Chapter VI: Part 6

is confined to a 'section' of our states. Mutual recrimination and banter tend to rub off these points of vulgarity, which show themselves most in such as move in narrow circles. No one State or District can justifiably throw stones, for we all live in glass houses. We have known a New Englander laugh at the Southern use of the word _clever_; ignorant utterly that the latter is the only English acceptation. And in like manner we knew a vagrant word-catcher to have in his list of Virginianisms _Good bye t' ye_, a phrase purely Shakspearian. The Philadelphian calls a certain savoury bird a _Quail_; according to Wilson, he is right, and the Marylander wrong in calling it a _Partridge_. But the Southron makes reprisals in the case of another sort of game, for he rightly calls that a _Hare_ which the North-man eats under the title of _Rabbit_. To speak of pronunciation would be endless. That of the South accords with England's best orators and dictionaries in all such words as _tutor_ vice _tootor_--_path_, _wrath_, _carpet_, _garden_, &c. Yet many sedulous students of Walker never find this out. Dr. Noah Webster would fain have us believe that orthoepy demands such sounds as _natur_, _featur_, _creatur_. We rejoice that even in Connecticut this barbarism is growing into discredit. The learned Doctor would also improve English so as to write _Savior_ for _Saviour_, _Bridegoom_ for _Bridegroom_, _Duelist_ for _Duellist_, and the like. We humbly crave leave to wait until any one English work can be produced in which these elegancies shall appear. It is an _English_, not an _American_ language which we are called upon to nurture and perfect. Let no scholar deem it beneath his dignity to aid in the work. Then we shall no longer see such a term as _firstly_ in a work on metaphysics, nor hear such a double adverb as _illy_ on the floor of Congress--no longer hear of an event's _transpiring_, before it has become public, nor of an argument being _predicated_ on such and such facts.

BOREALIS.

TO THE WOODNYMPHS.

Ye Nymphs of the woodlands!
I come to your bowers,
Where the wild roses grow
And the eglantine flowers:
Where the trees and wild vines
In their spring-dress arrayed,
Entwine their green foliage
And weave the cool shade.
Oh! I come o'er the hills
By the moon's dewy light--
I come where the waters
Gush sparkling and bright--
Where the green woods are fresh,
And the cool valleys cheered
With the sweet mellow strains
Of the wild forest bird. {112}
I come where the fountains
Their freshness diffuse,
And the flowers smile the sweetest,
Impearled with the dews.
In thy wild forest home,
Oh! I come to inhale
The pure balmy air
And the health-breathing gale.
Ye Nymphs of the woodlands!
Then dress your green bowers:
Bid vines spread their foliage,
And Spring wake her flowers.
Oh! bid your bright waters
Gush sparkling along,
And the wild forest bird
Charm the valleys with song;
For I come o'er the hills
To thy cool shady courts,
To quaff at thy fountains
And join in thy sports.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

MRS. SIGOURNEY--MISS GOULD--MRS. ELLET.

_Zinzendorff, and other Poems. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, New York: Published by Leavitt, Lord & Co._ 1836.

_Poems--By Miss H. F. Gould, Third Edition. Boston: Hilliard, Gray & Co._ 1835.

_Poems; Translated and Original. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet. Philadelphia: Key and Biddle._ 1835.

Mrs. Sigourney has been long known as an author. Her earliest publication was reviewed about twenty years ago, in the North American. She was then Miss Huntley. The fame which she has since acquired is extensive; and we, who so much admire her virtues and her talents, and who have so frequently expressed our admiration of both in this Journal--we, of all persons--are the least inclined to call in question the justice or the accuracy of the public opinion, by which has been adjudged to her so high a station among the _literati_ of our land. Some things, however, we cannot pass over in silence. There are two kinds of popular reputation,--or rather there are two roads by which such reputation may be attained: and it appears to us an idiosyncrasy which distinguishes mere fame from most, or perhaps from _all_ other human ends, that, in regarding the intrinsic value of the object, we must not fail to introduce, as a portion of our estimate, the means by which the object is acquired. To speak less abstractedly. Let us suppose two writers having a reputation apparently equal--that is to say, their names _being equally in the mouths of the people_--for we take this to be the most practicable test of what we choose to term _apparent popular reputation_. Their names then are equally in the mouths of the people. The one has written a great work--let it be either an Epic of high rank, or something which, although of seeming littleness in itself, is yet, like the Christabelle of Coleridge, entitled to be called _great_ from its power of creating intense emotion in the minds of great men. And let us imagine that, by this single effort, the author has attained a certain quantum of reputation. We know it to be possible that another writer of very moderate powers may build up for himself, little by little, a reputation equally great--and this, too, merely by keeping continually in the eye, or by appealing continually with little things, to the ear, of that great, overgrown, and majestical gander, the critical and bibliographical rabble.

It would be an easy, although perhaps a somewhat disagreeable task, to point out several of the most popular writers in America--popular in the above mentioned sense--who have manufactured for themselves a celebrity by the very questionable means, and in the very questionable manner, to which we have alluded. But it must not be thought that we wish to include Mrs. Sigourney in the number. By no means. She has trod, however, upon the confines of their circle. She does not _owe_ her reputation to the chicanery we mention, but it cannot be denied that it has been thereby greatly assisted. In a word--no single piece which she has written, and not even her collected works as we behold them in the present volume, and in the one published some years ago, would fairly entitle her to that exalted rank which she actually enjoys as the authoress, _time after time_, of her numerous, and, in most instances, very creditable compositions. The validity of our objections to this adventitious notoriety we must be allowed to consider unshaken, until it can be proved that any multiplication of zeros will eventuate in the production of a unit.

