Part 11

BY G. HILL, AUTHOR OF “TITANIA’S BANQUET,” ETC., ETC.

The nights are o’er when, by the shore, We strayed—thy arm in mine, And our hearts were like the full cup ere The sparkle leaves the wine. But the sparkle flies, the cup is drained, And the nights return no more When our hearts were warm and, arm in arm, We strayed by the moonlit shore.

The nights are o’er when, by the shore, We strayed—thy arm in mine, And thy eye was like the star whose beam We saw on the still wave shine. But the bright star-beam has left the stream, And the nights return no more When our hearts were warm and, arm in arm, We strayed by the moonlit shore.

The nights are o’er when, by the shore, We strayed—thy arm in mine, And thy tones were heard where the wind-harp’s chord Is the bough that the June-flowers twine. But my boat rocks lone where the palm-trees moan[2] And the nights return no more When our hearts were warm and, arm in arm, We strayed by the moonlit shore.

[2] Of the Nile.

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THE ORPHAN BALLAD SINGERS.

BALLAD.

COMPOSED BY

HENRY RUSSELL.

_Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_.

Oh weary, weary are our feet, And weary weary is our way, Thro’ many a long and crowded street We’ve wandered mournfully to-day; My little sister she is pale, She is too tender and too young To bear the autumn’s sullen gale, And all day long the child has sung.

She was our mother’s favorite child, Who loved her for her eyes of blue, And she is delicate and mild, She cannot do what I can do. She never met her father’s eyes, Although they were so like her own; In some far distant sea he lies, A father to his child unknown.

The first time that she lisped his name, A little playful thing was she; How proud we were,—yet that night came The tale how he had sunk at sea. My mother never raised her head; How strange how white how cold she grew! It was a broken heart they said— I wish our hearts were broken too.

We have no home—we have no friends They said our home no more was ours— Our cottage where the ash-tree bends, The garden we had filled with flowers. The sounding shells our father brought, That we might hear the sea at home; Our bees, that in the summer wrought The winter’s golden honeycomb.

We wandered forth mid wind and rain, No shelter from the open sky; I only wish to see again My mother’s grave and rest and die, Alas, it is a weary thing To sing our ballads o’er and o’er: The songs we used at home to sing— Alas we have a home no more!

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REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Twice-Told Tales. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Two Volumes. Boston: James Munroe and Co._

We said a few hurried words about Mr. Hawthorne in our last number, with the design of speaking more fully in the present. We are still, however, pressed for room, and must necessarily discuss his volumes more briefly and more at random than their high merits deserve.

The book professes to be a collection of _tales_, yet is, in two respects, misnamed. These pieces are now in their third republication, and, of course, are thrice-told. Moreover, they are by no means _all_ tales, either in the ordinary or in the legitimate understanding of the term. Many of them are pure essays, for example, “Sights from a Steeple,” “Sunday at Home,” “Little Annie’s Ramble,” “A Rill from the Town-Pump,” “The Toll-Gatherer’s Day,” “The Haunted Mind,” “The Sister Years,” “Snow-Flakes,” “Night Sketches,” and “Foot-Prints on the Sea-Shore.” We mention these matters chiefly on account of their discrepancy with that marked precision and finish by which the body of the work is distinguished.

Of the Essays just named, we must be content to speak in brief. They are each and all beautiful, without being characterised by the polish and adaptation so visible in the tales proper. A painter would at once note their leading or predominant feature, and style it _repose_. There is no attempt at effect. All is quiet, thoughtful, subdued. Yet this repose may exist simultaneously with high originality of thought; and Mr. Hawthorne has demonstrated the fact. At every turn we meet with novel combinations, yet these combinations never surpass the limits of the quiet. We are soothed as we read; and withal is a calm astonishment that ideas so apparently obvious have never occurred or been presented to us before. Herein our author differs materially from Lamb or Hunt or Hazlitt—who, with vivid originality of manner and expression, have less of the true novelty of thought than is generally supposed, and whose originality, at best, has an uneasy and meretricious quaintness, replete with startling effects unfounded in nature, and inducing trains of reflection which lead to no satisfactory result. The Essays of Hawthorne have much of the character of Irving, with more of originality, and less of finish; while, compared with the Spectator, they have a vast superiority at all points. The Spectator, Mr. Irving, and Mr. Hawthorne have in common that tranquil and subdued manner which we have chosen to denominate _repose_; but, in the case of the two former, this repose is attained rather by the absence of novel combination, or of originality, than otherwise, and consists chiefly in the calm, quiet, unostentatious expression of commonplace thoughts, in an unambitious unadulterated Saxon. In them, by strong effort, we are made to conceive the absence of all. In the essays before us the absence of effort is too obvious to be mistaken, and a strong under-current of _suggestion_ runs continuously beneath the upper stream of the tranquil thesis. In short, these effusions of Mr. Hawthorne are the product of a truly imaginative intellect, restrained, and in some measure repressed, by fastidiousness of taste, by constitutional melancholy and by indolence.

