Chapter XI: Letter V: ROANOKE, June 2d, 1813 (4)

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.

DRAPER'S LECTURE.

_Introductory Lecture to a Course of Chemistry and Natural Philosophy. Delivered in Hampden Sidney College. By John W. Draper, M.D. Richmond: T. W. White._

Mr. Draper's peculiar reputation is well known—and deservedly acquired. In this Introductory Lecture he has given direct evidence of scientific attainment—of comprehensiveness of mind, and of a thorough acquaintance with the philosophy of instruction. He has inspired us, and we have no doubt that he has succeeded in inspiring all his hearers, with an earnest desire to hear what farther he shall say in the lectures which are to come. We take the liberty of copying a passage of unusual interest and beauty from the pages now before us.

Knowledge, like wealth hoarded up, has its compound interest, increasing in an almost geometrical ratio. A single discovery in one science sheds a light on all kindred knowledge, which is reflected back again. It is thus that modern discovery proceeds with such rapid steps. A first investigator, groping his way in the dark, cannot form a just idea of the nature and position of objects he may encounter, until time and circumstances make them more familiar. Change of opinion is often produced by more extensive information, and the possession of one new fact at variance with received theories, often leads to an entire reformation of scientific faith. But though our theories alter, our facts remain unchanged; and hence we ought not to be discouraged, remembering that theory is only useful so far as it enables us to collate and reason upon fact.

How many are the triumphs which the world of science can boast of, even in our recollection! How much increased is the amount of all knowledge within the present century! We have a new chemistry, a new science of light, that has almost furnished us with one sense more than nature intended we should have. Astronomy has had its Laplace. Mechanics has produced its steam boats and rail roads. Many of the most interesting geographical problems have received their solution—the Niger has been navigated—and the British standard planted on the magnetic pole. The magnet, that riddle of antiquity, has been made to tell its secret in characters of fire. Electricity has furnished its galvanic battery. Physiology has developed more of the nervous structure of man than all the dreams of metaphysicians could have painted. Geology has sprung from the dust and given us animals and plants, the earliest tenants of this earth. New planets have been found, and the periods and orbits of new comets determined. The laws of the elementary constitution of bodies have been fixed, and the relative weight of their _ultimate_ atoms assigned. Botany, mineralogy, and indeed every science, has advanced with rapid steps, and the last half century has added more to human acquirements than the preceding thousand years.

On every hand philosophy still continues to push her conquests, and discoveries crowd upon us. EHRENBERG has opened to us a new world in his use of the microscope; those little insects, thousands of which might stand on a needle's point, show to us how multiplied and how minute the mechanism of the parts of living things may be. By feeding these creatures on the purest carmine, and then bathing them in distilled water, he has seen through their transparent bodies parts which might rival for complexity the organs of the largest animals. In another branch, FARADAY has explained all the phenomena of voltaic electricity, in a series of experimental researches, unrivalled since the time when Davy demonstrated that the alkalies and earths were metallic oxides. In France, DUTROCHET has built up the doctrine of Endosmose and capillary attraction, which has been extended in this country, and furnished some remarkable results. The newly detected facts of esormorphism and plescomorphism, are shaking chemistry and mineralogy to their very foundation. The discovery of the mode of polarising light—a subject upon which I propose to dwell at some length, if time permits—has given us, to use the words of an eloquent writer, new and infinitely refined perceptions of touch. We are enabled, with mathematical precision, and demonstrative certainty, to assign the exact form of atoms, millions of times beyond microscopic power. We tremble upon the brink of discovering the elementary constitution of the material world. We can feel as it were the molecules of light itself, that most subtle of all fluids. We can almost perceive their sides and their ends, and can actually control, regulate and arrange the constituent parts of a _sunbeam_!

LIEBER'S MEMORIAL.

