LAFITTE.

_Lafitte: the Pirate of the Gulf. By the author of the South-West. New

York: Harper and Brothers._

The “author of the _South-West_” is Professor Ingraham. We had

occasion to speak favorably of that work in our Messenger for January

last. “_Lafitte_,” the book now before us, may be called an historical

novel. It is based, in a great degree, upon a sketch in Mr. Flint's

“_Valley of the Mississippi_,” of the great Baratarian outlaw; and

many of the leading incidents narrated may be found in the

“_Louisiana_” of Marboi, and the “_Memoirs_” of Latour. We are not,

however, to decide upon the merits of the story—which runs nearly

thus—by any reference to historical truth.

An expatriated Frenchman resides upon the banks of the Kennebeck. He

has two sons—twins—their mother having died in their infancy. Their

names are Achille and Henri—the former proud, impetuous and

ambitious—the latter of a more gentle nature. We are introduced to

this little family when the boys are in their fifteenth year. At this

epoch a jealousy of his brother, never felt before, and founded on the

obvious preference of the father for Henri, arises in the bosom of

Achille. Gertrude, now, a niece and ward of the old gentleman, becomes

an inmate of the house. She is beautiful, is beloved by both the sons,

but returns only the affection of Henri. Jealousy thus deepens into

hatred on the part of Achille. This hatred is still farther embittered

by an accident. Henri saves the life of his mistress, and, in so

doing, rejects the proffered assistance of Achille. The lovers meet

too by moonlight, and are overheard by the discarded brother, who in a

moment of phrensy, plunges a knife in the bosom of Henri, hurries to

the sea-coast, and, seizing the boat of a fisherman, pushes out

immediately to sea. Upon the eve of being lost, he is picked up by a

merchant vessel, and proceeds with her on a voyage to the

Mediterranean. The vessel is captured by the Algerines—our hero is

imprisoned—escapes by the aid of a Moorish maiden, whom he dishonors

and abandons—is recaptured—escapes again in an open boat for Ceuti—is

again captured by Algerines—unites with them, and subsequently

commands them—is taken by the Turks—is promoted in their navy—turns

Mussulman—becomes the chief of an armed horde—combats in the Egyptian

ranks—becomes again a pirate—is taken by the Spaniards—is liberated

and becomes a corsair again, and again. His adventures so far,

however, from the period of his attack upon Henri—adventures occupying

a period of fifteen years—are related by the novelist in language very

little more diffuse than our own. We are now introduced, at full

length to Achille, in the character of Lafitte. The scene is Jamaica,

and we find the freebooter planning a descent upon the house of a

{594} wealthy Mexican exile, Velasquez. He has a daughter, Constanza,

very beautiful, and a nephew, very much of a rascal. The nephew is in

league with the robbers, and admits them to the house for the sake of

sharing the booty. The adventure ends in the death of the traitor by a

pistol-shot from the hands of Velasquez—the death of the old man

himself through agitation—and the carrying off of the maiden, and much

booty, by Lafitte. The lady however, is treated with great deference

by that noble-spirited and fine-looking young man the cut-throat, who

wears a grey cloak with a velvet collar, folds his arms, gnashes his

teeth, and has, we must admit it, a more handsomely furnished cabin

than even the Red Rover himself. We are assured that his only object

in carrying the damsel off at all, was to shield his person by means

of her own, from the shots of his pursuers. Accordingly, a

merchantman, bound for Kingston, heaving in sight, Constanza is set at

liberty and put on board of it, with an old negro wench Juana (all

lips) and a young pirate boy Theodore, (all sentiment) to attend upon

her orders and convoy her safely into port. We now have a storm (in

the usual manner) a wreck, and a capture. The dismasted vessel is

taken by one of the galleys of Lafitte, and the lady again falls into

the clutches of the buccaneers, who carry her to one of their

rendezvous, a very romantic cavern, at the head of the bay of

Gonzales, in the island of St. Domingo.

In the meantime the lover of the fair Constanza, one Count D'Oyley,

commander of the French frigate, Le Sultan, going to visit his

mistress at her paternal residence, is made aware of her disaster,

follows immediately with his frigate's tender in pursuit of Lafitte,

and fails in meeting him, but has the satisfaction of being taken

prisoner by one of the freebooter's small vessels, and carried to the

identical rendezvous in which lies the object of his search. The

lovers repose in different caverns, and are totally unsuspicious of

the so near presence of each other. But the maiden, of course, sings a

song, made on purpose improviso, and all about love and the moon, and

the lover, hearing every word of it, breaks through the wall (also of

course) and—clasps her in his arms! But we are growing scurrilous.

Lafitte arrives, and promises the two captives their freedom and a

passage to Port-au-Prince in the morning. Count D'Oyley, however,

having dreamed in succession four very ugly dreams, thinks it better

to put no faith in the freebooter, and getting up in the middle of the

night, makes his escape from the rendezvous with his mistress and

Juana. In so doing he has only to dress his mistress as a man, and

himself as a woman, to descend a precipice, to make a sentinel at the

mouth of the cave drunk, and so walk over him—make another drunk in

Lafitte's schooner, and so walk over him—walk over some forty or fifty

of the crew on deck—and finally to walk off with the long-boat. These

things are trifles with a man of genius—and an author should never let

slip an opportunity of displaying his invention. D'Oyley's frigate

happens just precisely at the right moment to be in the offing, and

has no difficulty whatever in picking up all hands.

