sublime and picturesque scenery, is scarcely surpassed by any in the
United States. This river was anciently called the Hogohege, and also
Cherokee river: it takes its rise in the mountains of Virginia, in the
thirty-seventh degree of latitude, and pursues a course of one thousand
miles south and south-west nearly to the thirty-fourth degree of latitude,
receiving from both sides large tributary streams. It then changes its
direction to the north, circuitously winding until it mingles with the
waters of the Ohio, sixty miles from its mouth. There is a place near the
summit of the Cumberland mountains, which extends from the great Kenhawa
to the Tennessee, where there is a very remarkable ledge of rocks, thirty
miles in length and nearly two hundred feet high, showing a perpendicular
face to the south-east, which for grandeur and magnificence surpass any
fortification of art in the known world. It has been the modern
hypothesis, that all the upper branches of the Tennessee formerly forced
their way through this stupendous pile.
On the Tennessee, about four hundred and fifty miles from its mouth, and
nearly two hundred above what is called Muscle-Shoals, there is another
ledge of rocks stretching along the shore to the extent of one mile, with
a perpendicular front toward the river, of the most perfect regularity.
This ledge varies in height from thirty to three hundred feet, being much
the highest at the centre, and diminishing at each end into ragged cliffs
of rock and broken land. This variegated surface extends for many miles,
affording a constant succession of fanciful and romantic views. The whole
rocky formation in this vicinity is composed of a light gray lime-stone,
indented with broad dark lines formed by the dripping of the water which
falls from the scanty covering of soil on the top to the deep channel
below. The thin surface of soil sustains a shabby, stinted growth of fir,
oak, and other trees, which seldom grow above the height of tall
shrubbery. From the crevices of the rock also may occasionally be seen a
tree of diminutive dimensions springing out with scarcely a particle of
visible sustenance for its roots. The shrubbery upon the peak of this
acclivity presents a curious appearance as it hangs over the ascent, not
unlike the bushy eye-brows of a sullen and frowning face. With this ledge
of rocks terminate the Cumberland mountains, which cross the State of
Tennessee to the margin of the river. The stream here flows nearly west,
through a beautiful valley of alluvial land, formed by the Cumberland
mountains and a continuation of the Blue Ridge of Virginia. Immediately
opposite the termination of the Cumberland mountains commences a broken
and rocky surface, which extends along the shore of the river for many
miles, presenting the most varied and novel scenery in nature; while the
other shore is level, fertile, and mostly in a high state of cultivation,
abounding in verdant fields of meadow, corn and tobacco.
The middle portion of the ledge _proper_, which I have described, rises
nearly or quite three hundred feet above the level of the river; a vast
wall of solid lime-stone, echoing with never-ceasing moans the gurgling
current of the river, which at this place is deep and very rapid; and has
worn a series of caves and hollows in the base of the rock, which
contribute greatly to this 'language of the waters.'
The summit or peak of this ledge in the centre is called '_The Painted
Rock_.' It is so called from the fact of there being, about sixty feet
below the highest peak, letters and characters painted in different
colors, and evidently drawn by a tutored hand. What is most remarkable,
these paintings are upon the perpendicular face of the rock, probably two
hundred feet above the river, and in a place where there is no apparent
possibility for mortal man to arrive. They are composed of the initials of
two persons, together with characters and drawings, some of which are
illegible from the river. The first consists of the letters 'J. W. H.,'
quite well done in dark blue or green paint. The next is 'A. L. S.,' done
in red, and also a trefoil leaf of clover in green, beside several rude
characters and drawings in blue and red. The traveller passing this
interesting spot gazes with wonder and astonishment, but is referred to
tradition for a history of the circumstances which led to the name of
Painted Rock; for the paintings were drawn and the name given, long before
the country was permanently settled by the whites. The story handed down
is this:
The original possessors of the soil in this part of the country were the
tribes of Cherokee and Chicasaw Indians. The country was explored as early
as 1745, by a company who had grants of land from the government, and
settlements commenced previous to the French war. Of the first-comers of
whites there were not more than sixty families, who were either destroyed
or driven off before the end of the following year. Some few families had
settled at a place not far distant from the Painted Rock, where lived a
Cherokee Sagamore, named Shagewana, whose tribe was considered the most
inhuman of any in the nation. The top of the rock is flat, and slopes back
from the river, and at the base is a large spring surrounded by bushes.