_Memorial of Francis Lieber, Professor of History and Political Economy in the South Carolina College, relative to Proposals for a Work on the Statistics of the United States._

This is a Congressional Document of about seventeen pages, and should be read by all who feel an interest in the welfare of America. Professor Lieber has herein laid before the Federal Legislature, with remarkable clearness of thought, and force of lucid arrangement, the plan of a proposed work on the Statistics of the Union—the word Statistics to be understood in its truest and most expanded acceptation, as a view of the _actual state_ of the country. In the pages before us, a most comprehensive exhibition is afforded of all the _points of interest_ to the student of political philosophy. Should Congress do nothing in the matter, the author of the Memorial (of which twice the usual number of copies have been printed,) will still have rendered his adopted country a service of no common value, in diffusing among our citizens, by means of the document itself, a vast amount of needful and accurate knowledge on a subject of pre-eminent interest. Should, however, the proposals so ably presented for consideration, be finally adopted, a consummation to be expected as well as desired, America will have the honor of taking the most important step ever yet taken in aid of the most important of sciences. There can be no doubt of this, we think, in the mind of any person at all conversant with the subject, who will examine the well-arranged and extensive plan of the work in contemplation.

Professor Lieber is well known as a writer of untiring industry, great mental activity, and extensive attainments. His first work, we believe, was entitled “_Journal of my Residence in Greece_,” written at the instigation of the historian Niebuhr, and issued at Leipzig in 1823. Since then he has published “_The Stranger in America_,” a piquantly written work, abounding in various information relative to the States—and a volume on the subject of _Education_, which was submitted to the Trustees of the College of Girard, and which evinces a well-grounded and philosophical knowledge of the {597} science of instruction. We had nearly forgotten the interesting “_Reminiscences of Niebuhr_,” lately published. Dr. Lieber, however, is still more widely and more favorably known as Editor of the Encyclopædia Americana, a monument, which will not readily decay, of great enterprize, industry, and erudition.

HISTORY OF TEXAS.

_The History of Texas: or the Emigrant's, Farmer's, and Politician's Guide to the Character, Climate, Soil, and Productions of that Country; Geographically Arranged from Personal Observation and Experience. By David B. Edward, formerly Principal of the Academy, Alexandria, Louisiana; Late Preceptor of Gonzales Seminary, Texas. Cincinnati: J. A. James & Co._

This should be classed among useful oddities. Its style is somewhat _over-abundant_—but we believe the book a valuable addition to our very small amount of accurate knowledge in regard to Texas. The author, who is one of the Society of Friends, assures us that he has no lands in Texas to sell, although he has lived three years in the country, and that, too, on the frontiers—that he made one of a party of four who explored the province in 1830, from side to side, and from settlement to settlement, during the space of six months,—and that, in 1835, he had the curiosity to spend six months more in examining the improvements made throughout every locality, “in order that none should be able to detect a falsehood, or prove a material error which could either mislead, or seriously injure those who may put confidence in this work.” For ourselves we are inclined to place great faith in the statements of Mr. Edward, and regard his book with a most favorable eye. It is an octavo of 336 pages, embracing, in detail, highly interesting accounts of the People, the Geographical Features, the Climate, the Savages, the Timber, the Water, &c. of Texas. Much information in regard to Mexico, is included in the body of the work, and, in an Appendix, we have a copy of the Mexican Constitution. We give, by way of extract, a flattering little picture of Texian comfort and abundance.

The people _en masse_ can have a living, and that plentifully too, of animal food, both of beef and pork, of venison and bear meat, besides a variety of fish and fowl, upon easier terms at present, especially the wild game, than any other people, in any other district of North America; which must continue to be the case, for one of the best reasons in the world—at least in Texas: as the wild animals decrease, the domesticated ones will increase!

And, as they have not commenced, except in a few cases (comparatively speaking) upon the border lands of the Gulf, to export corn, they have by just dropping the seed and afterwards stowing away the increase, more bread stuff than they well know sometimes what to do with, it being out of the question to feed their hogs on it, except they were to raise them on such food altogether, which would be a pity, while they have so much mast in the woods, and so many roots in the prairies.

And, as their milch cattle increase in numbers, and that very frequently too faster than they can attend to their milking, they have more, as to family use, much more milk, than they know how to dispose of, except they are well stocked with farrow sows, or have around them pet mustang colts.

With these three main stays of a farmer's life, come, by very little more exertion than just the picking and gathering in, those condiments and relishes, which not only garnish the table, but replenish the appetite, from a source of such plentiful variegation, as the gardens and the fields, the woods and the waters, of a Texas country!

INKLINGS OF ADVENTURE.