We have watched, too, with a species of anxiety and vexation brought about altogether by the sincere interest we take in Mrs. Sigourney, the progressive steps by which she has at length acquired the title of the "American Hemans." Mrs. S. cannot conceal from her own discernment that she has acquired this title _solely by imitation_. The very phrase "American Hemans" speaks loudly in accusation: and we are grieved that what by the over-zealous has been intended as complimentary should fall with so ill-omened a sound into the ears of the judicious. We will briefly point out those particulars in which Mrs. Sigourney stands palpably convicted of that sin which in poetry is not to be forgiven.

And first, in the _character of her subjects_. Every unprejudiced observer must be aware of the almost identity between the subjects of Mrs. Hemans and the subjects of Mrs. Sigourney. The themes of the former lady are the unobtrusive happiness, the sweet images, the cares, the sorrows, the gentle affections, of the domestic hearth--these too are the themes of the latter. The Englishwoman has dwelt upon all the "tender and true" chivalries of passion--and the American has dwelt as unequivocally upon the same. Mrs. Hemans has delighted in the radiance of a pure and humble faith--she has looked upon nature with a speculative attention--she has "watched the golden array of sunset clouds, with an eye looking beyond them to the habitations of the disembodied spirit"--she has poured all over her verses the most glorious and lofty aspirations of a redeeming Christianity, and in all this she is herself glorious and lofty. And all this too has Mrs. Sigourney not only attempted, but accomplished--yet in all this she is but, alas!--an imitator.

And secondly--in points more directly tangible than the one just mentioned, and therefore more easily appreciated by the generality of readers, is Mrs. Sigourney again open to the charge we have adduced. We mean in the structure of her versification--in the {113} peculiar turns of her phraseology--in certain habitual expressions (principally interjectional,) such as _yea!_ _alas!_ and many others, so frequent upon the lips of Mrs. Hemans as to give an almost ludicrous air of similitude to all articles of her composition--in an invincible inclination to apostrophize every object, in both moral and physical existence--and more particularly in those mottos or quotations, sometimes of considerable extent, prefixed to nearly every poem, not as a text for discussion, nor even as an intimation of what is to follow, but as the actual subject matter itself, and of which the verses ensuing are, in most instances, merely a paraphrase. These were all, in Mrs. Hemans, mannerisms of a gross and inartificial nature; but, in Mrs. Sigourney, they are mannerisms of the most inadmissible kind--the mannerisms of imitation.

In respect to the use of the quotations, we cannot conceive how the fine taste of Mrs. Hemans could have admitted the practice, or how the good sense of Mrs. Sigourney could have thought it for a single moment worthy of her own adoption. In poems of magnitude the mind of the reader is not, at all times, enabled to include in one comprehensive survey the proportions and proper adjustment of the whole. He is pleased--if at all--with particular passages; and the sum of his pleasure is compounded of the sums of the pleasurable sensations inspired by these individual passages during the progress of perusal. But in pieces of less extent--like the poems of Mrs. Sigourney--the pleasure is _unique_, in the proper acceptation of that term--the understanding is employed, without difficulty, in the contemplation of the picture _as a whole_--and thus its effect will depend, in a very great degree, upon the perfection of its finish, upon the nice adaptation of its constituent parts, and especially upon what is rightly termed by Schlegel, the _unity or totality of interest_. Now it will readily be seen, that the practice we have mentioned as habitual with Mrs. Hemans and Mrs. Sigourney is utterly at variance with this unity. By the initial motto--often a very long one--we are either put in possession of the subject of the poem; or some hint, historic fact, or suggestion is thereby afforded, not included in the body of the article, which, without the suggestion, would be utterly incomprehensible. In the latter case, while perusing the poem, the reader must revert, in mind at least, to the motto for the necessary explanation. In the former, the poem being a mere paraphrase of the motto, the interest is divided between the motto and the paraphrase. In either instance the _totality_ of effect is annihilated.

Having expressed ourselves thus far in terms of nearly unmitigated censure, it may appear in us somewhat equivocal to say that, as Americans, we are proud--very proud of the talents of Mrs. Sigourney. Yet such is the fact. The faults which we have already pointed out, and some others which we will point out hereafter, are but dust in the balance, when weighed against her very many and distinguishing excellences. Among those high qualities which give her, beyond doubt, a title to the sacred name of poet are an acute sensibility to natural loveliness--a quick and perfectly just conception of the moral and physical sublime--a calm and unostentatious vigor of thought--a mingled delicacy and strength of expression--and above all, a mind nobly and exquisitely attuned to all the gentle charities and lofty pieties of life.

The volume whose title forms the heading of this article embraces one hundred and seventy-three poems. The longest, but not the best, of these is Zinzendorff. "It owes its existence," says the author, "to a recent opportunity of personal intercourse with that sect of Christians who acknowledge Zinzendorff as their founder; and who, in their labors of self-denying benevolence, and their avoidance of the slight, yet bitter causes of controversy, have well preserved that sacred test of discipleship 'to love one another.'" Most of the other pieces were "suggested by the passing and common incidents of life,"--and we confess that we find no fault, with their "deficiency in the wonderful and wild." Not in these mountainous and stormy regions--but in the holy and quiet valley of the beautiful, must forever consent to dwell the genius of Mrs. Sigourney.

