Part 17

The author has moreover been guilty of a very strange mistake in his geography. He makes his hero swim, "Leander-like," over the majestic James,--which according to our reckoning, and agreeably to the map of the country--would have landed him on the _south side_, in the very respectable county of _Surry_;--but, to our utter amazement, the next glimpse we have of him, he is rushing on his fleet courser into the wilderness on the margin of the Chickahomony,--which our best informed geographers have placed on the _north_ side of the ancient _Powhatan_,--now called _James river_. Such mistakes are altogether inexcusable,--and the more so as the author is a native of the "Old Dominion," and ought to have been more circumspect in his topography. Equally unfortunate is his arrangement of historical events,--for if he had looked a little into our early writers, he would have found that Bacon was never carried prisoner to the Eastern Shore; and that the treachery of Larimore, did not betray the insurgent squadron into the power of Berkeley, until _after_ the destruction of Jamestown. These errors in chronology however, might have been forgiven, if the author had otherwise redeemed himself from equally formidable objections. The whole story of the Recluse,--and the miraculous preservation of Bacon when an infant, as related by the old nurse,--strike us as evincing poverty of invention, and as altogether too absurd for an ordinary writer at least to use as materials for romance. Scott, perhaps, might have turned them to some advantage;--at all events, the matchless vigor and beauty of his style, would have thrown a veil over other imperfections. The author might have made something of Wyanokee, but unfortunately failed to do it,--and we cannot say that we even felt interested in the sorrows of Virginia Fairfax. The girl is well enough--very pretty--amiable--and all that, but she wants force and individuality of character. The whole scene in which the dying Mrs. Fairfax is exhibited in the bloody conflict with the Indians in the neighborhood of Richmond, is particularly horrible, and in wretchedly bad taste.

In taking our leave of the author, we would also advise him, when he writes another romance, to "sink the shop,"--or rather the _profession_; and not to describe the wounds and bruises of his _dramatis personæ_ with that technical precision which only surgeons and anatomists can fully comprehend. We would also recommend to him, as a medical man, that when any unlucky hero of his is hereafter tied to an Indian stake, by all means to have him rescued before the pine splinters have actually pierced the flesh,--especially when that hero is made so soon thereafter to perform a series of active exploits requiring sound bodily health and great muscular exertion.

We have taken no pleasure in this free commentary upon the work before us, and have only been induced to make it by a sense of duty. Its author is evidently afflicted with a kind of rabid propensity to write works of fiction; and, if he is resolved to gratify it, we do most earnestly entreat him for his own sake and for the sake of his native state, to invoke hereafter a little more reflection, a purer taste, and a more enlightened judgment in aid of his labors.

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VATHEK.

The publisher having sent a copy of the above work to a correspondent in whose literary attainments, taste and discrimination we place great confidence, received the following criticism from his pen:

I thank you for Vathek, which I have read _purely_ because you sent it to me; otherwise it would have remained unread by me forever. I see nothing "_sublime_" in the work; on the contrary, I was disgusted at its impurity. A more revolting _jumble of nonsense_, _ridiculous conceptions_, _debasing exhibitions_, and _corrupt imaginings_, I never met with in my life. This may perhaps be somewhat redeemed by the oriental descriptions, which were pronounced by Lord Byron, I think, to be excellent. Or this I cannot judge; but if the book were intended, as it seems to be, to inculcate the lesson of the impiety of looking into matters which are too high for us, the moral loses all its force, from the very great corruption of the characters of Vathek and Carathis, who certainly were most justly lodged in Hell, as the fittest place for such useless and abominable wretches. We feel no sympathy for them, when we find them with their hearts on fire; and as for the contrast of the happiness of Gulchenrouz, we care as little about him, for his happiness was certainly undeserved by any thing he had done, so far as we are made acquainted with him. There is such a singular mixture of comic and serious, that one is at a loss to know what the author would be at. What think you, for instance, of the game at football? of Aboulfakir the camel, having a taste for solitude and snorting at the sight of a dwelling, and Cafour's predilection for pestilence? &c. &c. I am quoting now from memory, and have not the patience to look at the book to see if I am right.

A learned English reviewer is not less severe upon this lauded production of juvenile years. After quoting Lord Byron's eulogy upon the work, he says--

Vathek is, indeed, without reference to the time of life when the author penned it, a very remarkable performance; but, like most of the works of the great poet who has thus eloquently praised it, it is stained with some poison-spots--its inspiration is too often such as might have been inhaled in the "Hall of Eblis." We do not allude so much to its audacious licentiousness, as to the diabolical levity of its contempt for mankind. The boy-author appears already to have rubbed all the bloom off his heart; and, in the midst of his dazzling genius, one trembles to think that a strippling of years so tender, should have attained the cool cynicism of a _Candide_. How different is the effect of that Eastern tale of our own days, which Lord Byron ought not to have forgotten when he was criticising his favorite romance. How perfectly does _Thalaba_ realize the idea demanded in the Welsh Triad of "fulness of erudition, simplicity of language, and purity of manners." But the critic was repelled by the purity of that delicious creation, more than attracted by the erudition which he must have respected, and the diction which he could not but admire:--

"The low sweet voice so musical, That with such deep and undefined delight Fills the surrender'd soul."