_Inklings of Adventure. By the Author of Pencillings by the Way. New York: Saunders and Otley._

These volumes are inscribed “to the distinguished American orator and statesman, Edward Everett,” and are introduced by a Preface over the signature of N. P. Willis, in which “the papers which are to follow,” are said to record some passages in the life of a certain Philip Slingsby. Mr. W. assures us that although his name stands in the title-page of the book as its author, (which, upon reference, we find not to be the case) he can only take to himself that share of the praise or blame which may attach [be attached] to it as a literary composition. Most assuredly (setting all this _badinage_ aside, which may possibly have a fuller meaning than lies upon its surface) we can see no reason for praising or blaming Mr. Willis _except_ in his character of literateur, for any thing to be found in the volumes before us. We cannot sufficiently express our disgust at that unscrupulous indelicacy which is in the habit of deciding upon the literary merits of this gentleman by a reference to his private character and manners, and feel, indeed, a species of indignation in the thought, that when we propose to say a few words, without any such reference, about the present “_Inklings of Adventure_,” we are proposing a course of indisputable originality.

Subjoined is the Table of Contents. Pedlar Karl—Niagara; Lake Ontario; The St. Lawrence—The Cherokee's Threat—F. Smith—Edith Linsey (including Frost and Flirtation; Love and Speculation; A Digression; and Scenery and a Scene)—Scenes of Fear (containing the Disturbed Vigil; the Mad Senior; and the Lunatic's Skate)—Incidents on the Hudson—The Gipsey of Sardis—Tom Fane and I—Larks in Vacation (embracing Driving Stanhope _pro. tem._; Saratoga Springs; and Mrs. Captain Thompson)—A Log in the Archipelago—and Miscellaneous Papers (being the Revenge of the Signor Basil; Love and Diplomacy; Minute Philosophies; and the Mad-house of Palermo.)

It will be seen that a great many of these papers (we believe all of them) have been published before. It is not our design, therefore, to speak of them in detail. Perhaps an outline of some individual sketch, with an occasional reference to others, will be found to impart a sufficient idea of the general character of the whole. We open the book at random, and here are six or seven pages with the running title of _Niagara_. It will be a matter of some interest to see how a poet (one whom we _know_ to be such) will think it proper to handle a subject so momentous.

Mr. Willis—Mr. Slingsby we mean—commences by _dating_ his visit to the Falls, with reference not to any positive or acknowledged æra, but, relatively, to an æra in his personal experience. He does not say I went in 1810—or in 1820. “It was in my senior vacation,” says he, “and I was bound to Niagara for the first time.” We are thus slyly made acquainted with a trio of items, which, when duly considered, are to give weight and character to the subsequent details. We are informed, firstly—that Mr. Slingsby has been to college—secondly, and presumptively, that he {598} graduated, (it is his senior vacation) and thirdly, that he has since paid other visits to Niagara, (he is on his way thither for the _first_ time.) But in the narration of a trip to the great waterfall, some wit, some repartee, has been thought indispensable, and wit cannot so effectively be displayed, as by means of a foil. Our author, therefore, has a companion, and describes him. He is an ugly fellow, of course—seven feet high, ill-dressed, solemn, and sensible. We now see the advantage of all this—and are prepared for the Rembrandtities of contrast. To enjoy them in perfection we must imagine Mr. Slingsby (whom we never saw) as a delicate little gentleman, with a pretty face and figure—fair, funny, fanciful, fashionable, and frisky.

The friends leaving Buffalo cross the outlet of Lake Erie at the ferry, and take horses on the northern bank of the Niagara for the Falls. Mr. Slingsby during the ride, is now lost in admiration of the “noble stream hurrying on headlong to its fearful leap, as broad as the Hellespont, and as blue as the sky,” and now excessively merry at the expense of his ally and foil, “who rides along,” we are told, “like the man of rags you see paraded on an ass in the carnival.” Thus the narrative proceeds in a vein of mingled sentiment and _very-good-joke_. Let us give another example of this. “The river,” says Mr. Slingsby, “now broke into rapids foaming furiously, and the subterranean thunder increased like a succession of earthquakes, each louder than the last. [A bull.] I had never heard a sound so broad and universal. It was impossible not to suspend the breath, and feel absorbed, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, in the great phenomenon with which the earth seemed trembling to its centre. A tall misty cloud, changing its shape continually, as it felt the shocks of the air, rose up before us, and with our eyes fixed upon it, and our horses at a hard gallop, we found ourselves unexpectedly in front of a large white——hotel!”