The poem of Zinzendorff includes five hundred and eighty lines. It relates, in a simple manner, some adventures of that man of God. Many passages are very noble, and breathe the truest spirit of the Muse. At page 14, for example.

--------------The high arch
Of the _cloud-sweeping forest_ proudly _cast_ (casts)
A solemn shadow, for no sound of axe
Had taught the monarch Oak dire principles
Of Revolution, or brought down the Pine
Like haughty baron from his castled height.
Thus dwelt the kings of Europe--ere the voice
Of the crusading monk, with whirlwind tone
Did root them from their base, with all their hosts,
_Tossing the red-cross banner to the sky_.

Again at page 21, we have something equally beautiful, in a very different way. The passage is however much injured by the occurrence of the word 'that' at the commencement of both the sixth and seventh line.

------Now the infant morning raised
Her rosy eyelids. But no soft breeze moved
The forest lords to shake the dews of sleep
From their green coronals. The curtaining mist
Hung o'er the quiet river, and it seemed
_That Nature found the summer night so sweet_
_That 'mid the stillness of her deep repose_
_She shunned the wakening of the king of day_.

All this is exquisite, and in Zinzendorff there are many passages of a like kind. The poem, however, is by no means free from faults. In the first paragraph we have the following:

------Through the _breast_
Of that fair vale the Susquehannah roam'd,
Wearing its _robe_ of _silver_ like a bride.
Now with a noiseless current gliding slow,
Mid the rich _velvet_ of its _curtaining_ banks
It seemed to sleep.

To suppose the Susquehannah roaming through the _breast_ of any thing--even of a valley--is an incongruity: and to say that such false images are common, is to say very little in their defence. But when the noble river is bedizzened out in _robes of silver_, and made to wash with its bright waters nothing better than _curtains of velvet_, we feel a very sensible and a very righteous indignation. We might have expected such language from an upholsterer, or a _marchande des modes_, but it is utterly out of place upon the lips of Mrs. Sigourney. To liken the glorious objects of natural loveliness to the trappings and tinsel of artificiality, is one of the lowest, and at the same time, one of the most ordinary {114} exemplifications of the _bathos_. At page 21, these verses occur:

No word was spoke,
As when the friends of desolated Job,
_Finding the line of language all too short_
_To fathom woe like his_, sublimely paid
That highest homage at the throne of grief,
Deep silence.

The image here italicized is striking, but faulty. It is deduced not from any analogy between actual existences--between woe on the one hand, and the sea on the other--but from the _identity of epithet_ (deep) frequently applied to both. We say the "deep sea," and the expression "deep woe" is certainly familiar. But in the first case the sea is actually deep; in the second, woe is but metaphorically so. Sound, therefore--not sense, is the basis of the analogy, and the image is consequently incorrect.

Some faults of a minor kind we may also discover in Zinzendorff. We dislike the use made by the poetess of antique modes of expression--here most unequivocally out of place. For example.

_Where_ the red council-fire
Disturbed the trance of midnight, long they sate.

_What time_, with hatred fierce and unsubdued,
The woad-stained Briton, in his wattled boat,
Quailed 'neath the glance of Rome.

The versification of Zinzendorff is particularly good--always sweet--occasionally energetic. We are enabled to point out only one defective line in the poem, and in this the defect has arisen from an attempt to contract _enthusiasm_ into a word of three syllables.

He who found
_This blest enthusiasm nerve his weary heart_.

There are, however, some errors of accentuation--for example:

So strong in that mis_an_thrope's bosom wrought
A frenzied malice.

Again--

He would have made himself
A green o_a_sis mid the strife of tongues.

We observe too that Mrs. Sigourney places the accent in _Wyoming_ on the second syllable.

'Twas summer in Wy_o_ming. Through the breast,
&c.

------And the lore
Of sad Wy_o_ming's chivalry, a part
Of classic song.

But we have no right to quarrel with her for this. The word is so pronounced by those who should know best. Campbell, however, places the accent on the first syllable.

On Susquehannah's banks, fair _Wy_oming!

We will conclude our remarks upon Zinzendorff with a passage of surpassing beauty, energy, and poetic power. Why cannot Mrs. Sigourney write always thus?

------Not a breath
Disturbed the tide of eloquence. So fixed
Were that rude auditory, it would seem
Almost as if a nation had become
_Bronzed into statues_. Now and then a sigh,
The unbidden messenger of thought profound,
Parted the lip; or some barbarian brow
Contracted closer in a haughty frown,
As scowled the cynic, 'mid his idol fanes,
When on Mars-Hill the inspired Apostle preached
Jesus of Nazareth.

These lines are glowing all over with the true radiance of poetry. The image in italics is perfect. Of the versification, it is not too much to say that it reminds us of Miltonic power. The slight roughness in the line commencing "When on Mars-Hill," and the discord introduced at the word "inspired," evince an ear attuned to the _delicacies_ of melody, and form an appropriate introduction to the sonorous and emphatic closing--Jesus of Nazareth.

Of the minor poems in the volume before us, we must be pardoned for speaking in a cursory manner. Of course they include many degrees of excellence. Their beauties and their faults are, generally, the beauties and the faults of Zinzendorff. We will particularize a few of each.

