Part 17

Who reads an American book? was tauntingly asked some years since, by the Edinburg or Quarterly Review,--we do not recollect which,--nor is it important to know. For the present we will answer the question somewhat in the Hibernian or Yankee style, by a remark which is not exactly responsive; and that is, that if Sir Walter Scott himself were living, he would have the candor and honor to acknowledge that "Calavar" was vastly superior to some five or six of the last litter of his own great genius, and not very far behind the very best of those renowned performances which have thrown a classic glory over the bleak hills and barren moors of Scotland. But whether that would have been the award of Sir Walter or not, impartial critics on both sides of the Atlantic, and coming generations, if "Calavar" should escape the vortex of oblivion,--will undoubtedly render a judgment somewhat similar. It is certainly the very best American novel, excepting perhaps one or two of Mr. Cooper's, which we have ever read; that is, if boldness of design, vigor of thought, copiousness and power of language,--thrilling incident, and graphic and magnificent description, can constitute a good novel. For the first fifty or sixty pages, it is confessedly somewhat heavy; still the reader will perceive that a master spirit is at work, to whose guidance he confidingly trusts. In a short time the whole interest of the narrative rushes upon him; he gazes in imagination upon the beautiful and Eden-like vallies of Mexico; he throbs with pain at the spectacle of slaughtered thousands of the brave aborigines, and he sympathises with the tender sorrows and heroic sufferings of the only female who figures in the story, and she too in the unwomanly garb of a page, destined to perform the somewhat curious, and certainly very unthankful office, of a _menial to her own lover_. Here we think the author has decidedly failed,--we mean in the invention and arrangement of his story. He is entirely too _unnatural_ even for romance. There is too much improbable and miraculous agency in the various life-preserving expedients, and extraordinary rescues which are constantly occurring,--and which, although taken singly, do not surpass the strange events of actual life, shock us nevertheless by their perpetual succession, and impart to a tale founded upon historical truth, an air of oriental fiction which is not agreeable. The author, who is vastly superior to Cooper in dialogue, is, we fear, equally unqualified with that writer, to depict the female character in all its exquisite traits and attractive graces--else why not give us more than a mere glimpse at the daughter of Montezuma, (the beloved of the melancholy De Morla,) whose image we behold as in a "glass darkly," and whose wretched fate we regard with the less anguish, knowing so little as we do of the fair and unfortunate victim. Even Jacinto is a mysterious and shadowy, though lovely being, with whom we have not, and cannot well have much sympathy. Some few passages indeed, illustrate the disguised princess with great force,--and throughout there is an unaccountable anxiety felt towards her; but she is not sufficiently presented in the foreground of the picture, to awaken a positive and powerful interest in her behalf. Jacinto, alias Leila, is nevertheless a most delightful vision,--seen always under very unfavorable circumstances,--but when seen, winding around the heart of the reader in spite of himself,--a beautiful, modest, heroic boy,--and yet a girl,--the discovery of whose sex, though anticipated, does not beam upon the reader until towards the latter end of the story. By the way, there is something very strange and improbable in the idea, that this same sweet creature should have waited upon her own lover in the assumed character of page or servant, _and he, the lover, not to know it_. It is altogether too marvellous, and the author of "Calavar" ought not to have drawn such a heavy draft upon the reader's credulity. As to Don Amador de Leste, he is in fact the hero of the story; instead of that demented melancholy uncle whose name gives the title to the romance, but whose agency in it is of very little importance, and whose wild and mournful aberration of mind attracts less of admiration than pity, sometimes mingled with a feeling allied to disgust. The character of Botello too, half knave and half conjurer, is, we think, somewhat of a failure; perhaps not altogether so, for he relieves the mind from the contemplation of spectacles of blood and misery,--and that of itself is a refreshment for which we ought to be thankful.