Having eaten dinner at the large white hotel, Job Smith, the foil, is made to utter some of his solemn drolleries, forcing Mr. Slingsby [oh the quiz!] to leave the table and walk with a smile towards the window. A belle, Miss ——, is thus discovered, and introduced. Of her, “every soul of the fifteen millions of inhabitants between us and the Gulf of Mexico have heard.” She is, moreover, “one of those miracles of nature that occur, perhaps, once in the rise and fall of an empire.” Besides all this, she is “kind, playful, unaffected, and radiantly, gloriously beautiful.” Mr. Slingsby, therefore, adopts her as foil No. 2, for a species of sentimental gallantry—Job Smith being only foil No. 1, for light wit. It must now be seen at a glance that our author can hardly fail to make a decided hit of his visit to Niagara.

Having made an appointment with Miss —— to accompany her in the morning behind the sheet of the Fall, Mr. Slingsby goes to bed. Getting up at daybreak, however, he determines upon paying a solitary visit to the cataract. But Job (that droll fellow!) has anticipated him in this manœuvre, and “the angular outline of his tall gaunt figure, stretching up from Table Rock in strong relief against the white body of the spray,” is the first object that meets Mr. Slingby's eye as he descends. We have now his first impressions of Niagara. These are, in general terms, awe, and intense admiration, mingled with a little disappointment. We cut short the impressions (herein following the author's example) for the sake of some witticisms at the expense of Mr. Smith. It may be best to copy a page or two with a view of showing the pervading air with which the narrative is conducted.

“A _nice_ fall, as an Englishman would say, my dear Job.”

“Awful!”

Halleck the American poet (a better one never “strung pearls”) has written some admirable verses on Niagara, describing its effect on the different individuals of a mixed party, among whom was a tailor. The sea of incident that has broken over me in years of travel, has washed out of my memory all but the two lines descriptive of its impression upon Snip:

“The tailor made one single note—
Gods! what a place to sponge a coat!”

“Shall we go to breakfast, Job?”

“How slowly and solemnly they drop into the abysm!”

It was not an original remark of Mr. Smith's. Nothing is so surprising to the observer as the extraordinary deliberateness with which the waters of Niagara take their tremendous plunge. All hurry and foam and fret, till they reach the smooth limit of the curve,—and then the laws of gravitation seem suspended, and, like Cæsar, they pause and determine, since it is inevitable, to take the death leap with becoming dignity.

“Shall we go to breakfast, Job?” I was obliged to raise my voice to be heard, to a pitch rather exhausting for a empty stomach.

His eyes remained fixed upon the shifting rainbows bending and vanishing in the spray. There was no moving him, and I gave in for another five minutes.

“Do you think it probable, Job, that the waters of Niagara strike on the axis of the world?”

No answer.

“Job!”

“What?”

“Do you think his Majesty's half of the cataract is finer than ours?”

“Much.”

“For _water_, merely, perhaps. But look at the delicious verdure on the American shore, the glorious trees, the massed foliage, the luxuriant growth even to the very rim of the ravine! By Jove! it seems to me things grow better in a republic. Did you ever see a more barren and scraggy shore than the one you stand upon?”

“How exquisitely” said Job, soliloquizing “that small green island divides the fall! What a rock it must be founded on, not to have been washed away in the ages that these waters have split against it!”

“I'll lay you a bet it is washed away before the year two thousand—payable in any currency with which we may then be conversant.”

“Don't trifle!”

“With time or geology do you mean? Is'nt it perfectly clear, from the looks of that ravine, that Niagara has _backed up_ all the way from Lake Ontario? These rocks are not adamant, and the very precipice you stand on has cracked, and looks ready for the plunge. It must gradually wear back to Lake Erie, and then there will be a sweep I should like to live long enough to see. The instantaneous junction of two seas, with a difference of two hundred feet in their levels will be a spectacle—eh, Job?”

“Tremendous!”

“Do you intend to wait and see it, or will you come to breakfast?”

He was immovable. I left him on the rock, went up to the hotel and ordered mutton-chops and coffee, and when they were on the table, gave two of the waiters a dollar each to bring him up _nolens-volens_. He arrived in a great rage, but with a good appetite, and we finished our breakfast just in time to meet Miss ——, as she stepped like Aurora from her chamber.