Shagewana occupied the summit of the acclivity as his council-ground; and
when danger was apprehended from the whites, or when an innovation was
made on his limits, he forthwith called his warriors together for
consultation, and set fire to faggots and other combustibles as a signal
for his neighbors to advance to his aid. The whites settled near the
Painted Rock at this time were mostly composed of traders, who had brought
various articles of clothing and ornaments to dispose of to the Indians;
and under the assurance of the Chicasaws, who rarely commenced the work of
destruction on the whites, that they should be unmolested, built up a
cluster of huts, and cleared a small territory for the raising of corn and
other vegetables.
Shagewana from some cause became incensed toward them, and resolved to
burn the buildings and destroy their inhabitants. He called his people
together, and the war-cry was sounded throughout the mountains. Taking
advantage of the night, they surrounded the settlement, and applying
torches to the dwellings, rushed into the midst with tomahawk in hand, and
murdered all save two young men, who fought so bravely that they spared
their lives in order to torture them with more prolonged sufferings. The
names of these young men it is said were HARRIS and SNELLING. They were
bound and taken to the rock, where the savages went through a dance, as
was their custom after a victory had been achieved; and as day-light
advanced, they prepared a feast. Harris and Snelling were placed under
keepers, who amused themselves by tormenting their unhappy prisoners in
various ways; such as pricking them with their knives, cutting off small
pieces of their ears and fingers, and pulling out clumps of their hair.
Before the close of the day, the captives feigning sleep, the Indians left
them for a moment and went to the spring for water. Thereupon the young
men burst their bands and escaped into the bushes. Crawling upon the other
side of the rock, and being hotly pursued, it is supposed that they were
forced upon a narrow projection, about twelve inches wide, and four feet
below the inscription, where with some paint or coloring substance which
they carried about them they traced the characters to which we have
referred, and which have given the place the name of 'THE PAINTED ROCK.'
The fate of the young men is not positively known; but it is believed that
they were discovered and hurled down the precipice.
LINES TO J. T. OF IRELAND.
BY THE AUTHOR OF 'HINTS ON ETIQUETTE.'
A heartless flirt! with false and wicked eye,
Dost thou not feel thyself a living lie?
Dost thou not hear the 'still small voice' upbraid
Thy inmost conscience for the part thou'st played?
How mean the wish to victimize that one
Who ne'er had wooed thee, hadst thou not begun!
Who mark'd with pain thy saddened gaze on him,
Doom'd but to fall a martyr to thy whim;
Whose pallid cheek might win a fiend to spare,
Or soothe the sorrows that had blanched his hair:
Oh, cold-laid plan! drawn on from day to day
To meet the looks thou failed not to display,
Seeking at such a price another's peace,
To feed the cravings of thy vain caprice;
Led him to think that thou wert all his own,
Then froze his passion with a heart of stone.
Lured by thy wiles, he gave that holiest gift,
A noble soul, before he saw thy drift;
He watched thy bosom heave, he heard thee sigh,
Nor deem'd such looks could cover treachery;
That one so proud _could_ stoop to simulate
The purest feelings of this earthly state.
Yet words were useless, where no sense of blame
Could start a tear, nor tinge thy cheek with shame.
More merciful than thou to him, he prays
No pangs like his may wound thy lingering days;
Implores thy sins to him may be forgiven,
And leaves thee to the clemency of Heaven.
C. W. DAY.
LITERARY NOTICES.
POEMS BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. In one volume. pp. 279. Cambridge: JOHN
OWEN. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.
Two years ago Mr. LOWELL presented the public with a volume of poems,
which after being read and blamed and praised with a most bewildering
variety of opinion, lived through it all, and remained as a permanent
specimen of unformed but most promising genius. Modest however as the
offering was, it was duly valued by discerning judges, not so much for its
own ripe excellence, as for its appearing a happy token of something else.
