Chapter II: Part 2

‘Poor, poor Isabel!’ was all he could articulate. ‘She suspects nothing, poor thing—and it will break her heart. Death,’ cried he, starting up, ‘I fear it not. I have lived to die when my time comes. But she—she who loves me—whose life is wrapped up in mine—how can she’—and sinking down, he wept longer than before.

I ventured to lay my hand on his shoulder. He rose calm, awfully calm.

Grasping my hand, ‘my friend,’ said he—‘you must help me in this. You must stand by, and see me fall, if fall I must; and then—bear the news to—to—’ his sobbing choak’d his utterance.

I asked him if there were no means of avoiding it.

‘None—none in the world.’ He said this in a tone, which forbade argument: and I said no more.

I draw a veil over the remainder of that evening.

Before the sun, he met me at the bottom of the hill in front of his dwelling, with his pistols in his hand. He requested me to load them. I did so, and without a muscle’s shaking; for from my childhood, I had been incapable of every kind of fear; nevertheless, I thought of the form which might be stiff before evening—of eyes that might be glazed—and of the fond heart which I knew _would_ be broken.

He told me he had left his wife sleeping: and as he hung over her, and kissed those lips, the music of which he might hear no longer, she breathed his name in her slumbers. ‘That—that parting’—and he grasped my hand, with an energy sufficient to crush it—‘that parting,’ said he, ‘has killed me. I cannot feel worse. No! not if I felt my adversary’s bullet in my heart, could I feel worse. And she—O! who will take care of her? who will dry her tears? who bind up that heart, which will certainly break with mine?’

He gave way but a moment to feelings of this nature; for, commending her to me in case of his death, he walked forward to the place agreed on, with the most perfect calmness. All the difference to be observed in him was, perchance, a degree of paleness; nothing else betrayed the fact, that he was walking to his grave.

The place selected for the rencontre, was a wild and beaten spot on the river-shore, where the rocks, rising abruptly to the altitude of some hundred feet, swept round like a horse shoe in two projections, and then thrust themselves into the stream, leaving a hollow curve of smooth wet sand within them, of about three rods in length. The beach was white as snow, the blue waters of the Mississippi went by with a low groaning sound, the hoarse screaming of the flamingo swept out from the rocks overhead, and the sun was just blazing out from the lazy mists of the morning, as the party entered.

I shall never forget how the combatants looked, at that moment. Glenning was calm, stern, and sorrowful—Ralle looked like a devil. He scowled horridly, as he marked the tall, handsome figure of his adversary; and seemed joyed that he had it in his power, to spoil such a fine piece of God’s workmanship.

I approached Glenning, and asked his wishes.

‘_I am ready_’—were his words.

The pistols were placed in their hands. They fired—my friend into the air—Ralle with a steady aim; yet his ball whistled harmlessly by, and lodged in the opposite rocks.

‘What’s to be done?’ said Ralle’s second.

‘If Mr. Glenning will acknowledge himself a coward,’ said Ralle in a low, taunting tone, ‘and ask my forgiveness, he may go about his business.’

‘Never, wretch!—reload the pistols.’

The pistols were again placed in their hands, and they fired; as before, Glenning into the air—Ralle’s ball passing harmlessly by.

The man again interfered.

Ralle made the same remark.

‘Silence!’ thundered Glenning, ‘thou bloody villain, nor dare insult the ears of manhood, by your damning proposition. I should prove myself a liar did I do it; you, you gave the offence, and ’tis from you should come the acknowledgment. But this is wasting time. That I am no coward, sir, I have fully shown by twice withstanding your fire. Now ’tis my turn—give us the pistols. Wretch,’—cried he, looking on Ralle with eyes flashing intolerably bright, and voice so hoarse that it could scarcely be heard—‘wretch! you have lived too long. I would not stain my hands, but I shall bless the world, by ridding it of you. Look your last on the sun—for, by the Eternal God! you certainly die.’

The pistols were handed them—the word given; this time, my friend aimed and fired. Ralle staggered back, and fell upon his knees; yet, he soon recovered himself, and rising to his feet, he certainly presented the most horrible countenance I ever saw. The ball had struck him on the jaw near the ear, and crushed it to atoms; and the blood spirted over him from head to foot. He uttered one dreadful shriek of agony; then—before I could interfere, rushed up, presented his pistol at the breast of Glenning, and shot him through the heart.

Such a dastard act!—But let me close the scene. I have dwelt on it too long. We carried my friend to his dwelling—we tore open his garments—there was the ragged wound in his breast, and his heart’s blood gushing through it.

* * * * *

Poor, poor Isabel! she sleeps beneath the flowers she so much resembled—her name is left in our hearts.

PEN AND INK.

I do not know, I do not know, but yet I cannot think,
That earth has pleasures sweeter than are found with pen and ink,
This whiling off an idle hour with torturing into rhyme,
The pretty thoughts, and pretty words, that do so softly chime.

I know it must be sad for such, as cannot make the verse
Dash gaily off, and gallop on, delightfully and terse,
But when the thought is beautiful, and language ain’t amiss,
O! tell me what on earth can bring a joy so pure as this.

They sadly err and slander too, this lovely world of ours,
Who say we gather thorns enough but never gather flowers,—
Why, look abroad on field and sky, there is a welcome there,
And who amid such happiness can weep or think of care?

The natural world is full of forms of beauty and delight,
The forest leaves are beautiful, there’s beauty in the light;
And all that meets us makes us feel that grieving is unkind,
And says be happy in this world, and fling your cares behind.

