Part 4

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.”