It would argue a great decline in the moral feeling of our country, and a most adulterated literary taste, if such works as "Vathek" could be generally admired.

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SCRAPS, by John Collins McCabe. Richmond: J. C. Walker. 1835.

This little volume from the Richmond press, consists of various poems and half a dozen tales and legends in prose. The pieces, though of unequal merit, are upon the whole decidedly creditable to the author; who is not only a young man, but as we are informed, has been denied the advantages of a liberal education. His productions are vastly superior to those of many a college dunce, upon whose vacant cranium the heritage of wealth has been expended; and their author holds a much higher grade in the scale of intellect than many of that snarling tribe, who can discern neither talent nor genius, unless allied with some ideal advantage or accidental distinction. We nevertheless hope that Mr. McCabe will continue to look ahead, and contemplate the highest standards of excellence in composition. The most acute observation of men and things, or the most delicate perception of poetical imagery, will avail but little without profound mental labor, and the assiduous cultivation of taste. We select the following as a favorable specimen of his poetry.

LINES

On hearing the song "Sweet Home," and reflections during the same.

O breathe again, that touching strain Which comes like winds o'er waters stealing; Its fall, its swell, like vesper bell, Its full rich notes in rapture pealing, Bids the lone heart, rejoice again In music's all subduing strain.

O Music! rapture's in thy chords! Now gushing soft like moon-beams streaming On quiet spot, on rural grot, On mossy couch, on infant dreaming,-- Or rising into raptures wild, It fills with wonder nature's child.

The Exile lone, no land to own, Lists to thy soft and touching numbers, And _dreams_ he sees the cot, the trees, The scenes of youth, (how sweet his slumbers!) Nor dreams when thy bright spell is o'er His happy "Home" he'll see no more.

The sailor boy, bereft of joy, Looks on the stars above him glowing; The big tear steals, his bosom feels As troubled as the waters flowing, And while the billows round him foam, He faintly murmurs, "Home! sweet Home!"

The warrior stern, whose feelings burn To meet the foe, his rights defending, When war is o'er, sweet home once more Its rainbow colors round him blending, Invites him from the bloody plain Back to its quiet hearth again.

The christian warm, round whom the storm Of opposition wildly rages, Beholds the prize beyond the skies, Reflected on the glowing pages Of God's own book, and with a tear Of joy, he "reads his title clear."

O! onward press, life's wilderness Will soon be past; where spirits linger Round flowing streams in rapt'rous dreams And golden lyres, softly finger, We all shall meet, no more to roam, And dwell in an eternal home.

EDITORIAL REMARKS.

We continue the interesting "_Sketches of Tripoli and the Barbary States_." We believe that when completed, they will constitute the most authentic record extant, of the military and diplomatic transactions of the period referred to. Besides the author's access to correct sources of information, he has the taste and talent to impart peculiar grace and interest to his narrative.

"_Berenice_," a tale, by Mr. Edgar A. Poe, will be read with interest, especially by the patrons of the Messenger in this city, of which Mr. P. is a native, and where he resided until he reached manhood. Whilst we confess that we think there is too much German horror in his subject, there can be but one opinion as to the force and elegance of his style. He discovers a superior capacity and a highly cultivated taste in composition.

The "_Extract from the Reminiscences of a Western Traveller_," proceeding as it does from the pen of a practised and polished writer, has the additional advantage, as we are assured, of being founded in strict truth.

We are sorry that we are not permitted to announce the source from which we derive the original story or apologue of "_Jonathan Bull and Mary Bull_." Its own merit however, and its obvious application to events of the time at which it was written, will attract a due share of attention.

We especially recommend to our female readers, particularly the young and lovely who are just entering into the flowery but deceitful paths of worldly pleasure, to read the original narrative which is headed "_Marrying Well_."

The "_Letters from a Sister_" will amply repay the reader; so also will the article on the "_Fine Arts_"--and the "_Persian Story_," translated from the French of Florian.

The "_Scene in Paris, by a Virginian_," we have no hesitation in particularly recommending. It is an admirable and graphic description of what the writer saw with his own eyes,--and the excellent delineation of the French character, comprising its extremes of energy and weakness, will forcibly strike the reader. With us the whole narrative possesses powerful interest.

It is but sheer justice to insert the letter from "_Larry Lyle_," (printed by mistake in our last "_Zarry Zyle_,") in answer to the criticisms of our Shepherdstown correspondent. Mr. Lyle defends his muse with spirit and ability.