The mental world is beautiful, and deck’d in beauty rare,
Whate’er we see, whate’er we dream, we find it imaged there,—
A halo circles all that is, the sprightly and the tame,
‘And gives to airy nothings too a dwelling and a name.’

And beauty, such as only breathes upon a seraph’s lyre,
Is in this world, and comes to us, and gives us souls of fire;
We love, and we forget the ills that to the earth belong,
And Life becomes one holy dream of rapture and of song.

And he who scribbles verses knows (and no one knows but him)
That this is but a picture here—a picture dull and dim,—
Of that delight which thrills the heart of him, who can ‘in time,’
Arrest the thought, and give it word, and twist it into rhyme.

And when I sigh and weep—which things will happen, now and then—
And I have nought to do but stop, and then begin again;
Why then I hie me to my desk, and sit me down and think,
And few companions pleasure me, as these—my pen and ink.

CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MAN.[3]
No. II.

Reader! if thou art one from whose mind all that is native in modesty or sentiment, has not been supplanted by that refined impudence so much in vogue—that fashionable insensibility, that

——“mortal coldness of the soul like death itself,”

I demand your sympathy with the thoughts, the emotions, the sorrows of a Sensitive Man. My earliest recollections are connected with acute suffering from an extreme modesty and diffidence, which ever has been, and ever will be, the bane of my spirits. A page from my life will reveal its nature. Those who have cast an eye over a previous article with the above title, will have learnt something of the bigotry and vulgarity of Droneville. It was blessed, however, with one family, of a higher and nobler order than the barbarians around them—beings, who, having walked forth into the world, had lost that narrowness of intellect, which distinguished the Dronevillites from the rest of mankind. The E—— family were the aristocracy of Droneville. C—— E—— was the companion of my earliest pleasures—the sharer of my earliest affections. We were inseparable friends—we walked together—we played together, and breast to breast severely drubbed the insolent urchin who dared assail our mutual honor.

Hope E——! What a scourge wert thou to every bashful youngster! There was a laughing deviltry in thy eye, which threw mine into a sudden gaze upon vacuity, or inspired an irresistible desire to examine my feet—while a deepening flush of the cheeks proclaimed the intensity of my curiosity! Never were there eyes more keen in detecting the occasional spots which diversify the face of boyhood—in discovering whose hands water would not sully—whose locks the fingers of the friseur might improve. Her laugh was the terror of every bashful youth—it was the signal of his discomfiture—it rang in his ears when alone—it haunted his fancy—it mingled with his dreams. Hope E——, thou torment of my early years! No artifice could hide from thy searching gaze any blemish of person or dress, which my pride or modesty was desirous of concealing. If my face was soiled—if there was a puncture in the elbow of my coat, thy laugh would first announce it. Any unfortunate rent in my nether integuments, was sure of detection, although every possible means was used to conceal it, and that laugh—that wild, gleeful laugh, would summon the eager gaze of all to thine embarrassed victim! My highest audacity could never encounter her eyes; they alone were enough to drive mad a modest youth. And yet I could not avoid them, for in spite of myself, mine were constantly straying in that direction, drawn thitherward by an impulse beyond the control of my will—the nature of which my philosophy has never yet unravelled. Believe me, that in all my visits to her brother, I avoided her with a dexterity, worthy the skill of the most finished adept in the fashionable art of “cutting acquaintance.” But it was vain to struggle against destiny. Poor C——! my bosom’s earliest friend—his mother’s hope—died—suddenly died in the first bloom of youth! How thrilled my young heart, as I knelt by his bedside, and caught from his dying lips a whispered farewell! He died—but, can death destroy a mother’s love? To me was transferred a portion of that deep, gushing affection, which had been thus suddenly driven back upon its source. A week elapsed—and I was summoned to an interview with Mrs. E——. What an invitation for a bashful youth! My heart forboded approaching calamity—it blenched like a wounded man—it already felt the glance of Hope—it trembled at the anticipation of her laugh. But there could be no demur—there was no escape—I _must_ go. View me there, “creeping like snail unwillingly,” over the small grass plot which separated our dwellings—kicking every stone and mushroom upon my path—“screwing up” my courage to an effort the most desperate, it had ever yet been called upon to sustain. I finally succeeded—gained the door—hesitated—my resolution failed—it rallied, and I entered the parlor with all the grace of attitude and mien, which may be observed in a detected sheep-stealer. Hope and her mother were there. I had scarcely made this observation, when I was enfolded in an embrace, nerved by all the fearful energies of a mother’s love! In a paroxysm of mingled grief and affection, she covered my face with the kisses and tears of an overflowing heart. But forget not me. What a predicament! Reader, art thou a bashful man? I ask your sympathy, I claim your advice. What would _you_ have done? What could _I_ do, but stand, perspiring with the intensity of my embarrassment—desperately clenching, with both hands, my hat—bracing my nerves to endurance—my eyes downcast with shame—my face burning with blushes—modesty personified! When this first outbreaking of maternal love had subsided, I stood in trembling expectation of its renewal. I durst not look up, for the eyes of Hope, swimming with suppressed mirth, at my ludicrous appearance, tortured even my fancy. A long struggle gave me the requisite courage to cast, from the corner of my eye, a timid glance towards her. I ventured to hope that the worst was over. Alas! how delusive! woes come not single. My eye no sooner met hers, than she—moved by sympathy, or one of the thousand impulses of passion or caprice which govern the actions of the fair, or something else, (I am no philosopher,)—rushed towards me, threw her arms convulsively around my neck, and with kisses and tears did admirable honor to the maternal example! Could a bashful youth endure this—be clasped in the arms of her he feared, yet loved—could he experience this, and survive the shock? I rushed in agony from the room, nor slackened my career, until I had buried my head in the recesses of my own solitary chamber.