Notwithstanding these strictures, which impartial justice required, we still maintain the opinion that Calavar is the production of a man of great capacity. If he follows up this first effort by corresponding success in the region of historical romance, he will assuredly outstrip all his competitors on this side of the Atlantic. The history of the conquest of Mexico, affords an admirable field for the novelist; and in the faithful delineation of Cortez, the extraordinary spirit who directed the work of devastation and surmounted almost superhuman difficulties in his triumphant career,--we think that the author of "Calavar" has been wonderfully successful.

We forbear making quotations from the work, or entering into a more minute analysis of the story. Our chief object is to inform our readers that "Calavar" is an American production, which will not shrink from competition with the very best European works of the same character. Faults it has, and some of them obvious and censurable; but its display of intellectual power and its various beauties are so transcendant, that its blemishes are lost like specks upon the orb of day.

The description of the flight of the Spaniards over the dike of Tacuba, and of the horrors of the "Melancholy night," so called in history, is awfully sublime. In truth the whole work abounds in powerful delineation both of character and scenery, and it is with pride that we hail it as at once assuming and commanding a proud rank in the department of historical romance.

JUDGE BLACKSTONE--_A Poet_.

A correspondent in January's Messenger said, that on the death of this great lawyer, _poems_ were unexpectedly found among his papers. The following is the only one of them we have seen. Its smooth yet vigorous numbers, its simply touching strain of thought and language, the deep and just feeling it evinces, and the apt felicity of its imagery, prove the author to have possessed a genius which, had it been so inclined, might have rendered him as conspicuous in the flowery paths of elegant literature, as he actually became in the sterner walks of the law. There is something strikingly magnanimous in the _self-denial_, which could make such a mind relinquish pursuits so congenial to its tastes and so meet for its abilities, for a profession the most abounding of all others in dry, ponderous, and perplexing drudgery, yet amongst the most vital to the well-being of society. What a lesson to our _dilettanti_, who, even after having adopted that profession, cannot bravely face and grapple with its difficulties, but remain entranced by the Circean draughts and Syren songs of the lightest and most frivolous of the Muses! What should be their humiliation, when they compare their own inability to renounce the novel, the newspaper, and the frothy magazine, with Blackstone's generous farewell to his so far noble muse? They may rest assured, that it is only to one capable of such a sacrifice, that Lord Coke's parting wish is not addressed in vain: "I wish unto him the gladsome light of Jurisprudence, the lovelinesse of temperance, the stabilitie of fortitude, and the soliditie of justice."

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.

BY SIR WM. BLACKSTONE.

As by some tyrant's stern command, A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemned to roam, An endless exile from his home; Pensive he treads the destined way, And dreads to go, nor dares to stay; Till on some neighb'ring mountain's brow He stops, and turns his eye below; There, melting at the well known view, Drops a last tear, and bids adieu: So I, thus doomed from thee to part, Gay queen of fancy and of art, Reluctant move with doubtful mind, Oft stop, and often look behind.

Companion of my tender age, Serenely gay, and sweetly sage! How blithesome were we wont to rove By verdant hill and shady grove, Where fervent bees with humming voice Around the honeyed oak rejoice, And aged elms, with awful bend, In long cathedral walks extend! Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods, Cheered by the warbling of the woods, How blest my days, my thoughts how free, In sweet society with thee! Then all was joyous, all was young, And years unheeded roll'd along: But now the pleasing dream is o'er,-- These scenes must charm me now no more: Lost to the field, and torn from you, Farewell!--a long, a last adieu!

The wrangling courts, and stubborn law, To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw; There selfish faction rules the day, And pride and avarice throng the way; Diseases taint the murky air, And midnight conflagrations glare; Loose revelry and riot bold In frighted streets their orgies hold; Or when in silence all is drowned, Fell murder walks her lonely round; No room for peace, no room for you,-- Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu!

Shakspeare, no more, thy sylvan son, Nor all the arts of Addison, Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, Nor Milton's mighty self must please. Instead of these a formal band In furs and coifs around me stand, With sounds uncouth, and accents dry, That grate the soul of harmony. Each pedant sage unlocks his store Of mystic, dark, discordant lore; And points with tottering hand the ways That lead me to the thorny maze.

