on both sides to prevent its wrinkling; then subside.
Consequently, upon rising, the dress must be raised again with
the left hand, and three or four slaps given on each side, to
complete the circle. The gesture of smoothing the front hair
with the flat of the hand may be tolerated----in the darkest
closet of a house with stone walls, or in the centre of the
great desert of Sahara when no caravan is in sight.
'RULE II. You should always endeavor to be sportive. The lambkin
and the very young cat style take well, and are quite _Zaza_.
A frisk just tinged with the _soupçon_ of a tremble is a very
beautiful display.
'RULE III. If you perceive a friend arriving, and go to meet
her across a large room, always proceed with three skips on
the points of your toes, then two quick steps, then three more
skips, and so on alternately. Take care that your face does not
express more anxiety for the success of your _pas seul_ than
joy at greeting your friend. When you attain your très _cherè_,
groan _Zaza_, seize her hand and kiss her twice. This is a
simple and effective meeting. The _coup d'oeil_ is excellent
when both young ladies are of the Zaza school. The three-skip
gait is admirably adapted to entering a room unexpectedly; where
there is a gentleman, or in leaving one at home tolerably full
of company, when called out by a servant. It is invaluable at
pic-nics.
'RULE IV. Walk into a drawing-room behind your mamma. You appear
timid and retiring, and she acts as a standard-bearer, announces
your arrival, and people are better prepared to stare.
'RULE V. Encourage only beaux who can add to your power by
making you a great _Zaza_; such as great waltzers, singers;
men who are rich, and who seem to be attentive '_pour le bon
motif_,' must of course be fed upon faint hopes.
'RULE VI. When sitting in a drawing-room, always cross your
arms about your waist; each hand covering the small ribs on the
opposite side, as if, like the gallant old soldier in Pelham,
you wanted your hands to guard your heart. It is no objection to
this style that it is always adopted by awkward _cantatrices_ on
the stage--and off.
'RULE VII. It is well for a _Zaza_, if she lives in a
fashionable street, to read or embroider in a conspicuous
window, which she may call her _beau_-window.
'RULE VIII. In talking, do not make your lips and head go faster
than your tongue. The _Zaza_ is languid and shakes her head
slowly, looking all the while intently and impressively at the
person whom she is entertaining with----if he be a foreigner, a
fortune, or a Coryphæus.
'RULE IX. In drinking tea, coffee, or lemonade, hold the cup
with the thumb and the fore and middle fingers, and allow the
others to point rigidly into the air, at as great a distance as
possible from the three first enumerated.
'RULE X. In playing or singing, timidity and tremors are quite
out of date. The _Zaza_ glides up to the instrument as if she
had graduated at the Conservatoire, and sung three years at the
Académie Royale. The only expression of face allowable is the
smile of conscious power; such a smile as Jupiter's phiz might
wear when contemplating the feeble struggles of sublunarians. On
earth this smile may be often seen in female rope-dancers.
'RULE XI. If a person asks to be presented, the _Zaza_ 'really
don't know;' she 'has so many acquaintances;' _languidissimo_.
'RULE XII. If a _Zaza_ of three tails, always dance at the head
of a cotillon and lead off the waltz.
'RULE XIII. When a bad or an uncertain waltzer requests the
honor, the _Zaza_ is always engaged; but she may hint to a
Shuffleshanks to beg for a turn, or even ask him outright. This
has often been successfully practised by _Zazas_ of two tails.
'RULE XIV. If you have received a bouquet from an anonymous
admirer, or from your father, thank the most fashionable man, or
the _Great Catch_, or both; and loud enough to be overheard. You
believe not one word of their protestations, of course, and set
it down to modesty.
'RULE XV. When two _Zazas_, accompanied by their respective
cavaliers, meet in the ball-room, they should always stop for
a moment, interchange a few dulcet words, tell each other
'how sweetly pretty you look to-night,' and present for a
moment a lovely picture of child-like simplicity and utter
guilelessness--to the respective cavaliers and observers in
general.'
HERE the MS. ends abruptly.
THE DYING STUDENT.
I.