Poor Hope! poor Hope! she died within a year.

“O! sic semper! sic semper vidi, amatas _spes_ abire.”

* * * * *

Years have rolled away, and the marks of manhood now darken his cheek, which once kindled under the glance of Hope E——. But the lapse of time has not—can not—change the peculiarities of his mind; he lived constantly in Droneville—he never mingled with society, and that youthful diffidence which maturer years wears off from the minds of others, was in his deepened into an exquisite sensitiveness, which draws from the slightest ridicule or neglect materials for self-torture. The sarcasm which glides from the ears of the giddy—the glance of indifference or scorn, unfelt by the votary of fashion, gains a lodgment in his breast, and for weeks, yes, months, preys upon its peace. He hears the laugh of the incredulous, the sneer of the cynic, the aphorism of the moralist, but neither, nor all, can drive from its lair this demon within him,—it is inwrought with the very texture of his soul—it is a part of its undying essence.

Ye who can feel for others’ woes, imagine the sufferings of a mind thus strung, yet branded with all the rusticity of Droneville manners, exposed to the taunts and ridicule of College life. View him, the butt of sarcasm—the mark of scorn—the bound, the unarmed victim, against whose breast all aspirant wits may with impunity test the point of every weapon, and their own dexterity in its use. My Droneville education! It has been a “heritage of woe”—a source of the deepest, acutest suffering. In manners, in appearance, in every thing which the cant of society calls “elegance,” I was not only entirely deficient, but so absolutely clownish as to elicit wit from stupidity itself. Follow such an one, forced by circumstances beyond his control into the cold world of fashion, and your fancy can picture those scenes of embarrassment and humiliation, which my memory shrinks from recalling. And yet, my mind—_my mind_ was of no such ungainly mould. If this clay was thrown amidst the stock of Droneville, it had been fired by an intellect whose boundless aspirations scorned all limit or control. What if it _did_ know nought of the refinements of artificial life? From the mountain solitude—from the heavens above—from the earth, in its sublimity—from the whisperings of its own spirit, it had drawn in all that is deep in emotion or thrilling in thought. If it _was_ a stranger to society, it was no stranger to the greatest minds of the present and past ages. It requires not the formalities of fashion—none of the coxcomb’s art—to hold communion with this ethereal principle within us—to dwell with the genius of the mighty Past—to soar amidst the high hopes of the Future—to love and worship those beings with whom imagination peoples her own brilliant creations. Must I be a scorned outcast, neglected by my race, because this perishable clay was not moulded in that form, which might please the evanescent fancy? because my limbs would not play the buffoon at the beck of fashion, or my tongue utter, or my spirit endure, her language of emptiness and deceit? A misanthrope? _no!_ I scorn that name, but scorn more him who covets the reputation or affects the spirit of misanthropy. A misanthrope! never. The source of my suffering was a consciousness of a deep fountain of feeling—of love, (if you please,) without one being upon whom I could lavish it; for who would deign to accept the devotion of a clown?—it was too much to ask of any one’s benevolence. Can there be one more unfortunate? Is there suffering more intense, than that of a being conscious of mental power, infinitely superior to the butterflies of fashion—glowing with all that is rich in thought, or deathless in love—a love, which, squandering on its object entire devotion, stoops to no barter of affection but soul for soul—yet, having all its energies paralyzed by a sense of awkwardness—a serpent whose folds are drawn tauter by his very struggles to resist them. Place such a mind, keenly sensitive to ridicule or neglect, in the gay saloon; with all his intellect he feels himself a mark for the sarcasm of the most insignificant. He can neither move, nor speak, and while his heart is overflowing with emotion, he is scorned as an unfeeling brute! No one cares for him—no one knows his sorrows—no eye

“will mark
_His_ coming, and look brighter when _he_ comes.”

The joyful faces around him—the gay laugh ringing in his ears—the warm kiss of affection—the soft whisper of love—all, _all_ reveal the solitude, the hopelessness of his lot. How often have I been thus placed! How often, as I have stood, hour after hour, silent _and alone_, amidst a crowd of my species, have I thought, that a whole life’s love would not recompense one glance of remembrance—one word of welcome! All this too, while I have seen the selfish caressed—the ignorant flattered, and quailed beneath the eye of those, whom, if met upon the arena of mind, I could have crushed. But I have suffered most deeply, most keenly, from those in whose gratitude, at least, I had reposed some confidence. If there be one crime—_one_ of guilt so unmitigated as to wake the thunderbolt, as to call down retributive justice—it is that viper, ingratitude. No exertion of _human_ power can suppress it, laws cannot define it, penalties cannot reach it;—the law of love, that last hope of virtue, is powerless here. And yet, it is a crime which would drive all joy from earth—it would crush all that is holy in the heart—it would dissever man from his species.

As the eye of one after another has lighted upon me, and turned scornfully from the uncouth clown before them, I have prayed—yes, prayed—it could not be impious—that their vision might for one instant be quickened, so as to penetrate the mind. It is too much to hope for _here_,—but

“If there be, indeed,
A shore where mind survives, ’twill be a mind
All unincorporate.”