We also insert from a sense of duty, a letter from the author of a "_Note to Blackstone's Commentaries_," accompanied by the expression of our regret that he should have considered himself somewhat unkindly treated by the gentleman who furnished a reply to that article. We think we can vouch for it that the gentleman referred to, _fully intended_ to restrict himself within the bounds of fair and honorable discussion, and if we had thought differently, his article would have been excluded.

We must be excused for saying a word or two in respect to the _poetical_ department. Unless the reader is very fastidious, he must, we think, be pleased. We read "_Young Rosalie Lee_" more than once, before we could fully perceive the exquisite beauty and delicacy of the mind which produced it,--and we venture the prediction, that unless the author is divorced from the society of the sacred _nine_ by paramount duties, he is destined to no ordinary celebrity. We dare say that for the expression of this opinion, we ourselves shall not be spared, for we confess there is a quaintness in the style which will be repulsive to most readers.

In the "_Stray Leaves_," there is something which reminds us of Waller's beautiful lines beginning, "Go lovely rose," &c. and we almost regretted that the author should have so suddenly glided into the genuine Anacreontic.

Our readers will agree with us that the remaining pieces, particularly the "_Extract from an Unfinished Poem_"--the lines "_To Hope_"--"_To the Bible_"--"_Moonlight_"--and "_Hopes and Sorrows_," have each more than ordinary claims to admiration.

The "_Lines on Barlow's Monument_," by the celebrated Helen Maria Williams, and now published for the first time, need no praise from our pen; neither do the two original productions of Mrs. Sigourney, which we take great pleasure in inserting.

It would be doing us much injustice to suppose that the pieces which we do not particularly notice, are for that reason lightly esteemed. Whilst there are, it is true, degrees in the pleasure with which we regard the favors of contributors, their insertion ought to forbid the idea that any are unwelcome.

TO CONTRIBUTORS, CORRESPONDENTS, &C.

We thank our correspondent C. W. L. for pointing out the resemblance between the little epigram entitled "_The Mistake Corrected_," in our last, and the "_Surprise_," in Little's poems, which he quotes. The resemblance is certainly strong, and it is quite probable that the former if not borrowed was at least suggested by the latter. We cannot agree however, that it is a "plagiarism," in the proper sense of that term; for we know too well the personal and literary character of the gentleman who presented us with the trifle referred to, to suspect him for a moment of so paltry a proceeding. We rather conclude therefore, that its resemblance to Moore's bagatelle, is either the result of casual coincidence,--or more probably, perhaps, of an accidental mistake of the product of memory for that of fancy; a kind of mistake which those who have read much are very liable to make.

We assure our correspondent B. R. B. that we have carefully compared the lines published in our last with his manuscript, and find them to correspond _verbatim_. He wrongs us much if he thinks we would do him wilful injustice; and if one word has been substituted for another in the lines referred to, so as to change their sense, he must ascribe it to himself. We hope with this explanation he will excuse us from inserting his letter at full length.

There is a great deal of feeling in many of the communications sent to the publisher by T. H. C., M.D.; but to our poor taste, there is not much _poetry_. We question whether the Doctor will not find the lancet and pill box of more profit in that warm region to which he has emigrated, than the offerings of his prolific muse. The poetical manufacture depends more upon the _quality_ than the _quantity_ of its fabrics, for success.

We have received the following communication since the publication of our last number, from "_Fra Diavolo_," (_Horresco referens!_) which, as it is brief, we spread before our readers. His sneers at our "literary morality" and "critical acumen," we receive with great composure. Perhaps indeed, our vanity might be wounded if we had a tithe only of what seems to belong to the writer himself; but as our pretensions are very humble, we care not a farthing whether they are disputed or not. His request not to publish his poetry, (except on his own terms) shall be complied with; and should we consign his impure effusions to the flames, as he also desires, the world will have little or no cause to regret it. So long as we can secure the rich contributions received from other quarters, we shall console ourselves with the loss of "_Fra's_" favors, and even endeavor to survive his unprovoked resentment. To "give the devil his due," however, we shall continue to lament the downward flight of our correspondent's muse; and uninitiated as we profess to be in the sublime mysteries of the school to which he belongs, we shall even be so perverse as to prefer the "modest mien and plain attire" of mediocrity, to the more flashy but less useful adornments of brilliant but misguided genius. One word in justification of ourselves. We did not admit the "_Doom_" into our columns without reluctance; a reluctance which nothing would have overcome but the conviction that a useful moral might be deduced from the fate of the "_Lover Fiend_," who figures as the hero of the story. As to the "_Passage of the Beresina_," whether it be "balderdash" or not, is matter of taste and opinion. One thing is certain; it is from the pen of a highly accomplished scholar.