LET him look out upon Earth's fair domain,
And feast his spirit mid its time-worn hills,
Feeling the fresh blood flow through every vein
As the new sight his weary bosom thrills:
Oh! let him gaze beyond that shoreless sea,
Whither his spirit fain would take its flight,
To wander in those far-off depths, and be
Where the pure sky hath hung her robe of light.
II.
Oh! let him gaze upon Earth's jewelled sky,
And breathe Spring's earliest, sweetest breath again;
And once more follow with a ravished eye
Faces and forms of loved ones, loved in vain!
To catch the inspiring sound of Music's voice,
To hear the solemn chant of Ocean's roar;
To linger at the threshold of his joys,
And feel Earth's sunshine on his head once more.
III.
Life's solemn lights are dimly burning now,
And feeble shadows o'er his vision fall;
Still, one brief hour is his, and in its flow
Moments are years, and in those years his all!
Rouse him from death, without one brief delay,
And call his spirit back from Time's dark tide;
He lingers yet, as on the verge of day,
And Hope and Heaven his heart's pure home divide.
IV.
His spirit freshens at the glorious sight,
And far away his eager eyes are turning,
To those bright paths in yonder sky of light,
Where Heaven's imperial stars are brightly burning.
Back flows the life-blood to his swelling heart,
And thence again with impulse free and strong;
Old memories gather round him and depart,
Phalanx to phalanx joined, and throng to throng!
V.
Dim grow the visions that o'erreach his brain,
And shadowy forms seem floating in his eye;
Tears fall around him, as the soul's bright rain,
Poured from the heart for one too young to die.
Stars are now hovering o'er the brink of day,
And sun-light lingers on each tower and hill;
But prayer hath passed from silent lips away,
The heart hath shed its sorrow--and is still!
_New-York, August, 1843._ EDMOND BREWSTER GREEN.
LITERARY NOTICES.
DONNA FLORIDA: A TALE. By the Author of 'Atlantis,' 'Southern
Passages and Pictures,' etc. Charleston: BURGESS AND JAMES.
'THE poem,' says the author of this miniature pamphlet-volume, 'of
which the four first cantos (he means the _first four_, no doubt)
are here submitted to the reader, was chiefly the work of the
writer's youth.' He does not claim, however, that this fact forms
any sufficient excuse for giving it to the public at this late
day; but offers rather the natural tenacity 'with which the mind
treasures up, and seeks to preserve, the performances which revive
its early associations.' We have run through these cantos with some
attention. The story does not strike us as possessing either great
originality or interest. The verse itself is after the model of 'Don
Juan,' then recently published, and rife in the literary world; but
like the thousand-and-one imitations which we have encountered of
that most facile and felicitous composition, its 'laborious ease'
cannot be concealed. With BYRON, the play of fancy and of words was
equally unconstrained, in this species of versification; but all his
imitators have evidently been stretched upon Procrustean beds; and
with all the seeming _abandon_ of their manner, and the smirk of
their 'varnished faces,' it has yet been but too evident that their
situation was any thing but comfortable. In 'Donna Florida' however
there is a good degree of cleverness. There are many thoughts
interspersed throughout its cantos which the reader will encounter
with surprise and remember with pleasure. Nevertheless we are
compelled to say, that where the stanzas are most original, they are
the least to our liking. We enter our protest against the writer's
frequent habit of saying a plain thing in an involved, roundabout
way, as well as against numerous words and similes which he employs.
'You can call a hat,' says Mr. YELLOWPLUSH, a 'glossy four-and-nine'
or a 'swart sombréro;' but in the long run praps it's as well to
call it _a hat_. It _is_ a hat; and where's the use o' mystifying?'
Would it not, for example, be 'as well' also, and quite as natural,
to write 'half of the rest,' as 'the subdivision of the remaining
moïety?' Or in saying that old jokes were laughed at, to express it
in less magniloquent phrase than
'Old jokes _found revivified expansion_?'
Where does Mr. SIMMS find authority for such a word as
'_voicing_?'--'the voicings of a bird?' In any dictionary of the
English language? Guess not! As little do we admire the simile which
makes a lady's eye the 'polar light in love's astrology,' or which
represents it as
----'peering beneath her forehead like a star,
Bestowing a sweet glory on the sky.'