There, in a winding, close retreat, Is justice doom'd to fix her seat; There, fenced by bulwarks of the law, She keeps the wondering world in awe; And there, from vulgar sight retired, Like eastern queens, is much admired.

Oh let me pierce the secret shade, Where dwells the venerable maid! There humbly mark with reverend awe, The guardian of Britannia's law; Unfold with joy her sacred page, (Th' united boast of many an age, Where mixed, though uniform, appears The wisdom of a thousand years.) In that pure spring the bottom view, Clear, deep, and regularly true, And other doctrines thence imbibe, Than lurk within the sordid scribe; Observe how parts with parts unite In one harmonious rule of right; See countless wheels distinctly tend, By various laws, to one great end; While mighty Alfred's piercing soul Pervades and regulates the whole.

Then welcome business, welcome strife, Welcome the cares, the thorns of life, The visage wan, the pore-blind sight, The toil by day, the lamp by night, The tedious forms, the solemn prate, The pert dispute, the dull debate, The drowsy bench, the babbling hall, For thee, fair justice, welcome all!

Thus, though my noon of life be past, Yet let my setting sun at last Find out the still, the rural cell Where sage retirement loves to dwell! There let me taste the home-felt bliss Of innocence and inward peace; Untainted by the guilty bribe, Uncursed amid the harpy tribe; No orphan's cry to wound my ear; My honor and my conscience clear; Thus may I calmly meet my end, Thus to the grave in peace descend!

There are moments of despondency, when Shakspeare thought himself no poet and Raphael no painter; when the greatest wits have doubted the excellence of their happiest efforts.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

I do not know that the author of the following lines designed or wished them to appear in print; but I am sure that the readers of the Messenger, and especially that portion who saw the parody of "Roy's Wife," in the last number, will be obliged to the publisher for their insertion. The author is one, as far as I can judge, who, like Garrick, between the muses of tragedy and comedy, has his attachments to poetry and music so nicely balanced, that neither can be said to have won his superior regard. Such a one was peculiarly qualified to pour out a tribute to the memory of the orator and poet, and at the same time to adapt his words to that truly beautiful air which was first imbodied in language by Burns, and afterwards by the lamented Davis with scarcely less success.

H. E. J.

LINES.

Written as a tribute to the memory of the Hon. Warren R. Davis; suggested by his inimitable verses to "Johnston's Wife of Louisiana."

_Air_--"Roy's Wife."

He's gone to join his sainted "Anna," He's gone to join his sainted "Anna." Extinguished is the brightest beam, That lighted up the "gay savannah." The wit--the poet--patriot--sleeps! But long his country's brilliant story, Will glitter through the tear she weeps, O'er one so blended with her glory. He's gone, &c.

The "Inca's" radiant mantle fell, Its splendor round his form revealing;-- His glowing heart proclaimed the spell, And overflowed with generous feeling. He's gone, &c.

When flushed with hope and manhood's prime, One form controlled his heart's emotion;-- Love triumphed o'er the power of time, And sanctified his last devotion. He's gone, &c.

His harp is broken--hushed the breath Which won the free and chained the wise; But "Time shall hurl a dart at Death," Before another DAVIS dies. He's gone, &c.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE EXILE.

I go from the land where my forefathers dwelt; I go from the land of my home and my birth: The dark doom of exile has rung in my ear, And I go, a lone wand'rer, abroad through the earth.

No more shall I bend o'er the grave of my sire, And dream that his spirit is hov'ring around! I never shall mingle my ashes with his-- I never shall rest in that dear hallow'd ground!

And is there a feeling more desolate still? More dreary and heart-breaking even than this? Oh, yes! there is one--'tis the thought that my cheek Has felt for the last time, a lov'd mother's kiss.

We select the following exquisite little gem from the "_New York Spirit of the Times_." The "Times," by the way, is a weekly paper devoted to the Literary, Fashionable and Sporting world, and is one of the most lively, spirited and interesting papers of the kind in the whole country. It is edited by William T. Porter.