We can bear the scorn of man, cold, selfish man, for there is something in the insolent boldness of his sneer, which nerves the heart to endurance, or wakes the slumber of revenge; but the contumely of those, from whose nature’s tenderness, we might have expected pity at least, disarms all resistance. It is as if the elements conspired against you; it sends through the heart a sort of “et tu Brute” feeling, which imparts to it a desperate resignation to fate; this, this burns the brand which shuts out the victim from the sympathy of his race! I once thought that the contempt of all—the ridicule of inferiors—the ingratitude of friends, had steeled my heart to the most cutting scorn; but I lived to learn that there was a chord, deep in the recesses, which could only be reached by the dextrous hand of her who was worshipped there with a whole soul’s devotion. Even _her_ lip curled with disgust, as she turned contemptuously from me to listen to the voice of flattery. Censure her not—she is admired by all—she was never friendless—will she ever know how deep, how exhaustless is a rustic’s love? How often, as he has returned from gazing hours upon _her_ who deigned him not one glance in return, has the heart of the clown flowed forth, if not in the spirit of poetry, at least with that of sincerity.

I gazed on thee, dear one, in the crowd of the gay,
And my long cherished hopes have floated away;
I gazed on thee, dear one,—a glance might have given
My bosom a hope like the martyr’s of heaven;
But the eye which could gladden, was chilling with scorn,
And a heart-nurtured rose is changed to a thorn.

I gazed on thee, dear one—’twas a moment that thought
Had eagerly, hopefully, doubtingly sought;
I did meet thee, I left thee, and _thou_ didst not know,
That on thy lip quivered my joy or my woe;
When I looked but for pity, thy scorn could I bear?—
My hopes have all withered, my doubts are despair.

If sorrow—shall I wish it?—should ever reveal,
That lips can profess, what the heart does not feel;
If in a lone moment a wish should come o’er thee,
For one who can love—yes, dear one, adore thee;—
My heart never changes—tell me, dearest, can thine
E’er love with an ardor so deathless as mine?

Is it surprising, that such an experience, acting upon such a temperament, has driven me from society, not as a misanthrope—not as a misogynist, but as a cold intellectualist. I must henceforth look for my enjoyment to the abstract pleasures of the understanding. A heart which was formed to open and expand in the atmosphere which gladdens the fireside, must stifle its emotions in the bustle of political life, in the fierce encounter of contending minds, or in the endless, absorbing pursuit of gain. I must hereafter dissever the mind from the heart, and content myself with being the civilized savage, which all men would have been, if woman had never existed, or if the religion she reveres had never exalted her character. For with all his boasting, what is man’s mind, without _her_ influence? It is like the rough sketch of the painter, in which the prominent parts only are developed. As it requires the utmost refinement of his art, to give these rugged outlines grace and beauty, to call into being the living landscape and the speaking eye; thus it is, beautifully, the part of woman, to fill out the rugged outlines of man’s mind, with those refined virtues, which embellish his character. It is for her to touch with the radiance of Mercy, the stern lineaments of Justice; she must shade away Ferocity, with the tints of Mildness; she must hide every blemish, with the coloring of her own purity; she must brighten every dark spot, with the brilliancy of her own innocence; she must throw over the roughness of the whole, the magic of her own refined sensibility.

Such has been the experience of a Sensitive Man: it is not without a moral for those who are not too wise to learn from the errors of others.

THE WHALE’S LAST MOMENTS.
A LAMP-LIGHT MUSING.

I’m king—I’m king of the ‘vasty deep,’
My palace down ’mid the rocks I keep,—
But what see I now o’er the waters sweep?
Indeed—’tis a foe!—a foe!
Ah! fatal shaft!—and a crimson wave!—
But I’ll flee, I’ll flee to my ocean cave;
My palace there—it shall be my grave,
And the deep shall o’er me flow.

Yet, death to the foe!—for again I come
Up, up from the depths of my ocean home—
But, ah!—in a shroud of the white sea-foam
An expiring thing I lie.
And I see, in this darkly flashing light,
Which coldly falls on my misty sight,
Like the elfish glare of a polar night,
The future before my eye.

And ah! no more can I call my own
This ocean kingdom and coral throne;
But tyrant man must be lord alone
Of the earth, and the air, and sea;
And my pure spirit he’ll bear away
To the lamp-lit land of the sleeping day,
There only to own his constant sway,
And his tireless vassal be.

Aye, there, in the bannered hall of state,
A radiant spirit, I’ll nightly wait,
And throw new light on the long debate,
And thwart Ambition’s schemes.
I’ll sit me down by the statesman, too,
Engage in whatever he chance to do,
Read all his documents through and through,
And enlighten his darkest dreams.

I’ll then to the hall of mirth advance,
Pour Love’s own light on the joyous dance,
Give life and point to the speaking glance,
And charms to the blushing fair.
At night I’ll visit the student’s room,
And I’ll scatter the ancient mist of gloom
Which darkly hangs over Learning’s tomb,
And the classical mummies there.

I’ll help him fathom the depths of Time,
Or up the heights of Parnassus climb,
Or sport in the babbling brooks of rhyme,
Or—for want of sense—make _dashes_;—
Thus all I’ll serve—but I’ll have my pay—
Revenge—and that in my own good way;—
A dwelling I’ll touch—it shall be my prey—
And a city shall burn to ashes!