On page 67, in a poem entitled Female Education, occur the following lines:

----Break Oblivion's sleep,
And toil with florist's art
To plant the scenes of virtue deep
In childhood's fruitful heart!
To thee the babe is given,
Fair from its glorious Sire;
Go--nurse it for the King of Heaven,
And _He_ will _pay the hire_.

The conclusion of this is _bathetic_ to a degree bordering upon the grotesque.

At page 160 is an error in metre--of course an oversight. We point it out merely because, did we write ourselves, we should like to be treated in a similar manner. For 'centred' we should probably read 'concentred.'

The wealth of every age
_Thou hast centered here_,
The ancient tome, the classic page,
The wit, the poet, and the sage,
All at thy nod appear.

At page 233, line 10, the expression "Thou _wert_ their friend," although many precedents may be found to justify it--is nevertheless _not English_. The same error occurs frequently in the volume.

The poem entitled _The Pholas_, at page 105, has the following introductory prose sentence: "It is a fact familiar to Conchologists, that the genus Pholas possesses the property of phosphorescence. It has been asserted that this may be restored, even when the animal is in a dried state, by the application of _water_, but is extinguished by the least quantity of _brandy_." This odd fact in Natural History is precisely what Cowley would have seized with avidity for the purpose of preaching therefrom a poetical homily on Temperance. But that Mrs. Sigourney should have thought herself justifiable in using it for such purpose, is what we cannot understand. What business has her good taste with so palpable and so ludicrous a _conceit_? Let us now turn to a more pleasing task.

In the _Friends of Man_, (a poem originally published in our own Messenger,) the versification throughout is of the first order of excellence. We select an example. {115}

The youth at midnight sought his bed,
But ere he closed his eyes,
Two forms drew near with gentle tread,
In meek and saintly guise;
One struck a lyre of wondrous power,
With thrilling music fraught,
That chained the flying summer hour,
And charmed the listener's thought--
For still would its tender cadence be
Follow me! follow me!
And every morn a smile shall bring,
Sweet as the merry lay I sing.

The lines entitled _Filial Grief_, at page 199, are worthy of high praise. Their commencement is chaste, simple, and altogether exquisite. The verse italicized contains _an unjust metaphor_, but we are forced to pardon it for the sonorous beauty of its expression.

The love that blest our infant dream,
That dried our earliest tear,
The tender voice, the winning smile,
That made our home so dear,
The hand that urged our youthful thought
O'er low delights to soar,
_Whose pencil wrote upon our souls_,
Alas, is ours no more.

We will conclude our extracts with "_Poetry_" from page 57. The burden of the song finds a ready echo in our bosoms.

Morn on her rosy couch awoke,
Enchantment led the hour,
And Mirth and Music drank the dews
That freshened Beauty's flower--
Then from her bower of deep delight
I heard a young girl sing,
"Oh, speak no ill of Poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing!"

The sun in noon-day heat rose high,
And on with heaving breast
I saw a weary pilgrim toil,
Unpitied and unblest--
Yet still in trembling measures flow'd
Forth from a broken string,
"Oh, speak no ill of Poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing!"

'Twas night, and Death the curtains drew,
Mid agony severe,
While there a willing spirit went
Home to a glorious sphere--
Yet still it sighed, even when was spread
The waiting Angel's wing,
"Oh, speak no ill of Poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing!"

We now bid adieu to Mrs. Sigourney--yet we trust only for a time. We shall behold her again. When that period arrives, having thrown aside the petty shackles which have hitherto enchained her, she will assume, at once, that highest station among the poets of our land which her noble talents so well qualify her for attaining.

* * * * *

The remarks which we made in the beginning of our critique on Mrs. Sigourney, will apply, in an equal degree, to Miss Gould. Her reputation has been greatly assisted by the _frequency_ of her appeals to the attention of the public. The poems (one hundred and seventeen in number,) included in the volume now before us have all, we believe, appeared, from time to time, in the periodicals of the day. Yet in no other point of view, can we trace the remotest similarity between the two poetesses. We have already pointed out the prevailing characteristics of Mrs. Sigourney. In Miss Gould we recognize, first, a disposition, like that of Wordsworth, to seek beauty where it is not usually sought--in the _homelinesses_ (if we may be permitted the word,) and in the most familiar realities of existence--secondly _abandon_ of manner--thirdly a phraseology sparkling with antithesis, yet, strange to say, perfectly simple and unaffected.

Without Mrs. Sigourney's high reach of thought, Miss Gould surpasses her rival in the mere vehicle of thought--expression. "Words, words, words," are the true secret of her strength. _Words_ are her kingdom--and in the realm of language, she rules with equal despotism and _nonchalance_. Yet we do not mean to deny her abilities of a higher order than any which a mere _logocracy_ can imply. Her powers of imagination are great, and she has a faculty of inestimable worth, when considered in relation to effect--the faculty of holding ordinary ideas in so novel, and sometimes in so fantastic a light, as to give them all of the appearance, and much of the value, of originality. Miss Gould will, of course, be the favorite with the multitude--Mrs. Sigourney with the few.

We can think of no better manner of exemplifying these few observations, than by extracting part of Miss G's little poem, _The Great Refiner_.

'Tis sweet to feel that he, who tries
The silver, takes his seat
Beside the fire that purifies;
Lest too intense a heat,
Raised to consume the base alloy,
The precious metal too destroy.

'Tis good to think how well he knows
The silver's power to bear
The _or_deal to which it goes;
And that with skill and care,
He'll take it from the fire, when fit
For his own hand to polish it.