{599} The adventure beneath the sheet is now detailed. The party descend to the bottom of the precipice at the side of the Fall—equip themselves in dresses of coarse linen—and proceed. The guide going first, takes the right hand of Miss ——, Mr. Slingsby is honored with the left, and Job brings up the rear. The usual difficulties of wind and water are encountered and surmounted, and the chamber behind the sheet finally attained in safety. The same medley of tone, however, still prevails. For example—“Whatever sister of Arethusa inhabits there,” says Mr. Slingsby, “we could but congratulate her on the beauty of her abode. A lofty and well lighted hall, shaped like a long pavilion, extended as far as we could see through the spray, and with the two objections, that you could not have heard a pistol at your ear for the noise, and that the floor was somewhat precipitous, one could scarce imagine a more agreeable retreat for a gentleman who was disgusted with the world, and subject to dryness of the skin. In one respect it resembled the enchanted dwelling of the Witch of Atlas, where Shelley tells us,

Th' invisible rain did ever sing
A silver music on the mossy lawn.

It is lucky for Witches and Naiads that they are not subject to rheumatism.”

It will not be difficult to foretell, from the general air of the narration (as observed up to this date) in what manner Mr. Slingsby will think it incumbent upon him to wind it up. He will give it a melo-dramatic finale? Most assuredly. The lady is adventurous, and has walked over a narrow ledge, which has broken with her weight. The guide seizes Mr. Slingsby by the shoulder. He turns—and “what is his horror” at beholding Miss —— standing far in behind the sheet, upon the last visible point of rock, with the water pouring over her in torrents, and a “gulf of foam” between the lady and the gentleman, which the gentleman “can in no way understand how she has passed over.” This gulf is six feet across, and, of course, says Mr. Slingsby, “it was impossible to jump it.” [We have jumped one and twenty feet six inches ourselves, but then we are no Mr. Slingsby, and never could make a joke about Niagara.] That gentleman does not jump, but he does something nevertheless. He “fixes his eyes upon the lovely form standing like a spirit in the misty shroud of the spray,” and endeavors “to sustain her upon her dangerous foot-hold—_by the intensity of his gaze_.” He may possibly, however, with this end in view, have made use of an eye-glass.

There being nothing better to be done, the guide having absconded, and the lady being upon the eve of destruction, our friend Job, and his legs, are brought into requisition. He stands upon one edge of “the foaming gulf,” and stretches himself across to the other. Miss —— is so kind as to make use of him as a bridge. The guide returns with a rope, pulls up the bridge by means of a running-noose around one of its legs—and the “Visit to _Niagara_” terminates with an Io Pean in honor of the “foaming gulf,” the “supernatural strength” of Mr. Smith, and the “intensity of the gaze” of the devoted Mr. Slingsby.

The paper of which we have just given an outline will afford a very fair conception of the usual merits and demerits of the sketches of Mr. Willis. Here are many comparatively long passages of a force, or delicacy, or beauty—shall we say unsurpassed by any similar passages in any writer of English? We shall not say too much if we do. The bantering humor interspersed is of the best order. Who can read the endeavor (quoted above) of Mr. Slingsby to get Mr. Smith to his breakfast, without feeling at once impressed with a keen sense of the mingled wit, broad drollery, dramatic effect, and gentlemanly _insouciance_ of the whole affair? The final question of Mr. S. (after amusing his friend with the idea of a junction, some hundred years hence, between Ontario and Erie)—“Do you intend to wait and see it, or will you come to breakfast?”—is inimitably brought about—very quiet, and very quizzical. The catastrophe of the two waiters, and the arrival in a great rage, but with a good appetite, of Mr. Smith, is a palpable hit not to be attained, and not to be appreciated by the rabble. Of force, we have abundant specimens in such sentences, as “Job flounced up, like a snake touched with a torpedo, and sprang to the window”—“I can imagine the surprise of the gentle element, after sleeping away a se'nnight of moonlight in the peaceful bosom of Lake Erie, at finding itself of a sudden in such a coil”—or “As far down towards Lake Ontario as the eye can reach, the immense volumes of water rise like huge monsters to the light, boiling and flashing out in rings of foam, with an appearance of vexation and rage that I have seen in no other cataract of the world.” The little sentence, “Whatever sister of Arethusa inhabits there, we could but congratulate her upon the beauty of her abode,” is, among many other similar things, sufficient evidence of a rare delicacy of expression—and we feel at once that writer to be a poet—an Idealist—who tells us “that Miss —— in her uncouth habiliments, looked like a fairy in disguise,” and that the sheet of Niagara is “what a child might imagine the arch of the sky to be where it bends over the edge of the horizon.”