REVIEW.
_“The Partisan,” a Tale of the Revolution. By the author of “The
Yemassee,” “Guy Rivers,” &c._

There are two ways of acquiring literary reputation—the one is by an author’s _real merits_, the other by his _puffs_. Of the former method nothing need be said, but the latter merits the severest censure.

Puffs, have become the publisher’s, and in a great degree the author’s, living. So completely is it the publisher’s trade, and so firm withal is his hold upon the nose of that stupid _gull_, the public, that he can make a book, which contains one page that will be read in a newspaper, as an extract, “the best novel of the season,” and can exalt “the most stupid ass that brays on paper,” to a place “among our first novelists.”

Authorship has, in fact, become a _trade_. The writer presents his manuscript to the publisher, with information that another novel is in the works. The latter prints it, and sends it forth, with a few feeble puffs, “damning with faint praise,” and the poor bantling, fathered by a head without brains, is worse than still-born. But the parties concerned are not a whit uneasy; they know of a revivifying principle, _all_ powerful. In a short time, another work is announced, by the same author. Now all is “ripe for the harvest.” The well paid journals and periodicals are loud in their praises. “This work fully answers the high expectations raised by the author’s first production. The uncommon genius and talents displayed in that, led us to expect nothing less than the work before us. Owing to the author’s want of celebrity, his first effort did not meet with the success which those acquainted with its merits had anticipated. This might have discouraged a genius of lower order, and less conscious of its powers, but the second trial promises an ample reward for both—in fame, as well as profit.” The scheme works. The greedy public swallow the dose, and smack their lips—for they are _told_ that it is good. Both of the works go off with a rapid sale, and the author is now sure of reaping profit, and, for the time, fame, from whatever trash he inflicts upon the community, for “his name is among our first novelists,” and he himself puts on “the distant air of greatness,” puffed into the belief that he is a genius.

This is labor most _unproductive_ to the country. It is but forging titles to literary fame,—it is climbing in some other way than by the door of merit,—a practice most disgraceful in itself, and most poisonous to our literature and literary reputation. This latter effect is full obvious, for the system brings dullness to an equality with genius and merit, and even gives it an advantage over them. They will not stoop to such means for success, but shrink back disgusted and discouraged, unable to compete with their inferior rival. It could not have been a rival of itself, but, backed by such base allies, _dullness_ becomes too strong for the single arm of _genius_. Nor is this all. We have spoken chiefly with reference to novels and novelists. Novels supply much of the reading of youth, and by them, therefore, in a great degree, the taste of the young is formed. Their own judgment is not ripe, and youth rely upon that of others, to furnish suitable models of taste. By the recommendations of those who should be judges, they are too apt to adopt the trash with which the press is teeming, and their judgment is affected and taste formed by its influence. Not only their style, but the mind itself is affected. False standards of literary merit arise, and literature itself must become corrupt. As the country is young, and our literature forming, those who are readers now, will soon become writers,—theirs will be the pens, which shall, in no small degree, give us literary character, and every taste and style thus perverted, will by so much detract from our reputation. The evil is one, therefore, which every literary man, who desires for our country a literary renown of which she may be proud, should be active in subduing, lest our fame be sacrificed to the _money speculations_ of the selfish.

Among the authors, who, with their works, have been puffed into notoriety, the author of “Martin Faber,” “Guy Rivers,” “The Yemassee,” and last of all, “The Partisan,” stands conspicuous. It may be said, that this is a bold assertion to make of a popular writer. It certainly would be, if we did not know that popularity is no sure test of merit.

When “Guy Rivers, a tale of Georgia,” by the author of “Martin Faber, the story of a criminal,” was announced, although we had never before heard of this same “story of a criminal,” yet such hearty praises accompanied the announcement, that we hoped indeed another Cooper had raised the “torch of genius,” and was about to dazzle the world with its rays. An enthusiast in our wishes for the glory of American literature, we were delighted with the prospect, and eagerly sought to complete our happiness by perusing the promising volumes. We read and were not satisfied, yet looked forward for better things; for we had noted the motto of the book—

“Who wants
A sequel, may read on. Th’ unvarnished tale
That follows, will supply the place of one.”

We finished, and were disappointed. We had expected something of genius—the rich, fervid style—the original thought—the bright and glowing paintings of natural beauty, or the thrilling description of high-wrought human energies, that stirs the soul. These we found not, and then we waited for the cunning delineation of the human heart—its workings, and—the “sequel.” Our reward was the “unvarnished tale.” The work bears no mark of a mind capable of original conceptions. The descriptions of natural scenery, throughout this and all the author’s works, are but imitations of the works of masters, served up in dim and changed colors. The thoughts are trite; and the sample piece, the tit-bit, that was served up to _water_ the mouth of the public—we mean the description of the destruction of the Georgia guard, which occupies by far the fairest page of the work—is but a scene familiar in plot and story. Guy Rivers himself is but a sorry deformity of one of those dark spirits, which require the genius of a Byron or Bulwer to throw an interest around them, and the hero has hardly a character. We can only conceive of him as a love-sick somebody, to whom is given the name of Ralph Colleton.