We are now brought to Barataria—and some scenes follow of historical

interest. An offer on the part of the British is made to Lafitte. He

demands time for reflection, and proceeds to lay the pacquet of

proposals before the Governor of Louisiana, demanding a free pardon

for himself and associates as the reward of his information, and the

price of his adherence to the States. After some trouble he succeeds

in his application. He is present, and fights valiantly, at the battle

of New Orleans. In the heat of the contest he is attacked pointedly

and with vehemence by an individual in the uniform of a British naval

officer—is wounded, and carried to the hospital. Here he discovers, as

a nun, his cousin Gertrude, who after the attack by Achille upon

Henri, has taken the veil, by way of atonement for her share in the

disaster. Henri, she informs Lafitte, is not killed, but gone to

France with his father. Our hero now, having recovered of his wound,

vows to devote to penitence, among the monks of St. Bernard, the

remainder of his life. His first object, however, being to restore, as

far as possible, his ill-gotten wealth to the proper owners, he finds

it necessary to purchase a vessel with the view of collecting his

treasures. He does so, and proceeds to accomplish his purpose.

The naval officer who attacked him so fiercely on the ramparts at

Orleans is now discovered to be D'Oyley, although it does seem a

little singular that Lafitte, who knew D'Oyley well, should not have

discovered this matter before. The Frenchman, it appears, having

rescued his mistress from the cavern, as before shown, and having

reached his frigate in safety, can think of no more commendable course

than that of returning for the purpose of dispersing the pirates, and

hanging the preserver of his own life, and of the life and honor of

his mistress. With this laudable design, he drops anchor at the mouth

of the cavern. In the night time, however, the poor tossed-about lady

is carried off thro' a port-hole, by Cudjo, an old negro, for some

wise purposes of his own. Upon learning this occurrence the Count is

very angry, and just then perceiving a schooner making her way out of

the harbor, jumps at once to the conclusion that his lady is on board,

and that Lafitte is the person who put her there. It is really

distressing to see what a passion the Count is in upon this occasion.

“Lafitte,” says he, “thou seared and branded outlaw!—cursed of God and

loathed of men!—fit compeer of hell's dark spirits!—blaster of human

happiness!—destroyer of innocence! Guilty thyself, thou would'st make

all like thee! Scorner of purity, thou would'st unmake and make it

guilt! Like Satan, thou sowest tares of sorrow among the seeds of

peace!—thou seekest good to make it evil! Renegade of mankind!—thou

art a blot among thy race—the living presence of that moral pestilence

which men and holy writ term _sin!_” The beauty and vigor of all this

are not at all diminished by the fact that the “scorner of purity” and

“renegade of mankind” was necessarily deprived of the pleasure of

hearing a word of it, being otherwise busily engaged in the State of

Louisiana.

The Count, having overtaken the schooner, and found out his mistake,

goes to Barataria, and thence, proceeding to New Orleans, arrives on

the day of the battle. Lafitte is there discovered upon the ramparts,

and the combat ensues as heretofore described. D'Oyley imagines that

Lafitte is mortally wounded. In a few days, however, the

newly-purchased vessel of the corsair, with the corsair on board, is

pointed out to him as it is leaving the harbor, and he again starts

with his frigate in pursuit. Lafitte meanwhile has proceeded to the

{595} rendezvous at which we left Constanza in the clutches of Cudjo,

rescues her, and placing her safely in his vessel, determines to put

her forthwith in the hands of her lover. He is met, unfortunately, by

the frigate of the enraged D'Oyley. The vessels are thrown together,

and the Count springs with his boarders on the deck of the

schooner—turning a deaf ear to explanation. The corsair is mortally

wounded by the Count. The cap of the latter falling off in the tumult,

he is discovered to be Henri—the brother of Achille, or Lafitte. An

old man on board, called Lafon, is at the same moment opportunely

discovered to be the father. Explanations ensue. Lafitte dies—the

lovers are happy—and the story terminates.