'Tis blessedness to know that he
The piece he has begun
Will not forsake, till he can see,
To prove the work well done,
An image by its brightness shown
The perfect likeness of his own.

The mind which could conceive the _subject_ of this poem, and find poetic appropriateness in a forced analogy between a refiner of silver, over his crucible, and the Great Father of all things, occupied in the mysteries of redeeming Grace, we cannot believe a mind adapted to the loftier breathings of the lyre. On the other hand, the delicate _finish_ of the illustration, the perfect fitness of one portion for another, the epigrammatic nicety and point of the language, give evidence of a taste exquisitely alive to the _prettinesses_ of the Muse. It is possible that Miss Gould has been led astray in her conception of this poem by the scriptural expression, "He shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver."

From the apparently harsh strictures we have thought it our duty to make upon the poetry of Miss Gould, must be excepted one exquisite little _morceau_ at page 59 of the volume now under review. It is entitled _The Dying Storm_. We will quote it in full. {116}

_I am feeble, pale and weary,_
_And my wings are nearly furled;_
I have caused a scene so dreary,
I am glad to quit the world!
With bitterness I'm thinking
On the evil I have done,
_And to my caverns sinking_
_From the coming of the sun._

The heart of man will sicken
In that pure and holy light,
When he feels the hopes I've stricken
With an everlasting blight!
For widely, in my madness,
Have I poured abroad my wrath,
And changing joy to sadness,
Scattered ruin on my path.

_Earth shuddered at my motion,_
And my power in silence owns;
_But the deep and troubled ocean_
_O'er my deeds of horror moans!_
I have sunk the brightest treasure--
I've destroyed the fairest form--
_I have sadly filled my measure,_
_And am now a dying storm._

We have much difficulty in recognizing these verses as from the pen of Miss Gould. They do not contain a single trace of her manner, and still less of the prevailing features of her thought. Setting aside the flippancy of the metre, ill adapted to the sense, we have no fault to find. All is full, forcible, and free from artificiality. The personification of the storm, in its perfect simplicity, is of a high order of poetic excellence--the images contained in the lines italicized, all of the _very highest_.

* * * * *

Many but not all of the poems in Mrs. Ellet's volume, likewise, have been printed before--appearing, within the last two years, in different periodicals. The whole number of pieces now published is fifty-seven. Of these thirty-nine are original. The rest are translations from the French of Alphonse de Lamartine and Beranger--from the Spanish of Quevedo and Yriarte--from the Italian of Ugo Foscolo, Alfieri, Fulvio Testi, Pindemonte, and Saverio Bettinelli,--and from the German of Schiller. As evidences of the lady's acquaintance with the modern languages, these translations are very creditable to her. Where we have had opportunities of testing the fidelity of her versions by reference to the originals, we have always found reason to be satisfied with her performances. A too scrupulous adherence to the text is certainly not one of her faults--nor can we yet justly call her, in regard to the spirit of her authors, a latitudinarian. We wish, however, to say that, in fully developing the meaning of her originals, she has too frequently neglected their _poetical characters_. Let us refer to the lady's translation of the _Swallows_. We have no hesitation in saying, that not the slightest conception of Pierre Jean de Beranger, can be obtained by the perusal of the lines at page 112, of the volume now before us.

Bring me, I pray--an exile sad--
Some token of that valley bright,
Where in my sheltered childhood glad,
The future was a dream of light.
Beside the gentle stream, where swell
Its waves beneath the lilac tree,
Ye saw the cot I love so well--
And speak ye of that home to me?

We have no fault to find with these verses in themselves--as specimens of the _manner_ of the French _chansonnier_, we have no patience with them. What we have quoted, is the second stanza of the song. Our remarks, here, with some little modification, would apply to the _Sepulchres_ of Foscolo, especially to the passage commencing

Yes--Pindemonte!
The aspiring soul is fired to lofty deeds
By great men's monuments, &c.

They would apply, also, with somewhat less force, to Lamartine's _Loss of the Anio_, in the original of which by the way, we cannot perceive the lines answering to Mrs. E's verses

All that obscures thy sovereign majesty
Degrades our glory in degrading thee.

Quevedo's Sonnet _Rome in Ruins_, we happen to have by us at this moment. The translation in this instance is faultless, and combines, happily, a close approximation to the meaning of the original, with its quaint air and pompous rhythm. The Sonnet itself is a plagiarism entire, from Girolamo Preti. The opening lines of Quevedo,

Pilgrim! in vain thou seekest in Rome for Rome!
Alas! the Queen of nations is no more!
Dust are her towers, that proudly frowned of yore,
And her stern hills themselves have built their tomb,

are little else than the

Roma in Roma non è
In se stessa cadeo morta e sepolta, &c.

of Girolamo. But this is no concern of Mrs. Ellet's.

Of the original poems, which form the greater part of the volume, we have hardly been able to form an opinion, during the cursory perusal we have given them. Some of them have merit. Some we think unworthy of the talents which their author has undoubtedly displayed. The epigram, for example, at page 102 is rather a silly joke upon a threadbare theme, and, however well it might have suited Mrs. Ellet's purpose to indite it, she should have had more discretion than to give it permanency in a collection of her poems.

Echo was once a love sick maid
They say: the tale is no deceiver.
Howe'er a woman's form might fade
Her voice would be the last to leave her!