All these are 'affectations, look you;' and are in our judgment
even worse sins against taste (to say nothing of truth) than the
occasional instances of an opposite tendency which might be pointed
out; such as 'the beast enjoying his _grunt and stye_;' or the coy
damsel, of whom the writer says:
'One moment grows she most abruptly willing,
The next, she _slaps the chaps that think of billing_!'
We should not have felt ourselves justified in passing unnoticed the
defects which we have indicated; the more that the following stanzas
evince the ability of the writer, when he gives to natural thoughts
their natural expression, to avoid these and kindred errors:
'GLANCING my vision o'er the world's affairs,
Surveying this and that, of strange and common,
Its double singles and divided pairs,
Its human brutes and brutes that might be human,
All vexing life with sad and fruitless cares,
Yet all made agents of that creature, woman;
I've come to this conclusion: that 't were better
If we poor bachelors had never met her.
'Better we had not seen and could not fancy
So sad and strange conception; could not want
Her presence, nor beneath her necromancy
Feel the torn bosom and vex'd pulses pant,
With dreams and hopes that not a step advance ye
To health or happiness, but rather daunt,
At each impassion'd move, the weary spirit,
That sees the joy receding as we near it.
'Better in single blessedness had Adam,
Stout father-farmer, in his garden trod;
Unvexed by daily strife with maid or madam,
And free to eat his fruit and meet his God:
I'm sure his fate had not been half so sad--am
Certain he had not then been thrust abroad
With breeches made of fig-leaves, quickly rended,
More quickly than his wife could get them mended.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
'Have you not seen her in the public way,
Snare-setting? In the ball-room marked her eyes,
Pursuing, like a very snake's, her prey?
And vainly would he dodge them, and be wise!
In flight alone is safety. Do you stray
Beside her, when the moon is in the skies?
Or by the brooklet, or along the sea,
Or in the garden, parlor, buttery?'
'Do you stray beside her in the--_buttery_!' Does not this word
'buttery' seem _impressed_ for the sake of oddity and the rhyme? To
our apprehension and ear it is objectionable, alike in truth and
in sound; scarcely less so, indeed, than the close of the annexed
lines, which require no comment. DON PONCE, a Spanish knight,
'Had passed his days in _stupor most sublime_,
His nights in deep allegiance to his pillow;
Untroubled by the crown, the church-bell's chime,
Sleep, garlic, wine, and oil, a _constant fill o'_!'
In prose as well as in verse Mr. SIMMS, by common consent of his
critics, fails in the humorous. It is not his rôle. How much more
creditable, even than the foregoing, are the subjoined stanzas,
illustrating the fact that it is mental and not physical suffering
which constitutes the pain of death; the 'parting from those who
loved and love us:'
'THIS is the mental death--the agony
Beyond all pain of limb, all fever smart,
All racking of the joints: this is to die;
Sad burial of the hope that lit the heart;
Love mourning, doomed affections lingering by,
Muttering the words of death: 'We part, we part!'
Ah! what the trial, where the pangs, the fears,
To equal this sad source of thousand tears?
'And when the lamp of life upon a verge
Unseated as a vision, sinks at last;
And when the spirit launches on the surge
Of that dark, drear, unfathomable vast
We call eternity, its latest dirge
Bemoans not pangs, still pressing, not o'erpast,
But that all natural things, forms, stars, and skies,
And the more loved than all, are fading from its eyes.
'Thus still beloved, though all relentless fair,
I part from thee and perish. Never more
Shall I win sweetness from the desolate air,
Or find a fragrant freshness in the shore;
The sea that images my deep despair
Hath still a kindred language in its roar,
And in the clouds that gather on our lee
A mournful likeness to my soul I see.
'The sense of life grows dim; the glories pass,
Like those of melting rainbows from my sight;
Dark aspects rise as in the wizard's glass,
Reflect my inner soul, and tell of night;
Glooms gather on my vision, in a mass,
And all my thoughts, beheld in their dread light,
Rise like unbidden spectres; rise to rave
Above the heart, which soon may be their grave.'
The purpose of the author to preserve this youthful effort of his
muse from oblivion, by giving it in a printed form to the public,
will not, we may believe, be subserved; for although portions of
it are undeniably clever, yet as a whole it lacks the elements of
life; a fact, indeed, of which the writer himself seems sufficiently
aware, if we interpret aright the long introduction with which he
has deemed it necessary to preface a short poem. The little volume,
which is very neatly executed, is dedicated to one who is himself
well qualified to appreciate, and on occasion to produce, good
poetry--JAMES LAWSON, Esq., of this city.