* * * * *

The annexed little poem was written many years ago, and has travelled all over the world. It has been translated in the French, Spanish, Italian, and German languages, and several times set to music in Europe. It has been the rounds of the American press a number of times credited to the English journals. Its great popularity was the cause of its being claimed by our worthy contemporary of the Mirror, who published it originally without his signature in that superb repository of American belles-lettres. Like most of the productions of that gentleman, it contains point, piquancy, and quiet humor. We found it again the other day snugly ensconced in the poet's corner of the Evening Star,--let the Major alone for finding out a good thing, wherewith to delight his readers.

THE MINIATURE.

BY GEO. P. MORRIS.

William was holding in his hand The likeness of his wife-- Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand, With beauty, grace, and life. He almost thought it spoke: He gazed upon the treasure still, Absorbed, delighted, and amazed, To view the artist's skill.

"This picture is yourself, dear Jane, 'Tis drawn to nature true: I've kissed it o'er and o'er again, It is so much like you." "And has it kissed you back, my dear?" "Why--no--my love," said he. "Then, William, it is very clear, It is not all _like me_!"

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAM.

THE MISTAKE CORRECTED.

Anne, my foolish fancy's o'er, And I cannot love you more-- Nay, sweet girl, why knit your brow? Cannot love you more--_than now_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SPIDER.

The Spider taketh hold with her hands and is in Kings' palaces.--_Proverbs of Solomon_ 30:28.--

What dost thou there, unlucky wight, Upon that cornice fair, Midst things so beautiful and bright? Thy many eyes might sure have sight To see that it would not be right To do thy spinning there!

These things, I own are wondrous fine And beautiful and bright; And eyes, accustomed less than mine To things that so resplendent shine, No doubt to wonder would incline And gaze at such a sight;

But I've been used to splendid things-- Familiar long at Courts; In all the palaces of Kings, My beauteous five-twined net-work swings,-- Of this a sacred poet sings And History reports.

The wisest of the sons of men-- (And glorious too was he) With graphic and historic pen Describes the blessed era, when Amidst his court--in glory then-- He gave a place to me.

Since then, each Queenly drawing-room Hath own'd me for a guest, And where the eternal roses bloom, In Tapestry, from the Gobelin's loom, To hang my own, I dare presume-- Finer--by all confest.

Tapestry in needle-work is seen In stately Hardwicke Hall; Done by the famous Scottish Queen When captive there,--her thoughts to wean From chequered past, or gloomier scene That might her steps enthral.

My skill with her I used to try, When she was sad and lone, And oft amused her languid eye By spinning down so merrily; And now her handiwork close by Is proudly hung my own.

Poor Coligni's untimely doom, When Medicis was Queen, Was pictured in the Gobelin's loom;-- Colors of light o'er thought of gloom, Like sun-shine on an unblest tomb-- Portray'd the historic scene.

The broach and reed I saw them ply, And work the wondrous loom; Nor broach nor loom nor silk had I, But spun my web and wove it by,-- They watch'd me with invidious eye And swept me from the room!

The wise may triumph o'er the proud: Their work of skill complete Adorn'd the palace of St. Cloud,-- And there, amidst the courtier crowd, Where weaver Gobelin never bowed, I took my honored seat.

'Twere long, my life and works to trace Through lines of Kings renown'd-- How mirrors proud my net-works grace Where daily shines a princely face And hang--most worthy of the place-- Corregio's pictures round.

None _my prerogative_ disown, Nor is it ought to me What Dynasties the nations own;-- Whether _Legitimates_ alone Or "_Citizens_" usurp the throne _To make the people free_.

ELIZA.

_Maine_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DIALOUGE,

From the Italian of Francisco da Lemene.

BY R. H. WILDE, _of Georgia_.

TIRSIS. PHILLIS.

_Phillis_. I'd love you Tirsis, but ...

_Tirsis_. Speak out!--but what?