In the major part of the annual soarings into _Cloud-land_ which alarm the
world, we seem to see the sum total of the aspirant's power. We feel that
he has shown us _all_, and done his best; that the force of his cleverness
could go no farther; and we are willing to give him his penny of praise,
and thereby purchase a pleasant oblivion of him and his forevermore. In
this attempt of Mr. LOWELL'S it was impossible not to see that there lay
more beyond. We felt that however boldly he might have dived, he did not
yet 'bring up the bottom,' as the swimmer's phrase goes. The faults of his
poems were perceptible enough, yet even these were the blemishes of latent
strength, and the book was every where welcomed with a hope. We have now
to notice the appearance of a second proof of Mr. LOWELL'S activity of
faculty, in another and larger volume. It confirms the faith of those who
read the former one. There is, throughout, the manifestation of growth; of
a continuous advance toward a more decided character. Yet it is not
without incompleteness of expression; it smacks of immaturity still; but
it is the immaturity which presages a man.
The longest, and although not the most pleasing, yet perhaps the best poem
in the volume is the 'Legend of Brittany,' a romantic story, fringed with
rhyme. It contains but one bad line, and that one the first in the book:
'Fair as a summer dream was MARGARET.' It is not only vague, but
common-place: there is no particular reason that we know of why a summer
dream should be fairer than a winter dream; and we cannot think that the
poet meant to make use of that figure of speech called _amphibology_,
although the line will bear a double interpretation. The legend is of the
guilty amour of MORDRED, a Knight Templar, with a fair innocent who, upon
the point of becoming a mother, is slain by her lover at evening, in the
wood. Hereupon---- But let the poet speak:
His crime complete, scarce knowing what he did,
(So goes the tale,) beneath the altar there
In the high church the stiffening corpse he hid,
And then, to 'scape that suffocating air,
Like a scared ghoule out of the porch he slid;
But his strained eyes saw blood-spots everywhere,
And ghastly faces thrust themselves between
His soul and hopes of peace with blasting mien.
It should be observed that Mordred, bound as a Templar by the strictest
laws of chastity, is aiming at the 'high grand-mastership,' and
consequently suffers not only the remorse of the murderer, but the dread
of that defeat which his ambition must encounter in the discovery of his
deed. His character is ably delineated; perhaps too nicely drawn, for so
brief a tale, since the interest momentarily awakened in the 'dark, proud
man,'
----'whose half-blown youth
Had shed its blossoms even in opening,'
is immediately lost in the horror of the catastrophe. But to pursue the
outline of the story:
Now, on the second day, there was to be
A festival in church: from far and near
Came flocking in the sun-burnt peasantry,
And knights and dames with stately antique cheer,
Blazing with pomp, as if all faërie
Had emptied her quaint halls, or, as it were,
The illuminated marge of some old book,
While we were gazing, life and motion took.
* * * * *
Then swelled the organ: up through choir and nave
The music trembled with an inward thrill
Of bliss at its own grandeur: wave on wave
Its flood of mellow thunder rose, until
The hushed air shivered with the throb it gave,
Then, poising for a moment, it stood still,
And sank and rose again, to burst in spray
That wandered into silence far away.
The whole of the description of this choir-service is equally beautiful
with these stanzas; yet it may be objected that it in some degree impedes
the progress of narration; and the tale is of that sort which will scarce
brook any delay in the telling. But to continue. During the chanting, a
breathless pause comes over the congregation; the music hushes; all eyes
are drawn by some strange impulse toward the altar; and while all is mute
and watchful, the voice of Margaret is heard from heaven, imploring a
baptism for her unborn babe. The author himself cannot feel more sensibly
than ourselves the injustice of thus patching together the beauteous
fragments of his sorrowful and melodious history in so hugger-mugger a
way; but MAGA is peremptory, and hints to us that we cannot command the
scope of the 'Edinburgh Review:' The voice ceases to thrill the wondering
multitude, and the poet thus proceeds:
Then the pale priests, with ceremony due
Baptized the child within its dreadful tomb,
Beneath that mother's heart, whose instinct true
Star-like had battled down the triple gloom
Of sorrow, love, and death: young maidens, too,
Strewed the pale corpse with many a milk-white bloom,
And parted the bright hair, and on the breast
Crossed the unconscious hands in sign of rest.