But it is of his tales that we desire principally to speak. The tale proper, in our opinion, affords unquestionably the fairest field for the exercise of the loftiest talent, which can be afforded by the wide domains of mere prose. Were we bidden to say how the highest genius could be most advantageously employed for the best display of its own powers, we should answer, without hesitation—in the composition of a rhymed poem, not to exceed in length what might be perused in an hour. Within this limit alone can the highest order of true poetry exist. We need only here say, upon this topic, that, in almost all classes of composition, the unity of effect or impression is a point of the greatest importance. It is clear, moreover, that this unity cannot be thoroughly preserved in productions whose perusal cannot be completed at one sitting. We may continue the reading of a prose composition, from the very nature of prose itself, much longer than we can persevere, to any good purpose, in the perusal of a poem. This latter, if truly fulfilling the demands of the poetic sentiment, induces an exaltation of the soul which cannot be long sustained. All high excitements are necessarily transient. Thus a long poem is a paradox. And, without unity of impression, the deepest effects cannot be brought about. Epics were the offspring of an imperfect sense of Art, and their reign is no more. A poem _too_ brief may produce a vivid, but never an intense or enduring impression. Without a certain continuity of effort—without a certain duration or repetition of purpose—the soul is never deeply moved. There must be the dropping of the water upon the rock. De Béranger has wrought brilliant things—pungent and spirit-stirring—but, like all immassive bodies, they lack _momentum_, and thus fail to satisfy the Poetic Sentiment. They sparkle and excite, but, from want of continuity, fail deeply to impress. Extreme brevity will degenerate into epigrammatism; but the sin of extreme length is even more unpardonable. _In medio tutissimus ibis._

Were we called upon however to designate that class of composition which, next to such a poem as we have suggested, should best fulfil the demands of high genius—should offer it the most advantageous field of exertion—we should unhesitatingly speak of the prose tale, as Mr. Hawthorne has here exemplified it. We allude to the short prose narrative, requiring from a half-hour to one or two hours in its perusal. The ordinary novel is objectionable, from its length, for reasons already stated in substance. As it cannot be read at one sitting, it deprives itself, of course, of the immense force derivable from _totality_. Worldly interests intervening during the pauses of perusal, modify, annul, or counteract, in a greater or less degree, the impressions of the book. But simple cessation in reading would, of itself, be sufficient to destroy the true unity. In the brief tale, however, the author is enabled to carry out the fulness of his intention, be it what it may. During the hour of perusal the soul of the reader is at the writer’s control. There are no external or extrinsic influences—resulting from weariness or interruption.

A skilful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single _effect_ to be wrought out, he then invents such incidents—he then combines such events as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there should be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one pre-established design. And by such means, with such care and skill, a picture is at length painted which leaves in the mind of him who contemplates it with a kindred art, a sense of the fullest satisfaction. The idea of the tale has been presented unblemished, because undisturbed; and this is an end unattainable by the novel. Undue brevity is just as exceptionable here as in the poem, but undue length is yet more to be avoided.

We have said that the tale has a point of superiority even over the poem. In fact, while the _rhythm_ of this latter is an essential aid in the development of the poem’s highest idea—the idea of the Beautiful—the artificialities of this rhythm are an inseparable bar to the development of all points of thought or expression which have their basis in _Truth_. But Truth is often, and in very great degree, the aim of the tale. Some of the finest tales are tales of ratiocination. Thus the field of this species of composition, if not in so elevated a region on the mountain of Mind, is a table-land of far vaster extent than the domain of the mere poem. Its products are never so rich, but infinitely more numerous, and more appreciable by the mass of mankind. The writer of the prose tale, in short, may bring to his theme a vast variety of modes or inflections of thought and expression—(the ratiocinative, for example, the sarcastic or the humorous) which are not only antagonistical to the nature of the poem, but absolutely forbidden by one of its most peculiar and indispensable adjuncts; we allude of course, to rhythm. It may be added, here, _par parenthèse_, that the author who aims at the purely beautiful in a prose tale is laboring at great disadvantage. For Beauty can be better treated in the poem. Not so with terror, or passion, or horror, or a multitude of such other points. And here it will be seen how full of prejudice are the usual animadversions against those _tales of effect_ many fine examples of which were found in the earlier numbers of Blackwood. The impressions produced were wrought in a legitimate sphere of action, and constituted a legitimate although sometimes an exaggerated interest. They were relished by every man of genius: although there were found many men of genius who condemned them without just ground. The true critic will but demand that the design intended be accomplished, to the fullest extent, by the means most advantageously applicable.