_Phillis_. I must not tell you that--

_Tirsis_. Dearest! why not?

_Phillis_. Perhaps you'd laugh at me?

_Tirsis_. Indeed I sha'nt.

_Phillis_. You wo'nt?--I'll tell you then--O no! I ca'nt!--

_Tirsis_. Tell me at once, you plague! do'nt teaze me so!--

_Phillis_. Well then--I'd love you Tirsis--but I know ...

_Tirsis_. Know what?

_Phillis_. You're vowed to CHLORIS--a'nt it true?

_Tirsis_. And what of that? I'll vow myself to you.

_Phillis_. What! two at once! D'ye take me for a fool?

_Tirsis_. "Love those that love you"--is not that the rule?

_Both_. |Then we must love each other!--yes, we must! |Swear to love those that love you!--a'nt it just?

NEWPORT, R. I. August 29, 1834.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, _January 20, 1835_.

MR. WHITE,--I enclose you the following lines for insertion in the Messenger. They are copied from the note book of a dear departed parent, whose affectionate tenderness, and sincere and ardent piety,--are portrayed in every line, and breathe from each word, of these simple and touching verses. I am unable, at this moment, to say whether they are, or are not, original; but be this as it may, they cannot fail I think to interest your readers.

FROM THE NOTE BOOK OF MY MOTHER.

When morning, from the damps of night, Beams on the eye with rosy light, And calls thee forth with smile benign-- Then think whose heart responds to thine, And still, with sympathy divine, "Remember me." When gentle twilight, pure and calm, Comes leaning on reflection's arm, When o'er the throngs of cares and woes, Her veil of sober tints she throws And woos the spirit to repose, "Remember me." When the first star, with crescent bright, Beams lonely from the arch of night, The moon sends forth her cheering glance, Then--gazing on the blue expanse, "Remember me." When mournful sighs the hollow wind, And pensive thoughts enwrap the mind, If e'er thy heart, in sorrow's tone, Should sigh, because it feels alone,-- "Remember me." When passing to thy silent bower,-- Devotion claims the sacred hour,-- When bending o'er the holy page, Whose spirit calms affliction's rage, Directs our youth and cheers our age, "Remember me." Oh! yet indulge the ardent claim, While friendship's heart the wish can frame, For, oh! but transient is my lay-- And, mingling soon with kindred clay, My silent lip no more shall say "Remember me." And when in deep oblivion's shade, My cold and mouldering form is laid, If near that bed thy steps should rove, With one short prayer, by feeling wove, One glance of faith, or tear of love, "Remember me."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THOUGHTS ON SEEING THE EVENING STAR.

Mild star of the soul! in the vesper glow Of the lingering daylight beaming-- There's a priceless balm to the bosom of woe In the light from thy coronet streaming.

From the placid arch of the evening sky, And the waveless ether sleeping-- Thy spell descends to the dewy eye, And our woes dissolve in weeping.

On the lightning wings of memory borne, We retrace the paths of our gladness,-- And the bounding bliss of our vernal morn Brings smiles to lighten our sadness.

With the airy step and the bird-like song Of our youth on the star-lit mountain, We dance to the streamlet's tuneful tongue, Or lave in the gelid fountain.

We renew the joys of the wild-rose bower Where the burning vow was plighted; And again in the calm of the genial hour We drink the warm kiss delighted.

In the smiles of a _Mother's_ love we stand, The tears of joy repressing, And we thrill at the touch of a _Father's_ hand, As we kneel to ask his blessing.

These--these are the thoughts that thy talisman ray, Calls up from the years departed; And these are the joys that in hope's decay, Yield a balm to the broken-hearted.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

JEU DE MOTS.--ON A NAME.

Says Hal, "This Miss A----'s a charming young _belle_, But has she a _beau_, my dear Will, can you tell?" "Indeed," replied Will, "it is more than I know; But an _archer_, I think, must of course have a _bow_."

A. Z.

MISS MARTINEAU.