Mr. White,--_I have just seen your sixth number of the Southern Literary Messenger, and shall decline having my contribution published on condition of any improvement of the poetry by your most chaste and wise editor. The admission of such balderdash as the "Doom" and "The Passage of the Beresina," is quite enough evidence of his literary morality and good taste. I require no further token of it; least of all in my own case, where I am to be martyred at the shrine of such critical acumen--God save the mark! Put the manuscript into the fire, and oblige yours,_

FRA DIAVOLO.

_March 25, 1835_.

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_From the author of the "Note to Blackstone's Commentaries."_

You judge rightly that I have no call to answer my censor. I have no pride of authorship in the affair. I wished to awaken the public mind, and he has aided me, for which he has my thanks. I have no controversy with him. He argues against opinions I have not advanced, and, in his last paragraph, comes in aid of that I had endeavored to maintain. By his own showing a _quasi_ war exists _among ourselves_, under circumstances which render any nearer approach to peace impossible. We have the alternative of "a war-like peace, or a peace-like war," and he wisely prefers the former. He predicates this decision on the only principle for which I contended, viz: the effect of a continuing necessity. I only suggested the _possibility_ of such a case. _He_ finds it existing _in fact_. It doubtless _might_ exist in various ways. _Destruction_ is the precise object of _savage_ warfare. With us, it is the _means_ to an end. With savages, it is the _end_ itself. Had he seen, as I have, a few individuals of once powerful tribes, escaped from massacre, and saved from utter extinction only by finding shelter among the whites, he would not have to learn that _bellum ad internecionem_ is not unknown among savages.

The style and matter of his essay both show an education which should have taught him that a supercilious tone should find no place in a controversy between an anonymous and an avowed author. _He_ wears defensive armor. _I_ am naked. Is it chivalrous; is it manly; is it fair, in a contest which should be conducted "as if a brother should a brother dare to gentle exercise and proof of arms," to thrust with "unbated point?" His point indeed is not envenomed, nor does he stab malignantly, but he should have touched my scutcheon with the reverse of his lance. To strike with the point, however gently, is a challenge to combat of _outrance_. I decline it.

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_Extract of a Letter from the Reviewer of Messrs. Adams' and Everett's Orations_.

You say, "The most sublime events and the most heroic actions have generally found some poet or historian of sufficient qualifications to record them with dignity and effect." Granted, but what is _dignity_? Does it consist in that sort of declamation which is meant to "split the ears of the groundlings?" What is _effect_? Is it _stage effect_? Is it made up of "gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss and thunder," and images placed by the speaker's side to be apostrophized? The example that you give illustrates the maxim that "the language of eulogy is misapplied to transcendant greatness. It weakens and dictates the truth of history."

You say "even the most exalted truths which have ever dawned upon mankind,--the facts and doctrines of revelation,--have lost none of their grandeur in the simple narratives of plain and unlettered men." Most true. The _simplicity_ of the narrative is its excellence. But what should we say to a Gospel after the manner of Mr. Adams, or even of Mr. Everett?

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_Mr. White_:--The legitimate aim of criticism is, as you yourself have more than once remarked, to point out the proper path towards excellence. A true critic effects this by gently and courteously exposing error, and lauding beauties where beauties are to be found. So far as I can judge, neither gentleness nor courtesy can be said to characterize the critique of your "Shepherdstown friend." The want of these qualities would certainly have induced me to pass over the letter in question, had it not received honorable notice from yourself. In the pamphlet war between Matthew Carey and the redoubtable Cobbett, the first apologizes for his own rudeness, by quoting the old proverb, "fight the devil with fire," or something to that amount. But this is bad philosophy; and in my brief answer, I will endeavor as much as possible to observe that courtesy which your correspondent has forgotten.

In the "Song of the Seasons" quaintness was aimed at, and aimed at only because I thought the subject called for it. One part of my object was to depict the minute relations existing between the human heart and earth itself. Minuteness was necessary, and to be minute without quaintness, would render any piece dull and pointless analysis. With regard to obscurity, and the use of terms, I would ask your critic, if when he had "_studied the song_," obscurity did not disappear, and if the terms are not in keeping with the quaintness aimed at. Indeed, I would ask him, if the terms used are not just such as should have been used in any case. Beams _are_ "amethystine." We will find an admirable application of the word in Keates' "Eve of St. Agnes;" and Mrs. Hemans sings very prettily of the drowsy "Bugle-Bee." By the way, let me in this last phrase, adopt the change recommended. The stanzas quoted is the second of the "_Song_."

"A white roe wandered where sweet herbs and tender grass were peeping; His snowy head was poised in pride, his chainless heart was leaping: The '_bumble-bee_' had called the herd from icy solitude,-- And he had come at '_bumble_' call--fleet centaur of the wood!"