The minor defects are few. Among these few it is sufficient to specify a too frequent allusion to the “axis of the world,” and the absurdities, gravely narrated, which go to make up the catastrophe of the sketch, in the rescue of the young lady. Upon the whole, we may speak of the mere wording as in every respect worthy of a man of taste and a scholar. With the exception of “_soubriquet_,” written for _sobriquet_, (a very common error) it would be difficult to find any verbal fault, in the present instance, to which a critic would be pardoned for alluding.

But the whole narrative is disfigured, and indeed utterly ruined, by the grievous sin of affectation. It is this sin, and not, we are convinced, any imbecility in the conceptions of Mr. Willis, (with our readers' leave we will drop Mr. Slingsby) which has beguiled him into the egregious folly of writing a long article, in a jocular manner, about the cataract of Niagara. He may say, a pleasant sketch is intended, no more—and that the intention is fulfilled. But the utter want of keeping, consequent upon handling such subject in such manner, is sufficient to convince us at a glance, that his intention, even such as it is, is _not_, in any due degree, fulfilled. The question is not whether the thing pleases, (one who writes as well as Mr. Willis will please _in spite_ of a thousand faults,) but whether, if otherwise handled, it might not have pleased the more. While laughing at the mystification of our friend Job, we are in no proper {600} frame of mind for the grandeur of the fall—and while absorbed in the majesty of the monarch of cataracts, we are aware of an oppressive revulsion of feeling if disturbed for the absurd fripperies and frivolities, or the still more absurd melo-dramatic adventures, of the fop and the woman of fashion. This matter is too obvious for denial. A writer, then, who, in despite of common sense, shall be continually endeavoring to reconcile these obstinate oils and waters of the soul, will be continually laboring at a disadvantage—and this latter point, neglected by gentlemen who should know better, is a point to which the most dunder-headed artizan would not forget to give a proper attention in the making of a pair of breeches, or the building of a pig-stye. If all ethics be not at fault, those mental impressions, however vivid, will be necessarily evanescent, which are deficient in unity. In a word, it may safely be asserted, that a writer neglectful of the _totality of effect_, will fall short of his end, if that end be a remembrance in the “language of his land.” Compositions grossly failing in this essential, have been habitually discharged from the memory of man. And in this essential Mr. Willis invariably fails—we should rather say, this essential Mr. Willis invariably disregards. He seems especially to have fallen into that heresy (now common in literary, although deduced from mere fashionable life) which would brand as a species of Rosa-Matilda-ism any sustained and unmingled severity of sentiment. Never, surely, in whatever light we regard it, was a heresy more untenable. When applied to the brief essay, or short tale, it is ridiculous—and Mr. Willis should remember that he is an essayist, or nothing.

In the particular here pointed out, we have accused our author of affectation. It is a sin of which the public _loudly_ accuse him, and in general terms. When we say the accusation is just, we wish to be understood as speaking positively. In a relative view, the case is different. Mr. Willis is not a jot more entitled to be called “affected,” than nine-tenths of the gentlemen who are in the habit of so calling him—than nine-tenths of the most popular writers in our land. But his affectation, differing from the tone of their own, is in some measure more readily perceptible. It is, however, a positive folly, no doubt, which induces so clever a writer so frequently to disclaim all knowledge of geography and “figures”—to speak bad French in preference to good English—to talk about Niagara being “as _fine a thing_ as I have seen in my travels,” and about having “pic-nic'd from the Simplegades westward”—to think “gave upon the bay” a forcible phrase, merely because it is a Gallicism—to begin a quotation with “Saith well an American poet,” &c. &c.—to delight in such inversions as “She looked loveliest when driving, did Blanche Carroll”—to inform us that “he never looks back in composition,” and to make use of such pretty little expressions on his title-pages as _Pencillings by the Way_, and _Inklings of Adventure_.