* * * * *
CHANGE FOR THE AMERICAN NOTES: in Letters from London to New-York.
By an American Lady. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.
'WHO jeers the Tartar, must beware of his dirk!' is a lesson which
this well-tempered book will teach certain of our neighbors on the
other side of the great water; for it contains stabs at national
abuses and local follies, which 'pierce to the hilt;' and we are not
sorry that at this moment, throughout the Union, this exposition
of them as well as of the time-honored game of '_tit-for-tat_,'
has been as widely perused as the work which prompted it--the
'American Notes' of Mr. DICKENS. This fact, we need not add, will
prevent us from entering upon a detailed review of a work already
so current, at the low price of one shilling. We shall only ask
such of our readers as are at all sensitive in relation to the
slurs upon our country and its institutions which may from time to
time reach us from abroad, to bear in mind the ignorance in which
they have their origin. 'One ought to have,' says our countrywoman,
'a temper as imperturbable as FRANKLIN's, to hear patiently the
absurd remarks made in England upon the United States. Here are
hundreds of thousands, with ample means and leisure, whose reading
is confined to certain portions of certain newspapers; yet one of
this class will deliver his judgment upon America in a manner which
shows his belief that what he says is decisive. There is, there
should be, no appeal. He has spoken. Englishmen have a vague notion
about America, and Indians, and General WASHINGTON, and there being
neither king nor lords, and the storming of Quebec, and the burning
of the Caroline, and the loss of the President! But as to the vast
resources of our country; the nature of her laws and institutions;
of her cities rising amid primeval forests; of the capabilities
of her rivers and bays; of the love of freedom in her children,
which love, men say, is the parent of all the best virtues that can
adorn a state; of these things they know nothing. Talk to one of
these persons about the cotton grown in the Southern States, and
he will immediately speak of Manchester, where he has a cousin, a
manufacturer, worth a hundred thousand pounds; mention one of those
matchless prairies in the Far West (a noble sight, though Boz _was_
disappointed,) and my gentleman, as soon as he is made to understand
what a prairie is, turns the conversation to Salisbury Plain, or
the moors of Scotland! These gentry generally are, or have been,
connected with commercial pursuits, and plume themselves upon being,
not reading, but _practical_ men. I admit they are impartial in
their ignorance, knowing as little of the past history of their own
country as of the present state of ours,' * * * 'The English view
America in such a _petty_ spirit! They judge of it in the spirit
that prompts their judgment in their own small matters; their clubs,
or parishes, or corporations. They cannot conceive a nation without
a titled and privileged aristocracy. What is not subserviency they
consider anarchy; and then a country without a regular standing
army! How can justice be administered by wigless judges? What but
barbarism can exist, where poor men object to wear liveries! Then
comes a summing up of American enormities: they sit in a manner
the English do not; consequently the American way must be wrong.
Vast distance, different customs and institutions, have caused a
diversity of language, therefore the American language must be low;
the Americans grow and use tobacco, and the necessary consequences
are attributed to them as a national dishonor! How comes it that
the French and other travellers do not dwell upon these things,
but pass them over as matters of little moment? Is it jealousy, or
ignorance, or littleness, on the part of the British?' It is all
three; but America will be looked upon with far different eyes by
and by; and in the meantime she is living down the slurs, slanders,
and satires of her traducers, (which this little volume will teach
us still more to disregard) every day. We have but one fault to find
with the 'Change for the American Notes.' There is too much _foreign
coin_ in it. One who can write so well as our author, does not need
to force French and Italian into English sentences, to show that she
_can_ do it, nor to eke out her pages with scraps of verse. Think
of a hundred and fifteen little bits of poetry, from a single line
upward, in a prose volume of eighty-eight pages!' 'T is 'too much
poetry for a shilling!'
* * * * *
HARP OF THE VALE: A COLLECTION OF POEMS BY PAYNE KENYON KILBOURNE.
Hartford: CASE, TIFFANY AND BURNHAM.