The next work dealt out to the public is “The Yemassee,” and to this we can only afford a passing remark, as our principal business is with “The Partisan.” “The Yemassee” is the best production of this author. When speaking of the _best_ of such works, we mean it has the fewest faults. The author advertises that he shall insist upon its being considered a _romance_, and (as near as we can gather from his remarks) that he has a right to say and do as he chooses. Some of the scenes might have been made exciting, did it not seem that the writer had measured his paper, and said “this description shall fill _so much_.” It might be read with some interest, perhaps, by one who had never read “The Last of the Mohicans.” But those who have, should wait until the memory of the latter has become faded and dim. There is enough in the story, to have made a pretty tale of fifty pages; at least, it then would have had one merit, which now it has not—brevity.

The last production from the pen of this author is “The Partisan, a tale of the Revolution.” As the author is very particular, and at times a little dictatorial in his _advertisements_, let us look there for what he promises, and then examine the tale for the fulfillment.

“The title of the work, indeed, will persuade the reader to look rather for a true description of that mode of warfare, (the partisan,) than for any consecutive story, comprising the fortunes of a single personage. This he is solicited to keep in mind.” Again, “I have entitled it ‘The Partisan, a tale of the Revolution’—it was intended to be particularly such. The characters, many of them are names in the nation, familiar as our thoughts; [the author’s thoughts are very familiar.] Gates, Marion, De Kalb, and the rest, are all the property of our country.” He says, “My aim has been to give a story of events, rather than of persons”—that “A sober desire for history—the unwritten, the unconsidered, but veracious history—has been with me, in this labor, a sort of principle.”

What, then, are we to presume from this, is to be the character of the work? Certainly, that it is to be almost entirely historical. Yet as it is entitled a tale, we might of course suppose that the fortunes of some individual, a fictitious person or one little known, was to be the _chain_, into which should be woven the adventures of the famous men—Marion, De Kalb, and others, whose names the author mentions. It is to be “a story of events, rather than of persons.” And what does the work prove to be? Not an event, in which either of these Generals was active, or in any great degree interested, is mentioned, except what is related in some of the one hundred pages, devoted to describing the battle and defeat of Gates by Cornwallis, which pages are almost the last of the work. To bring in this event, the author makes a long march with his hero, who, after all, was not engaged in the action. The story does not naturally bring us there: so, after all, it is only by a _forced march_, that any of the characters, set before us in the advertisement, are introduced. His censures upon Gates are severe. Since the laurels, won at Saratoga, were shed in the flight from Camden, that General has never been a favorite with his countrymen. There never were wanting hands to use the dagger against the fame of the fallen great; yet those are not to be envied, who thus can stab the slain.

We may now ask, are all the author’s promises but so much “ado about nothing?” Let us see, by examining further. The principal characters are, Major Singleton, the hero and ‘Partisan,’ an officer under Marion; Colonel Walton, uncle to the ‘hero,’ and father to the heroine; Dick Humphries, a co-partisan; and John Davis, the at first unsuccessful rival of a British sergeant, who is in love with the sister of Humphries. Besides these, there are a number of lesser characters, who figure not a little. The most conspicuous of these are, a mad man or devil-maniac, who has a most outlandish habit of haw-hawing, after the manner of _a wolf_, about his wife, who has been murdered most cruelly by the tories: his name is Frampton—and the glutton Porgy, who helps the author to no small quantity of matter, for filling his pages, while he helps himself, to fill his stomach. The female characters are, Katherine Walton,—the hero’s sister, Emily Singleton; and Bella Humphries. These are the principal _dramatis personæ_; of course, there are the _soldiers_, _attendants_, &c.

The story, which is without a plot, (and in this I suppose the great difference consists between a “history of events,” and novels generally,) amounts about to this: The hero is introduced towards the close of the day, makes one proselyte—John Davis—meets Humphries, and with him goes by night to the “Cypress Swamp;” in the morning suppresses with his “_swamp suckers_,” a party of tories, which had been sent against them; after which they cut off a supply of provisions, &c., destined for the camp of the enemy: then, placing his camp near the plantation of his uncle, he starts at night, and, with Humphries, visits “the Oaks,” the dwelling place of Col. Walton, and arriving, finds that Col. Proctor, who has also a love for the daughter of the Colonel, is already there; so, hiding in “the Oaks,” he overhears some conversation between the British officer and Kate, who are walking with Col. Walton and the sister, which conversation makes our hero feel better; and when the British officer is gone, the hiders come forth, and with their friends enter the mansion, make a visit, and shortly return to the camp; encounter a hurricane; meet Goggle, one of the tory prisoners, whom they had taken in the morning, and who had enlisted with them, and now escaped; and, after endeavoring in vain to take him, they pay a visit to his witch mother, all for no purpose; and finally reach their camp; while Goggle goes to his mother, and sends her to Proctor with information, and then returns to the camp of the “Partisan;” and this finishes the first volume, so far as the principal character is concerned.

In the second volume, our hero again visits “the Oaks,” and while standing by the bed side of his dying sister, is informed that Proctor, with a company of soldiers, has arrived; he refuses to fly at first, but at last escapes from the window, is pursued, and nearly taken, but escapes, and the next moment meets Col. Walton with a troop, the Colonel having been forced to take up arms for or against his country: they turn, take Proctor, let him go; and the next day our hero goes to join Marion, while Col. Walton joins Gates; and on his way, Singleton surprises Gaskens, a tory leader, with his party; Gates refusing to accept the proffered aid of Marion, the latter General, with our hero, departs; the battle is fought, Col. Walton taken, and carried to Dorchester, to be tried and executed, but is rescued at the scaffold by Singleton, who thus wins cousin Kate, and marries her _we suppose_, for the author leaves us in the dark as to the “consummation most devoutly to be wished for.”