It is an indication of Mr. LOWELL'S capabilities for a more extended theme
that the second part of this poem is superior to the first. It is not
merely that the interest of the story increases, but the verse is more
compressed, the expressions are more graphic, and the flow of the stanza
is finer and more natural. The opening lines are as vivid and impressive
as a passage from Tasso:
'As one who, from the sunshine and the green,
Enters the solid darkness of a cave,
Nor knows what precipice or pit unseen
May yawn before him with its sudden grave,
And, with hushed breath, doth often forward lean,
Deeming he hears the plashing of a wave
Dimly below, or feels a damper air
From out some dreary chasm, he knows not where;
So from the sunshine and the green of Love,
We enter on our story's darker part,' etc.
The faults of the whole production are the necessary ones of all young
writers of original power; a too ready faculty of imitation, and a lack of
conciseness. The poets whom Mr. LOWELL mostly reminds us of, in his
faults, are SHELLY and SHAKSPEARE; the juvenile SHAKSPEARE, we
mean--SHAKSPEARE the sonnetteer. Both in the 'Revolt of Islam' and
'Tarquin and Lucrece,' blemishes resembling his own constantly occur. It
will nevertheless be gratifying to his many ardent admirers to perceive
that on the whole he has exhibited a more definite approach to what he is
capable of accomplishing, and that in proportion as he has grown less
vague and ethereal, less fond of personifying sounds and sentiments, so
has he advanced toward a more manly and enduring standard of excellence.
'Prometheus' is the next longest poem, and it has afforded us great
gratification. It might almost be mistaken for the breath of ÆSCHYLUS,
except that it contains sparkles of freedom that even the warm soul of the
Greek could never have felt. The first two lines glitter with light:
'One after one the stars have risen and set,
Sparkling upon the hoar-frost on my chain.'
Although, rhyme is no tyrant to our poet, yet he seems to take a fuller
swing when free from its influence; and the verse which he employs for the
vehicle of his thoughts in this genuine poem is peculiarly adapted to the
grandeur and dignity of his subject. This composition will stand the true
test of poetry; a test which many immortal verses cannot abide, for it
will bear translation into prose without loss of beauty or power: it
contains more thoughts than lines, and although abounding in high poetic
imaginings, the spirit of true philosophy which it contains is superior to
the poetry.
Of Mr. LOWELL'S shorter specimens we may remark, in contradistinction to
what has been said of the Legend of Brittany, that so far as they resemble
the _kind_ of his former productions, so far in short as they are
re-castings of himself, they do him injustice. We now feel that he is
capable of stronger and loftier efforts, and are unwilling to overlook in
his later compositions the flaws that are wilfully copied from his own
volume. The public demand that he should go onward, and not wander back to
dally among flowers that have been plucked before, and were then accepted
for their freshness. He must devote himself to subjects of wider
importance, and give his imaginations a more permanent foothold upon the
hearts of men. His love-poems, though many of them would have added grace
to his _first_ collection, fail to excite our admiration _equally_ in
this. We do not say that he had exhausted panegyric before; far less would
we insinuate that passion itself is exhaustible; and yet there is a point
where to pause might be more graceful than to go on: '_Sunt certi denique
fines._' Did any one ever wish that even PETRARCH had written more? Mr.
LOWELL then ought to consider this, and begin to build upon a broader
foundation than his own territory, beautiful as it may be, of private and
personal fancies and affections. Perhaps there is no exception to the law
that love should always be the first impulse that leads an ardent soul to
poesy. (By poesy we do not mean school-exercises, and prize heroics
approved by a committee of literary gentlemen.) On this account, it may
be, that a young poet is always anxious to walk upon the ground where he
first felt his strength, considering that a minstrel without love were as
powerless, to adopt the Rev. SIDNEY SMITH'S jocose but not altogether
clerical illustration, as Sampson in a wig. Mr. LOWELL evinces the firmest
faith in his passion, which is evidently as sincere as it is
well-bestowed. It is from this perhaps that he derives a corresponding
faith in his productions, which always seems proportionate to his love of
his subject. Let him be assured however that he is not always the
strongest when he feels the most so, nor must he mistake the absence of
this feeling for a symptom of diminished power. Should he be at any time
inclined to such a self-estimate, let him refer his judgment to his
'Prometheus' and 'Rhoecus.' In his 'Ode' also, and his 'Glance behind the
Curtain,' there is much to embolden him toward the highest endeavors in
what he would perhaps disdain to call his Art. Poesy, notwithstanding,
_is_ an _Art_, which even HORACE and DRYDEN did not scorn to consider
such; and our poet ought to remember that he is bound not only to utter
his own sentiments and fantasies according to his own impulse, but
moreover to consult in some degree the ears of the world: the poet's task
is double; to speak FROM himself indeed, but TO the hearing of others. The
contempt which a man of genius feels for the mere mechanicism of verse and
rhyme may naturally enough lead him to affect an inattention to it; but in
this he only benefits the school of smoother artists by allowing them at
least _one_ superiority. If he accuses them of being silly, they can
retort that he is ugly.