THIS little volume comes to us recommended by the same neatness of
mechanical execution which was displayed in the last edition of the
poetical remains of the lamented BRAINARD, published in the same
city. We are glad to see in it indications that the native State of
that fine genius can still inspire poetic aspirations, and produce
poetic minds. The young author of these fugitive pages deserves
consideration; in a degree for what he has done, more for what his
gifts promise. There are many passages and several entire poems of
very considerable merit in the volume. 'The Skeptic,' with which it
commences, being of the greatest length and importance, is perhaps
also the best. None of the thoughts, however, can claim to be very
original; yet they are evidently natural to the writer, and are set
forth in flowing and well-measured verse. The opening lines are
vigorous, and afford a good indication of the merit of the piece:
'NO GOD!' O impious sophist! then are we
Cast pilotless upon an unknown sea;
Gazing all wildly on the void profound,
Unknowing whence we came or whither bound:
The forms around us are not what they seem,
Men are but shadows, life is but a dream;
And the bright worlds that run their glorious race
Mere bubbles floating in the realms of space;
Self-poised they roll, and self-illumed they shine,
Rise without cause, and sink without design!
Launched on the flood, we trim our fated bark,
Beneath a sky low, desolate, and dark;
No north-star hangs with fixed and steady ray,
To light the lonely voyager on his way;
Homeless and friendless on the billowy tides,
Tossed by the hurricanes which no one guides,
Now fired with Hope, now grappling with Despair,
He sees afar some beacon's transient glare;
Pursues it till it fades, then turns in gloom
To meet his last irrevocable doom.
What though the solace of his lot may be
The meteor-dream of Immortality?
That spark expired with the expiring breath--
No morn shall break the iron sleep of DEATH!'
'The Maniac Maid' has some effective stanzas. One especially is
picturesque and beautiful. The poor girl is represented as lingering
around the sea-shore, watching for her lost sailor-lover:
'AT eve, when nought is heard
But the roar of the dashing wave,
And the voice of the lone sea-bird
That sings from her coral cave,
She wanders forth all lonely
The rocks and sedge among,
And to the cold sea only
Pours forth her plaintive song.'
'The Seminoles' is a very creditable production. Some fine lines
also touching our native country and that ancient race, are found in
'Thoughts of Home:'
'STERN region, I love thee! Thy woodlands and waters
Are linked with old legends of battle and love:
There the wild warriors fought, and the forest's dark daughters
Told their vows and adored the Great Spirit above.
'Frail wrecks of mortality! where are they now?
Their glory departed long ages ago;
And woman's smooth cheek and the warrior's stern brow
Lie unmarked from the dust of the quiver and bow.
'Ay, I love thee, proud land! Thou hast eyes that are brighter,
Made radiant with smiles, by no sorrows o'ercast;
Thou hast forms that are fairer and hearts that are lighter,
Than Romance e'er saw in her dreams of the past.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
'Bright home of my dreams! may I greet thee again!
In city and country I've mingled with men,
But they part and they meet with as little emotion
As the icebergs that float on the desolate ocean.'
The last couplet here is very original and striking. 'Dying Well,'
'The Lost that Come not Back,' and others which arrested our
attention, will be read with pleasure; especially 'Beauty and Fame,'
which we regret we have not space to present entire. It will be
seen, however, by what we have quoted, that Mr. KILBOURNE has a good
share of poetic feeling and capability of expression. He has not
lived in the world in vain; but with an eye, and an ear, and most
of all, a heart. Yet several things are wanting, before our young
bard can become an effective poet, which doubtless he must needs
desire to be. He has more sensibility than taste; the consequence
of which is, that the best passages in his best pieces are marred
by the proximity of such as are weak and infelicitous. Then again
there is a want throughout the volume of condensation and energy.
Mr. KILBOURNE must gird himself to greater terseness and strength;
he must chisel and refine with a severer taste and more assiduity,
before he can reach the place where doubtless bright anticipations
have at times placed him. We beg him, in all due kindness, to
remember, that it is easier to jump in thought to such a conclusion
than actually to attain it. We conclude with the expression of our
hope and trust that his day-dreams in this regard, in common with
those of other gifted and rising spirits among us, may not have been
altogether idle.
EDITOR'S TABLE.