_Niagara_ is by no means the best of the sketches before us—it may, very possibly, be the worst. None of them are entitled to the merit of _plot_. And indeed it appears an idiosyncrasy in Mr. Willis that he has little feeling for _incident_. In an exceedingly delicate vein of sentiment he is peculiarly at home. _Edith Linsey_ is thus, we think, the happiest effort of his pen. Here is indeed some very beautiful writing. The imitation of Elia is not only an exquisite imitation, but evinces a close affinity of intellect between the imitator and the imitated. We are quite sure no man in America can, more fully than Mr. Willis, enter into the soul of Charles Lamb. In a graceful _badinage_ our author pre-eminently excels. To originality he has little claim—his _manner_—the touchstone of the essayist—is not peculiarly his own. His scholarship is sufficient and available—his command of language very great. In a vigorous figurative expression—a quality seldom allowed him—he has indeed few equals. As this point is disputed, we will adduce from the volumes before us one or two instances, more to show what we mean by vigor of expression, than to prove our position by a number of quotations.

“You ask, in England, who has the privilege of this water?—or you say of an oak, that it stood in such a man's time; but with us water is an element unclaimed and unrented, _and a tree dabbles in the clouds as they go over, and is like a great idiot, without soul or responsibility._”

“As you walk in the long porticoes of the hotel, the dark forest mounts up before you like a leafy wall, and the clouds seem just to clear the pine-tops, _and the eagles sail across from horizon to horizon, without lifting their wings as if you saw them from the bottom of a well_.”

“As far down towards Lake Ontario as the eye can reach, the immense volumes of water _rise like huge monsters to the light, boiling and flashing out in rings of foam, with an appearance of vexation and rage_ that I have seen in no other cataract of the world.”

“He who has soiled his bright honor with the tools of ambition—he who has leant his soul upon the charity of a sect in religion—he who has loved, hoped, and trusted in the greater arena of life and manhood—must look back on days like these, _as the broken-winged eagle to the sky—as the Indian's subdued horse to the prairie_.”

“_The chain of the Green Mountains, after a gallop of some hundred miles from Canada to Connecticut, suddenly pulls up on the shore of Long Island Sound, and stands rearing with a bristling mane of pine trees, three hundred feet in air, as if checked in mid career by the sea._”

“Next to their own loves ladies like nothing on earth like mending or marring the loves of others; and while the violets and already-drooping wild flowers were coquettishly chosen or rejected by those slender fingers, _the sun might have swung back to the east like a pendulum_, and those seven and twenty Misses would have watched their lovely school-fellow the same.”

An autumn forest—“_It is as if a myriad of rainbows were laced through the tree-tops—as if the sunsets of a summer—gold, purple and crimson—had been fused in the alembic of the west, and poured back in a new deluge of light and color over the wilderness._”

“_The gold of the sunset had glided up the dark pine-tops, and disappeared, like a ring taken slowly from an Ethiop's finger._”

“Just above, there is a sudden turn in the glen, which sends the water like a catapult against the opposite angle of the rock, and, in the action of years, it has worn out a cavern of unknown depth, into which _the whole mass of the river plunges with the abandonment of a flying fiend into hell, and, re-appearing like the angel that has pursued him, glides swiftly, but with divine serenity, on his way._”

We believe that the high powers of Mr. Willis are properly estimated by the judicious among his countrymen. His foibles, his faults, and his deficiencies—let us not forget to say, his merits—are quite as well known to himself as to us. His intellect, if not of the loftiest order, very closely approaches it—and he has stepped upon the threshhold of nearly every species of literary excellence.

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AUTOGRAPHY[1]

[Footnote 1: See Messenger for February last.]

Our friend, Joseph A. B. C. D. &c. Miller, has called upon us again, in a great passion. He says we quizzed him in our last article—which we deny positively. He maintains, moreover, that the greater part of our observations on mental qualities, as deduced from the character of a MS., are not to be sustained. The man is in error. However, to gratify him, we have suffered him, in the present instance, to play the critic himself. He has brought us another batch of autographs, and will let us have them upon no other terms. To say the truth, we are rather glad of his proposal than otherwise. We shall look over his shoulder, however, occasionally. Here follow the letters.