The tragedy (Teresa Contarini) at the end of the volume, "is founded," says the authoress, "upon an incident well known in the history of Venice, which has formed the material for various works of fiction." Mrs. E. has availed herself of a drama of Nicolini's in part of the first scene of the first act, and in the commencement of the fifth act. The resemblance between the two plays is, however, very slight. In plot--in the spirit of the dialogue--and in the range of incidents they differ altogether. _Teresa Contarini_ was received with approbation at the Park Theatre in March 1835,--Miss Philips performing the heroine. We must confine ourselves to the simple remark, that the drama appears to us better suited to the closet than the stage.

In evidence that Mrs. Ellet is a poetess of no ordinary rank, we extract, from page 51 of her volume, a little poem rich in vigorous expression, and full of solemn {117} thought. Its chief merits, however, are condensation and energy.

Hark--to the midnight bell!
The solemn peal rolls on
That tells us, with an iron tongue,
Another year is gone!
Gone with its hopes, its mockeries, and its fears,
To the dim rest which wraps our former years.

Gray pilgrim to the past!
We will not bid thee stay;
For joys of youth and passion's plaint
Thou bear'st alike away.
Alike the tones of mirth, and sorrow's swell
Gather to hymn thy parting.--Fare thee well!

Fill high the cup--and drink
To Time's unwearied sweep!
He claims a parting pledge from us--
And let the draught be deep!
We may not shadow moments fleet as this,
With tales of baffled hopes, or vanished bliss.

No comrade's voice is here,
That could not tell of grief--
Fill up!--We know that friendship's hours,
Like their own joys--are brief.
Drink to their brightness while they yet may last,
And drown in song the memory of the past!

The winter's leafless bough
In sunshine yet shall bloom;
And hearts that sink in sadness now
Ere long dismiss their gloom.
Peace to the sorrowing! Let our goblets flow,
In red wine mantling, for the tears of wo!

Once more! A welcoming strain!
A solemn sound--yet sweet!
While life is ours, Time's onward steps
In gladness will we greet!
Fill high the cup! What prophet lips may tell
Where we shall bid another year farewell!

With this extract, we close our observations on the writings of Mrs. Ellet--of Miss Gould--and of Mrs. Sigourney. The time may never arrive again, when we shall be called upon, by the circumstances of publication, to speak of them in connexion with one another.

THE PARTISAN.

_The Partisan: A Tale of the Revolution. By the author of "The Yemassee," "Guy Rivers," &c. New York: Published by Harper and Brothers._

Mr. Simms has written, heretofore, "Atalantis, a Story of the Sea"--"Martin Faber, the Story of a Criminal"--"Guy Rivers, a Tale of Georgia," and "The Yemassee, a Romance of Carolina." Of these works, Martin Faber passed to a second edition--"Guy Rivers," and "The Yemassee" each to a third. With these evidences before us of our author's long acquaintance with the Muse, we must be pardoned if, in reviewing the volumes now upon our table, we make no allowances whatever on the score of a deficient _experience_. Mr. Simms either writes very well, or it is high time that he should.

"The Partisan" is _inscribed_ to Richard Yeadon, Jr. Esq. of South Carolina; and the terms in which the compliment is conveyed, while attempting to avoid Scylla, have blundered upon Charybdis. The cant of verbiage is bad enough--but the cant of laconism is equally as bad. Let us transcribe the Dedication.

TO RICHARD YEADON, JR. ESQ.
Of South Carolina.

Dear Sir,

My earliest, and, perhaps, most pleasant rambles in the fields of literature, were taken in your company--permit me to remind you of that period by inscribing the present volumes with your name.

THE AUTHOR.

_Barnwell, South Carolina_.
_July 1, 1835_.

This is, indeed, the quintessence of brevity. At all events it is meant to be something better than such things usually are. It aims at point. It affects excessive terseness, excessive appropriateness, and excessive gentility. One might almost picture to the mind's eye the exact air and attitude of the writer as he indited the whole thing. Probably he compressed his lips--possibly he ran his fingers through his hair. Now a letter, generally, we may consider as the substitute for certain oral communications which the writer of the letter would deliver in person were an opportunity afforded. Let us then imagine the author of "The Partisan" presenting a copy of that work to "Richard Yeadon, Jr. Esq. of South Carolina," and let us, from the indications afforded by the printed Dedication, endeavor to form some idea of the author's demeanor upon an occasion so highly interesting. We may suppose Mr. Yeadon, in South Carolina, at home, and in his study. By and bye with a solemn step, downcast eyes, and impressive earnestness of manner, enters the author of "The Yemassee." He advances towards Mr. Yeadon, and, without uttering a syllable, takes that gentleman affectionately, but firmly, by the hand. Mr. Y. has his suspicions, as well he may have, but says nothing. Mr. S. commences as above. "_Dear Sir_," (here follows a pause, indicated by the comma after the word "Sir"--see Dedication. Mr. Y. very much puzzled what to make of it.) Mr. S. proceeds, "_My earliest_," (pause the second, indicated by comma the second,) "_and_," (pause the third, in accordance with comma the third,) "_perhaps_," (pause the fourth, as shewn by comma the fourth. Mr. Y. exceedingly mystified,) "_most pleasant rambles in the fields of literature_," (pause fifth) "_were taken in your company_" (pause sixth, to agree with the dash after 'company.' Mr. Y.'s hair begins to stand on end, and he looks occasionally towards the door,) "_permit me to remind you of that period by inscribing the present volumes with your name_." At the conclusion of the sentence, Mr. S. with a smile and a bow of mingled benignity and grace, turns slowly from Mr. Y. and advances to a table in the centre of the room. Pens and ink are there at his service. Drawing from the pocket of his surtout a pacquet carefully done up in silver paper, he unfolds it, and produces the two volumes of "The Partisan." With ineffable ease, and with an air of exquisite _haut ton_, he proceeds to inscribe in the title pages of each tome the name of Richard Yeadon, Jr. Esq. The scene, however, is interrupted. Mr. Y. feels it his duty to kick the author of "The Yemassee" down stairs.