This is the outline, and we will now examine parts more minutely. The author, in the first thirty pages, proceeds to introduce the hero to the reader, in the bar-room of the “Royal George” at Dorchester, which “belongs to Ashley no longer,” and gives a tedious account of sundry _bullyings_ and threats, between the two rivals, Sergeant Hastings and John Davis, a doughty Goose-creeker, which ended without many blows, thanks to the benign influence of the pretty bar maid, whose influence seems directly the reverse of the heifer in Virgil’s Comparison. The next thirty pages bring our hero to the swamp, and on the ride thither, Humphries gives a learned disquisition upon the manner of building causeways through the swamp, which he proves most conclusively should be built with a “back bone,” and logs placed “up and down the road.” In the following, we have a description of some twenty men, who are under arms in the swamp. “The gloomy painter would have done much with the scene before them,” says our author. Would that the gloomy painter _had_ done it, or some one, who would have done more in fewer words. It is a fault with this author, as it is with all who have a lack of genius or vivid imagination, that, instead of seizing upon the prominent and striking points in a scene, and sketching them with a bold hand, leaving the picture to be filled out by the awakened imagination of the reader, he tires, by giving minute descriptions of every tree, grape vine, and pool of water, and the appearance and position of each individual, as if all-important to the “story,” as well as to the mind of the reader. As the surprize of the tories is the first thing like an incident, that we find in the work, although we are through with half of the first volume, was this one of even common interest, it should be here transcribed, but it is too prolix, and the most of it is the chase of Frampton, the maniac, after a hang-man tory corporal, who at length became dreadfully _bit_ by the maniac’s sword. The rest of the work has little more of interest, than that which we have thus seen: it is all the transactions of a few men in a swamp, to illustrate the partisan warfare in the south, without interest or useful information. The work is made up of these _illustrations_, and the trivial adventures of an individual. There is nothing startling enough to please, or to excite but a drowsy interest. Notwithstanding the author tells us that it is his aim “to delineate with all the rapidity of one, who, with the mystic lantern, runs his uncouth shapes and varying shadows along the gloomy wall, startling imagination, and enkindling curiosity,” his delineations are slow, and imagination and curiosity are left to their slumbers. The author who promises a novel purely historical, in which true history is his chief object, promises much—such promises it requires no ordinary mind to fulfill; and the work before us must be looked upon only as a novel—one, in which fiction, as usual, supplies most of the material.

In this, as in the other works of this author, there is shown the want of all those powers which mark genius. It has no deeply drawn characters, no marks of deep insight into the human heart. There is nothing about the hero, that should set him apart from other men in his vocation; and Col. Walton, with a weakness that seems like dotage, although he is in the prime of life, hesitates long between private interest and patriotism; and is at last _driven_ to side with his country—a character despised to the last—a lie upon the high minded patriots of the south, who staked their princely fortunes and their lives, in the cause of freedom. The other characters, by which the author has endeavored to excite a higher interest, are Frampton and Porgy. Both are failures, and the most accurate idea we get of the latter, is where he is turned _grunter_, to catch three terrapins, that are “_basking_ in the starlight,” upon a tree that has fallen into the creek. Mr. Simms should never again attempt wit, or humor, unless when he is dealing with the negro character, in which he sometimes succeeds.

Kate Walton is a high minded girl enough. We see but little of her; but she should not have aimed the pistol at Col. Proctor; and when she snapped it, the weapon should not have missed fire. Singleton shows little sense of propriety, not to speak of affection, when he pressed his suit the moment after leaving the bedside of his dying sister; and the girl rebukes him well: “How can you know it—how can you feel it, Robert, when you come from the presence of one already linked, as it were, with heaven, and thus immediately urge to me so earthly a prayer?” Emily Singleton—the fading flower—

“There is a beauty in woman’s decay;”

and no one,—the coldest hearted, cannot contemplate the scene—a lovely woman, looking her last upon her existence here—“a flower gathered for the tomb,” ere the sweet bud is fully opened—without being excited to feeling. The death bed scene is affecting, and well portrayed. That, and the description of the hurricane, are almost the only parts of the work that command our feelings or admiration, and the rude entrance of a stranger jars harshly upon us, and turns our sympathies to hate against the intruder.

This author has few beauties of style—we believe that those who have praised him most, have ventured only _to be silent_ concerning this. There are no beauties of this description, to atone for want of incident; nothing in the manner, to charm us into indifference to the matter; and those who pretend to admire his writings the most, cannot point out in them all, one sentence that contains peculiar beauty, or originality of thought or expression. Mr. Simms at best is but an imitator. His characters, so far as he delineates them, are familiar. We can point out the original to each of them, in the writings of others. We would not do an author wrong. We would be the last to discourage talent, but we do not believe that Mr. Simms is one to give a helping hand to our literature, but, on the reverse, he will injure it. Aside from his works, we know nothing of him, and therefore cannot have “set down aught in malice.” He proposes “a series” of works, of which “The Partisan” is the first,—three to be devoted to the events of the Revolution in South Carolina; and we cannot calculate the number destined for other parts of the country. But he says, “I know not that I shall complete, or even continue the series; much will depend upon the reception of the present narrative.” There is then yet some small hope that the threatened inundation may not flow upon us. Heaven grant that voices enough may be raised to stay the coming flood, and say, “_peace, be still_.”

GREEK ANTHOLOGY.—No. II.