Our author in this second volume has given the small carpers who pick at
the 'eds' of past participles, and stickle for old-fashioned _moon_-shine
instead of moon-_shine_, fewer causes of complaint. His diction is
well-chosen and befitting his themes; and this is a characteristic which
peculiarly marks the true artist, if it does not indicate the true genius.
His execution, his 'style of handling,' is adapted to his subject; an
excellence in which too many artists, whether painters or poets, are sadly
deficient. In this respect his performances and those of his friend PAGE
may be hung together. From the stately and dignified lines of 'Prometheus'
to the jetty, dripping verse of 'The Fountain,' the step is very wide. How
full of sparkling, brilliant effects are these joyous lines?
Into the sunshine,
Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing
From morn till night!
Into the moonlight,
Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like
When the winds blow!
Mr. LOWELL occasionally makes use of somewhat quaint, Spenserian
expressions, but generally with peculiar effect. His abundant fancy seems
to find its natural garb in the short and expressive phraseology of those
old English writers of whom he manifests on all occasions so thorough an
appreciation. As a sweet specimen, although a careless one, of his power
of combining deep feeling with the most picturesque imagery, we select one
of his lightest touches--'Forgetfulness:'
There is a haven of sure rest
From the loud world's bewildering stress:
As a bird dreaming on her nest,
As dew hid in a rose's breast,
As Hesper in the glowing West;
So the heart sleeps
In thy calm deeps,
Serene Forgetfulness!
No sorrow in that place may be,
The noise of life grows less and less:
As moss far down within the sea,
As, in white lily caves, a bee,
As life in a hazy reverie;
So the heart's wave
In thy dim cave,
Hushes, Forgetfulness!
Duty and care fade far away,
What toil may be we cannot guess:
As a ship anchored in a bay,
As a cloud at summer-noon astray,
As water-blooms in a breezeless day;
So, 'neath thine eyes,
The full heart lies,
And dreams, Forgetfulness!
'The Shepherd of King Admetus' is exceedingly graceful and delicate, but
it is too long to be quoted entire, and too perfect to be disjointed. We
must reluctantly skip 'Fatherland,' 'The Inheritance,' 'The Moon,'
'Rhoecus,' and other favorites, until we come to 'L'Envoi,' where our
author once more throws his arms aloft, free from the incumbrance of
rhyme. This poem is inscribed to 'M. W.,' his heart's idol. The warm
affection which radiates from its lines, it is not to be mistaken, is an
out-flowing of pure human love. Among these personal feelings, touching
which we have 'said our say,' we find the following; which in _one_
respect so forcibly illustrates what we have written within these two
weeks to a western correspondent, that we cannot forbear to quote it here:
Thou art not of those niggard souls, who deem
That poesy is but to jingle words,
To string sweet sorrows for apologies
To hide the barrenness of unfurnished hearts,
To prate about the surfaces of things,
And make more thread-bare what was quite worn out:
Our common thoughts are deepest, and to give
Such beauteous tones to these, as needs must take
Men's hearts their captives to the end of time,
So that who hath not the choice gift of words
Takes these into his soul, as welcome friends,
To make sweet music of his joys and woes,
And be all Beauty's swift interpreter,
Links of bright gold 'twixt Nature and his heart
This is the errand high of Poesy.
* * * * *