Now, in this, all the actual burlesque consists in {118} merely substituting things for words. There are many of our readers who will recognize in this imaginary interview between Mr. Yeadon and Mr. Simms, at least a family likeness to the written Dedication of the latter. This Dedication is, nevertheless, quite as good as one half the antique and lackadaisical courtesies with which we daily see the initial leaves of our best publications disfigured.

"The Partisan," as we are informed by Mr. Simms in his Advertisement, (Preface?) was originally contemplated as one novel of a series to be devoted to our war of Independence. "With this object," says the author, "I laid the foundation more broadly and deeply than I should have done, had I purposed merely the single work. Several of the persons employed were destined to be the property of the series--that part of it at least which belonged to the locality. Three of these works were to have been devoted to South Carolina, and to comprise three distinct periods of the war of the Revolution in that State. One, and the first of these, is the story now submitted to the reader. I know not that I shall complete, or even continue the series." Upon the whole we think that he had better not.

There is very little plot or connexion in the book before us; and Mr. Simms has evidently aimed at neither. Indeed we hardly know what to think of the work at all. Perhaps, with some hesitation, we may call it an historical novel. The narrative begins in South Carolina, during the summer of 1780, and comprises the leading events of the Revolution from the fall of Charleston, to the close of that year. We have the author's own words for it that his object has been principally to give a fair picture of the province--its condition, resources, and prospects--during the struggle between Gates and Cornwallis, and the period immediately subsequent to the close of the campaign in the defeat of the Southern defending army. Mr. S. assures us that the histories of the time have been continually before him in the prosecution of this object, and that, where written records were found wanting, their places have been supplied by local chronicles and tradition. Whether the idea ever entered the mind of Mr. Simms that his very laudable design, as here detailed, might have been better carried into effect by a work of a character _purely_ historical, we, of course, have no opportunity of deciding. To ourselves, every succeeding page of "The Partisan" rendered the supposition more plausible. The interweaving fact with fiction is at all times hazardous, and presupposes on the part of general readers that degree of intimate acquaintance with fact which should never be presupposed. In the present instance, the author has failed, so we think, in confining either his truth or his fable within its legitimate, individual domain. Nor do we at all wonder at his failure in performing what no novelist whatever has hitherto performed.

Some pains have been taken in the preface of "The Partisan," to bespeak the reader's favorable decision in regard to certain historical facts--or rather in regard to the coloring given them by Mr. Simms. We refer particularly to the conduct of General Gates in South Carolina. We would, generally, prefer reading an author's book, to reading his criticism upon it. But letting this matter pass, we do not think Mr. S. has erred in attributing gross negligence, headstrong obstinacy, and overweening self-conceit to the conqueror at Saratoga. These charges are sustained by the best authorities--by Lee, by Johnson, by Otho Williams, and by all the histories of the day. No apology is needed for stating the truth. In regard to the "propriety of insisting upon the faults and foibles of a man conspicuous in our history," Mr. Simms should give himself little uneasiness. It is precisely because the man _is_ conspicuous in our history, that we should have no hesitation in condemning his errors.

With the events which are a portion of our chronicles, the novelist has interwoven such fictitious incidents and characters as might enable him to bind up his book in two volumes duodecimo, and call it "The Partisan." The Partisan himself, and the hero of the novel, is a Major Robert Singleton. His first introduction to the reader is as follows. "It was on a pleasant afternoon in June, that a tall, well-made youth, probably twenty-four or five years of age, rode up to the door of the 'George,' (in the village of Dorchester,) and throwing his bridle to a servant, entered the hotel. His person had been observed, and his appearance duly remarked upon, by several persons already assembled in the hall which he now approached. The new comer, indeed, was not one to pass unnoticed. His person was symmetry itself, and the ease with which he managed his steed, and the"--------but we spare our readers any farther details in relation to either the tall, well-made youth, or his steed, which latter they may take for granted was quite as tall, and equally well made. We cut the passage short with the less hesitation, inasmuch as a perfect fac-simile of it may be found near the commencement of every fashionable novel since the flood. Singleton is a partisan in the service of Marion, whose disposition, habits, and character are well painted, and well preserved, throughout the Tale. A Mr. Walton is the uncle of Singleton, and has been induced, after the surrender of Charleston (spelt Charlestown) to accept of a British protection, the price of which is neutrality. This course he has been led to adopt, principally on account of his daughter Katharine, who would lose her all in the confiscation of her father's property--a confiscation to be avoided by no other means than those of the protection. Singleton's sister resides with Col. Walton's family, at "The Oaks," near Dorchester, where the British Col. Proctor is in command. At the instigation of Singleton, who has an eye to the daughter of Col. Walton, that gentleman is induced to tear up the disgraceful protection, and levy a troop, with which he finally reaches the army of Gates. Most of the book is occupied with the ambuscades, bush fighting, and swamp adventures of partisan warfare in South Carolina. These passages are all highly interesting--but as they have little connexion with one another, we must dismiss them _en masse_. The history of the march of Gates' army, his fool-hardiness, and consequent humiliating discomfiture by Cornwallis, are as well told as any details of a like nature can be told, in language exceedingly confused, ill-arranged, and ungrammatical. This defeat hastens the _dénouement_, or rather the leading incident, of the novel. Col. Walton is made prisoner, and condemned to be hung, as a rebel taken in arms. He is sent to Dorchester for the fulfilment of the sentence. Singleton, urged by his own affection, as well as by the passionate {119} exhortations of his cousin Katharine, determines upon the rescue of his uncle at all hazards. A plot is arranged for this purpose. On the morning appointed for execution, a troop of horse is concealed in some underwood near the scaffold. Bella Humphries, the daughter of an avowed tory, but a whig at heart, is stationed in the belfry of the village church, and her father himself is occupied in arranging materials for setting Dorchester on fire upon a given signal. This signal (the violent ringing of the church bell by Bella) is given at the moment when Col. Walton arrives in a cart at the foot of the gallows. Great confusion ensues among those not in the secret--a confusion heightened no little by the sudden conflagration of the village. During the hubbub the troop concealed in the thicket rush upon the British guard in attendance. The latter are beaten down, and Walton is carried off in triumph by Singleton. The hand of Miss Katharine is, as a matter of course, the reward of the Major's gallantry.