HONEST FRIEND—

I call thee _honest_, because thou needs must be such, since thou art reading what neither toucheth thy cupidity, nor enkindleth a flame of self-dedicated love. I call thee _friend_, as in common courtesy I should, till I perceive some demonstrations of enmity.

It is deep night. I have trimmed my lamp, taken a _turn_ across the room, and am again seated at my pleasing toil. The Anthology lies open before me—a brown, German page, rough, but scholarlike. I have pondered each word and phrase, till they all bear a distinct and tangible significance. I have been striving to draw forth the beauty that lies locked in the cold, dead arms of an unspoken language. It requires a mightier magician, and a more prevailing charm. Lines, that are instinct with holy feeling, I have turned and labored with fruitless minuteness. I can transcribe the form—but the _life_—where is it? My spirit weepeth over its own stupidity. Yet not utterly am I in fault. I am a modern, and an American, and almost—but _not quite_—a Yankee. I have breathed a dollar-and-cent atmosphere. There is no soul—no enthusiasm in the land. Utility—cold, base utility is the all-in-all. Money is the shibboleth of rank and influence.

O cives, cives, quærenda pecunia primum.

Every thing is reduced to a standard of rationality, as if it were not the most irrational thing that ever sickened a liberal eye, to bind down passion, and poetry, and the “life of life,” by the frigid rules of mathematical exactness. It is my solemn belief, that within fifty years a double-track rail-road will run through the very vale of Tempe, and a steam-engine be propelled by the waters of Arethusa. Improvement! By the little toe of the Great Mogul, may the wheels of such improvement “long tarry in their coming!” Reader, I will not fret. My profit therefrom would be about as much as thy pleasure. But thou knowest not the feelings with which I uncork a bottle of pure Samian wine; and, in transferring it into an American jug, behold its strength and fragrance evaporate—the body swelling with dropsical inflation, while the spirit is oozing away through each treacherous pore. Sed satis. “Quid me querelis exanimas tuis?”

Behold! an enigmatic squib from Euclid, the geometer—him, whose labors I was wont to burden with “the mountain of my curse.” He was, probably, the first to solemnize a marriage so unnatural as that of Geometry and Poetry—January and May.

An ass and mule were bearing wine one day:
Hard on the ass the vinous burden lay;
When thus the mule her fainting dam addressed—
“Why, like a maiden’s, pants thy groaning breast?
Should’st thou _give_ me one portion of thy share,
Then I should double of thy burden bear.
Should’st thou _take_ one, alike are our conditions.”
Solve me this problem, ye arithmeticians.

If the reader be at all skilled in threading the labyrinths of Algebra, he may discover that the ass bore five, and the mule seven measures. (Vide Day’s Alg. passim.)

Here we have a compliment to a beautiful girl, from Plato, even from the veritable Ipse Dixit himself, whose frosty philosophy thawed before the fire of love.

Thou gazest at the stars, my star,
And would I were the sky,
That I might view thee from afar
With many a glowing eye.

By Theodorus, to Harmocrates, whose nasal developement was uncommonly huge.

Thy nose, my friend, is so excessive,
To call it _thine_ would be a wrong to’t,
But rather _that_ is the possessive,
And we should judge that you belong to’t;
And having met thee, properly I say,
Nose’s Harmocrates I saw to-day.

Ammianus gives quite a caustic turn to the common wish, that the earth may lie lightly on the breast of the departed.

Light lie the earth, Nearchus, on thy breast,
That dogs may tear thee from thy place of rest.

Here follows a little thing, replete with that still despair, so natural to a thoughtful Heathen.

_By Archias._

I praise the Thracians, since for those they mourn,
Whose eyes are opening to the light of day,
But joy, when Death, the slave of Fate, has torn
Their sons and daughters from their arms away.
For we, the living, through each cruel ill
With painful steps continually go,
While they, who sleep beneath the grave’s green hill,
Have found, at last, a refuge from their wo.

Here is a most beautiful epitaph upon Sophocles, composed by Limmias, the Theban. In the first place, I will render it literally and consecutively into plain English, although, reader, thou knowest that—saving only in the Bible—the life and loveliness of all poetry dies under this _ossifying_ process. “Gently over the tomb of Sophocles, gently, oh! ivy, mayst thou creep, pouring thy green curls abroad; and all about it may the petals of the rose bloom, and the grape-loving vine, scattering its moist branches around, on account of the wise docility, which he of the honey-tongue displayed, among the Muses and the Graces.”

It was thus elegantly translated many years since:

Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade
Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid:
Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwine
With blushing roses and the clustering vine;
Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung,
Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung,
Whose soul, exalted like a god of wit,
Among the Muses and the Graces writ.

Beautifully done—yet somewhat marred by the incongruous idea of _a soul writing_. For my own attempt, I claim no merit, save something of fidelity.

Gently, oh! ivy, gently curl thy tresses,
Where the cold bones of Sophocles repose;
May thy young tendrils clasp in soft caresses
The bursting petals of the blushing rose.
May the green vine, its dewy branches flinging,
A lasting bower above thy grave entwine,
For the deep wisdom thou didst show, when singing
Among the Graces and the heavenly Nine.

Thou knowest how the cruel Acrisius committed his daughter Danaë, with her infant Perseus, to the protection of a small ark, and the mercy of a raging sea. In this—certainly one of the most touching fragments of all antiquity, and written by Simonides, the Ceian, a poet, heart and soul—Danaë is introduced, alone and cheerless, yet watching, with a mother’s tenderness, over her sleeping son.