We have very few American tales of real merit—we may say, indeed, none, with the exception of “The Tales of a Traveller” of Washington Irving, and these “Twice-Told Tales” of Mr. Hawthorne. Some of the pieces of Mr. John Neal abound in vigor and originality; but in general, his compositions of this class are excessively diffuse, extravagant, and indicative of an imperfect sentiment of Art. Articles at random are, now and then, met with in our periodicals which might be advantageously compared with the best effusions of the British Magazines; but, upon the whole, we are far behind our progenitors in this department of literature.

Of Mr. Hawthorne’s Tales we would say, emphatically, that they belong to the highest region of Art—an Art subservient to genius of a very lofty order. We had supposed, with good reason for so supposing, that he had been thrust into his present position by one of the impudent _cliques_ which beset our literature, and whose pretensions it is our full purpose to expose at the earliest opportunity; but we have been most agreeably mistaken. We know of few compositions which the critic can more honestly commend than these “Twice-Told Tales.” As Americans, we feel proud of the book.

Mr. Hawthorne’s distinctive trait is invention, creation, imagination, originality—a trait which, in the literature of fiction, is positively worth all the rest. But the nature of originality, so far as regards its manifestation in letters, is but imperfectly understood. The inventive or original mind as frequently displays itself in novelty of _tone_ as in novelty of matter. Mr. Hawthorne is original at _all_ points.

It would be a matter of some difficulty to designate the best of these tales, we repeat that, without exception, they are beautiful. “Wakefield” is remarkable for the skill with which an old idea—a well-known incident—is worked up or discussed. A man of whims conceives the purpose of quitting his wife and residing _incognito_, for twenty years, in her immediate neighborhood. Something of this kind actually happened in London. The force of Mr. Hawthorne’s tale lies in the analysis of the motives which must or might have impelled the husband to such folly, in the first instance, with the possible causes of his perseverance. Upon this thesis a sketch of singular power has been constructed.

“The Wedding Knell” is full of the boldest imagination—an imagination fully controlled by taste. The most captious critic could find no flaw in this production.

“The Minister’s Black Veil” is a masterly composition of which the sole defect is that to the rabble its exquisite skill will be _caviare_. The _obvious_ meaning of this article will be found to smother its insinuated one. The _moral_ put into the mouth of the dying minister will be supposed to convey the _true_ import of the narrative; and that a crime of dark dye, (having reference to the “young lady”) has been committed, is a point which only minds congenial with that of the author will perceive.

“Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe” is vividly original and managed most dexterously.

“Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment” is exceedingly well imagined, and executed with surpassing ability. The artist breathes in every line of it.

“The White Old Maid” is objectionable, even more than the “Minister’s Black Veil,” on the score of its mysticism. Even with the thoughtful and analytic, there will be much trouble in penetrating its entire import.

“The Hollow of the Three Hills” we would quote in full, had we space;—not as evincing higher talent than any of the other pieces, but as affording an excellent example of the author’s peculiar ability. The subject is commonplace. A witch subjects the Distant and the Past to the view of a mourner. It has been the fashion to describe, in such cases, a mirror in which the images of the absent appear; or a cloud of smoke is made to arise, and thence the figures are gradually unfolded. Mr. Hawthorne has wonderfully heightened his effect by making the ear, in place of the eye, the medium by which the fantasy is conveyed. The head of the mourner is enveloped in the cloak of the witch, and within its magic folds there arise sounds which have an all-sufficient intelligence. Throughout this article also, the artist is conspicuous—not more in positive than in negative merits. Not only is all done that should be done, but (what perhaps is an end with more difficulty attained) there is nothing done which should not be. Every word _tells_, and there is not a word which does _not_ tell.

In “Howe’s Masquerade” we observe something which resembles a plagiarism—but which _may be_ a very flattering coincidence of thought. We quote the passage in question.

“_With a dark flush of wrath_ upon his brow they saw the general _draw his sword_ and _advance to meet_ the figure _in the cloak_ before the latter had stepped one pace upon the floor.

“‘_Villain, unmuffle yourself_,’ cried he, ‘you pass no farther!’

“The figure, without blenching a hair’s breadth from the sword which was pointed at his breast, made a solemn pause, and _lowered the cape of the cloak_ from his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators to catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had evidently seen enough. The sternness of his countenance gave place to a look of wild amazement, if not horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure, _and let fall his sword_ upon the floor.”—See vol. 2, page 20.

The idea here is, that the figure in the cloak is the phantom or reduplication of Sir William Howe; but in an article called “William Wilson,” one of the “Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque,” we have not only the same idea, but the same idea similarly presented in several respects. We quote two paragraphs, which our readers may compare with what has been already given. We have italicized, above, the immediate particulars of resemblance.