Of the numerous personages who figure in the book, some are really excellent--some horrible. The historical characters are, without exception, well drawn. The portraits of Cornwallis, Gates, and Marion, are vivid realities--those of De Kalb and the Claverhouse-like Tarleton positively unsurpassed by any similar delineations within our knowledge. The fictitious existences in "The Partisan" will not bear examination. Singleton is about as much of a non-entity as most other heroes of our acquaintance. His uncle is no better. Proctor, the British Colonel, is cut out in buckram. Sergeant Hastings, the tory, is badly drawn from a bad model. Young Humphries is a braggadocio--Lance Frampton is an idiot--and Doctor Oakenburg is an ass. Goggle is another miserable addition to the list of those anomalies so swarming in fiction, who are represented as having vicious principles, for no other reason than because they have ugly faces. Of the females we can hardly speak in a more favorable manner. Bella, the innkeeper's daughter is, we suppose, very much like an innkeeper's daughter. Mrs. Blonay, Goggle's mother, is a hag worth hanging. Emily, Singleton's sister, is not what we would wish her. Too much stress is laid upon the interesting features of the consumption which destroys her; and the whole chapter of abrupt sentimentality, in which we are introduced to her sepulchre before having notice of her death, is in the very worst style of times _un peu passés_. Katharine Walton is somewhat better than either of the ladies above mentioned. In the beginning of the book, however, we are disgusted with that excessive prudishness which will not admit of a lover's hand resting for a moment upon her own--in the conclusion, we are provoked to a smile when she throws herself into the arms of the same lover, without even waiting for his consent.

One personage, a Mr. Porgy, we have not mentioned in his proper place among the _dramatis personæ_, because we think he deserves a separate paragraph of animadversion. This man is a most insufferable bore; and had we, by accident, opened the book when about to read it for the first time, at any one of his manifold absurdities, we should most probably have thrown aside "The Partisan" in disgust. Porgy is a backwoods imitation of Sir Somebody Guloseton, the epicure, in one of the Pelham novels. He is a very silly compound of gluttony, slang, belly, and balderdash philosophy, never opening his mouth for a single minute at a time, without making us feel miserable all over. The rude and unqualified oaths with which he seasons his language deserve to be seriously reprehended. There is positively neither wit nor humor in an oath of any kind--but the oaths of this Porgy are abominable. Let us see how one or two of them will look in our columns. Page 174, vol. ii--"Then there was no tricking a fellow--persuading him to put his head into a rope without showing him first how d----d strong it was." Page 169, vol. ii--"Tom, old boy, why d----n it, that fellow's bloodied your nose." Page 167, vol. ii--"I am a pacific man, and my temper is not ungentle; but to disturb my slumbers which are so necessary to the digestive organs--stop, I say--d----n!--don't pull so!" Page 164, vol. ii--"Well, Tom, considering how d----d bad those perch were fried, I must confess I enjoyed them." Page 164, vol. ii--"Such spice is a d----d bad dish for us when lacking cayenne." Page 163, vol. ii--"Dr. Oakenburg, your d----d hatchet hip is digging into my side." Page 162, vol. ii--"The summer duck, with its glorious plumage, skims along the same muddy lake, on the edge of which the d----d bodiless crane screams and crouches." In all these handsome passages Porgy loquitur, and it will be perceived that they are all to be found within a few pages of each other--such attempts to render profanity less despicable by rendering it amusing, should be frowned down indignantly by the public. Of Porgy's philosophy we subjoin a specimen from page 89, vol. ii. "A dinner once lost is never recovered. The stomach loses a day, and regrets are not only idle to recall it, but subtract largely from the appetite the day ensuing. _Tears can only fall from a member that lacks teeth; the mouth now is never seen weeping. It is the eye only; and, as it lacks tongue, teeth, and taste alike, by Jupiter, it seems to me that tears should be its proper business._" How Mr. Simms should ever have fallen into the error of imagining such horrible nonsense as that in Italics, to be either witty or wise, is to us a mystery of mysteries. Yet Porgy is evidently a favorite with the author.