It must not be supposed that the absurdities we have here pointed out,

are as obtrusive in the novel of Professor Ingraham as they appear in

our naked digest. Still they are sufficiently so. “_Lafitte_,” like

the “Elkswatawa” of Mr. French, is most successful, we think, in its

historical details. Commodore Patterson and General Andrew Jackson are

among the personages who form a portion of the story. The portrait of

the President seems to us forcibly sketched. But our author is more

happy in any respect than in delineations of character. Some

descriptive pieces are well-drawn, and admirably colored. We may

instance the several haunts of the pirates, the residence of

Velasquez, the house of the council at New Orleans, and the private

cabin allotted by the corsair to Constanza. The whole book possesses

vigor, and a certain species of interest—and there can be little doubt

of its attaining popularity. The chronological mannerism noticed in

“Elkswatawa” is also observable in “Lafitte.” Some other mannerisms

referrible to the same sin of imitation are also to be observed. As a

general rule it may be safely assumed, that the most simple, is the

best, method of narration. Our author cannot be induced to think so,

and is at unnecessary pains to bring about artificialities of

construction—not so much in regard to particular sentences, as to the

introduction of his incidents. To these he always approaches with the

gait of a crab. We have, for example, been keeping company with the

buccaneers for a few pages—but now they are to make an attack upon

some old family mansion. In an instant the buccaneers are dropped for

the mansion, and the definite for the indefinite article. In place of

_the_ robbers proceeding in the course wherein we have been bearing

them company, and advancing in proper order to the dwelling, they are

suddenly abandoned for _a_ house. _A_ family mansion is depicted. _A_

man is sitting within it. _A_ maiden is sitting by his side, and _a_

quantity of ingots are reposing in the cellar. We are then, and not

till then, informed, that the family mansion, the man, the maiden and

the ingots, are the identical mansion, man, maiden and ingots, of

which we have already heard the buccaneers planning the attack.—Thus,

at the conclusion of book the 4th, Count D'Oyley has rescued his

mistress from the cavern, and arrived with her, in safety, upon the

deck of his frigate. He has, moreover, decided upon returning with the

frigate to the cavern for the laudable purpose, as aforesaid, of

hanging his deliverer. We naturally expect still to keep company with

_the_ ship in this adventure; and turn over the page with a certainty

of finding ourselves upon her decks. But not so. She is now merely _a_

frigate which we behold at a distance—_a_ stately ship arrayed in the

apparel of war, and which “sails with majestic motion into the bay of

Gonzales.” Of course we are strongly tempted to throw the book, ship

and all, out of the window.

The novelist is too minutely, and by far too frequently _descriptive_.

We are surfeited with unnecessary detail. Every little figure in the

picture is invested with all the dignities of light and shadow, and

chiaro 'scuro. Of mere outlines there are none. Not a dog yelps,

unsung. Not a shovel-footed negro waddles across the stage, whether to

any ostensible purpose or not, without eliciting from the author a

_vos plaudite_, with an extended explanation of the character of his

personal appearance—of his length, depth, and breadth,—and, more

particularly, of the length, depth, and breadth of his shirt-collar,

shoe-buckles and hat-band.

The English of Professor Ingraham is generally good. It possesses

vigor and is very copious. Sometimes, however, we meet with a sentence

without end, involving a nominative without a verb. For example,

“As the men plied their oars, and moved swiftly down the bayou, the

Indian, who was the last of his name and race, with whom would expire

the proud appellation, centuries before recognized among other tribes,

as the synonyme for intelligence, civilization, and courage—THE

NATCHEZ!—the injured, persecuted, slaughtered and unavenged

Natchez—the Grecians of the aboriginal nations of North America!” See

p. 125. Vol. 2.

Many odd words, too, and expressions, such as “revenge you,” in place

of “avenge you”—“Praxitiles,” instead of “Praxiteles”—“assayed” in

lieu of “essayed,” and “denouément” for “dénouement”—together with

such things as “frissieur,” “closelier,” “self-powered,” “folden,” and

“rhodomantine” are here to be found, and, perhaps, may as well be

placed at once to the account of typographical errors.

Our principal objection is to the tendency of the tale. The

pirate-captain, from the author's own showing, is a weak, a

vaccillating villain, a fratricide, a cowardly cut-throat, who strikes

an unoffending boy under his protection, and makes nothing of hurling

a man over a precipice for merely falling asleep, or shooting him down

without any imaginable reason whatsoever. Yet he is never mentioned

but with evident respect, or in some such sentence as the following.

“I could hardly believe I was looking upon the celebrated Lafitte,

when I gazed upon his elegant, even noble person and fine features, in

which, in spite of their resolute expression, there is an air of

frankness which assures me that _he would never be guilty of a mean

action_,” &c. &c. &c. In this manner, and by these means, the total

result of his portraiture as depicted, leaves upon the mind of the

reader no proper degree of abhorrence. The epithet “impulsive,”

applied so very frequently to the character of this scoundrel, as to

induce a smile at every repetition of the word, seems to be regarded

by the author as an all-sufficient excuse for the unnumbered legion of

his iniquities. We object too—decidedly—to such expressions on the

lips of a hero, as “If I cannot be the last in Heaven, I will be the

first in Hell”—“Now favor me, Hell or Heaven, and I will have my

revenge!”—“Back hounds, or, by the holy God, I will send one of you to

breakfast in Hell,” &c. &c. &c.—expressions with which the volumes

before us are too plentifully besprinkled. {596} Upon the whole, we

could wish that men possessing the weight of talents and character

belonging to Professor Ingraham, would either think it necessary to

bestow a somewhat greater degree of labor and attention upon the

composition of their novels, or otherwise, would _not_ think it

necessary to compose them at all.