“The brief moment in which I averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce, apparently, a material change in the arrangement at the upper or farther end of the room. A large mirror, it appeared to me, now stood where none had been perceptible before: and as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood, _advanced_ with a feeble and tottering gait to meet me.

“Thus it appeared I say, but was not. It was Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of dissolution. Not a line in all the marked and singular lineaments of that face which was not even identically mine own. _His mask and cloak lay where he had thrown them, upon the floor._”—Vol. 2. p. 57.

Here it will be observed that, not only are the two general conceptions identical, but there are various _points_ of similarity. In each case the figure seen is the wraith or duplication of the beholder. In each case the scene is a masquerade. In each case the figure is cloaked. In each, there is a quarrel—that is to say, angry words pass between the parties. In each the beholder is enraged. In each the cloak and sword fall upon the floor. The “villain, unmuffle yourself,” of Mr. H. is precisely paralleled by a passage at page 56 of “William Wilson.”

In the way of objection we have scarcely a word to say of these tales. There is, perhaps, a somewhat too general or prevalent _tone_—a tone of melancholy and mysticism. The subjects are insufficiently varied. There is not so much of _versatility_ evinced as we might well be warranted in expecting from the high powers of Mr. Hawthorne. But beyond these trivial exceptions we have really none to make. The style is purity itself. Force abounds. High imagination gleams from every page. Mr. Hawthorne is a man of the truest genius. We only regret that the limits of our Magazine will not permit us to pay him that full tribute of commendation, which, under other circumstances, we should be so eager to pay.

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_The Vigil of Faith, and Other Poems. By C. F. Hoffman, Author of “Greyslaer,” &c. S. Coleman: New York._

Mr. Charles Fenno Hoffman is well known as the author of several popular novels, and as the quondam editor of the “American Monthly Magazine;” but his poetical abilities have not as yet attracted that attention which is indubitably their due.

“The Vigil of Faith,” a poem of fifty-two irregular stanzas, embodies a deeply interesting narrative supposed to be related by an Indian encountered by the author in a hunting excursion amid the Highlands of the Hudson. It bears the impress of the true spirit upon every line; but appears to be carelessly written.

The occasional Poems are scarcely more beautiful, but, in general, are more complete and polished. Now and then, however, we observe, even in these, an inaccurate rhythm. Here, for example, in “Moonlight on the Hudson,” page 63, we note a foot too much—

“Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers.”

This line is not used as an Alexandrine, but occurs in the body of a stanza. Mr. Hoffman is, also, somewhat too fond of a double rhyme, which, unduly employed, never fails to give a flippant air to a serious poem. It is not improbable that we shall speak more fully of this really beautiful volume hereafter. Its external or mechanical appearance excels that of any book we have seen for a long time.

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_The Life of Lorenzo de’ Medici, called the Magnificent. By William Roscoe. From the London Edition, Corrected. In Two Volumes. Carey & Hart: Philadelphia._

The genius of Lorenzo de’ Medici has never, perhaps, been so highly estimated, as his exertions on behalf of Italian literature. Yet he was not only an author unsurpassed by any of his illustrious contemporaries, but, as a statesman, gave evidence of profound ability. A week illustrating the value of his character and discussing his vast influence upon his age, has been long wanting, and no man lives who could better supply the _desideratum_ than Mr. Roscoe. In republishing these volumes Messieurs Carey & Hart have rendered a service of the highest importance to the reading public of America.

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_The Poets and Poetry of America. With an Historical Introduction. By Rufus W. Griswold. Carey & Hart: Philadelphia._

This is a volume of remarkable beauty externally, and of very high merit internally. It embraces selections from the poetical works of every true poet in America without exception; and these selections are prefaced, in each instance, with a brief memoir, for whose accuracy we can vouch. We know that no pains or expense have been spared in this compilation, which is, by very much indeed, the best of its class—affording, at one view, the justest idea of our poetical literature. Mr. Griswold is remarkably well qualified for the task he has undertaken. We shall speak at length of this book in our next.

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_Beauchampe, or The Kentucky Tragedy. A Tale of Passion. By the Author of “Richard Hurdis,” “Border Beagles,” etc. Two Volumes. Lea & Blanchard: Philadelphia._

The events upon which this novel is based are but too real. No more thrilling, no more romantic tragedy did ever the brain of poet conceive than was the tragedy of Sharpe and Beauchampe. We are not sure that the author of “Border Beagles” has done right in the selection of his theme. Too little has been left for invention. We are sure, however, that the theme is skilfully handled. The author of “Richard Hurdis” is one among the best of our native novelists—pure, bold, vigorous, original.