
being caught pillaging, and gave him a devil of a rowing a few
days ago.
“‘Very disorderly corps yours, Major O’Shaughnessy,’ said the
general; ‘more men up for punishment than any regiment in the
service.’
“Shaugh muttered something, but his voice was lost in a loud
cock-a-doo-doo-doo, that some bold chanticleer set up at the
moment.