ISRAFEL.[2]

[1]The jib boom of the Serapis gave way, somewhere about this time. Perhaps this was the moment.Ed.

[1]

The jib boom of the Serapis gave way, somewhere about this time. Perhaps this was the moment.Ed.

ISRAFEL.[2]

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BY EDGAR A. POE.

———

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell,“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”None sing so wildly wellAs the angel Israfel,And the giddy stars (so legends tell)Ceasing their hymns, attend the spellOf his voice, all mute.Tottering aboveIn her highest noonThe enamoured moonBlushes with love,While, to listen, the red levinPauses in Heaven,With the rapid Pleiads, even,Which were seven.And they say (the starry choirAnd the other listening things)That Israfeli’s fireIs due unto that lyreBy which he sits and sings—That trembling living lyreWith those unusual strings.But the Heavens that angel trod,Where deep thoughts are a duty—Where Love is a grown God—Where Houri glances areImbued with all the beautyWhich we worship in the star—The more lovely, the more far!Thou art not, therefore, wrong,Israfeli, who despisestAn unimpassioned song.To thee the laurels belong,Best bard, because the wisest.Merrily live, and long!The ecstasies aboveWith thy burning measures suit—Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,With the fervor of thy lute.Well may the stars be mute!Yes, Heaven is thine; but thisIs a world of sweets and sours—Our flowers are merely—flowers;And the shadow of thy blissIs the sunshine of ours.If I did dwellWhere IsrafelHath dwelt, and he where I,He might not sing one half so well,One half so passionately,While a bolder note than this might swellFrom my lyre within the sky!

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell,

“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”

None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell)

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering aboveIn her highest noonThe enamoured moonBlushes with love,While, to listen, the red levinPauses in Heaven,With the rapid Pleiads, even,Which were seven.

Tottering above

In her highest noon

The enamoured moon

Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin

Pauses in Heaven,

With the rapid Pleiads, even,

Which were seven.

And they say (the starry choirAnd the other listening things)That Israfeli’s fireIs due unto that lyreBy which he sits and sings—That trembling living lyreWith those unusual strings.

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things)

That Israfeli’s fire

Is due unto that lyre

By which he sits and sings—

That trembling living lyre

With those unusual strings.

But the Heavens that angel trod,Where deep thoughts are a duty—Where Love is a grown God—Where Houri glances areImbued with all the beautyWhich we worship in the star—The more lovely, the more far!

But the Heavens that angel trod,

Where deep thoughts are a duty—

Where Love is a grown God—

Where Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in the star—

The more lovely, the more far!

Thou art not, therefore, wrong,Israfeli, who despisestAn unimpassioned song.To thee the laurels belong,Best bard, because the wisest.Merrily live, and long!

Thou art not, therefore, wrong,

Israfeli, who despisest

An unimpassioned song.

To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest.

Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies aboveWith thy burning measures suit—Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,With the fervor of thy lute.Well may the stars be mute!

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit—

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

With the fervor of thy lute.

Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but thisIs a world of sweets and sours—Our flowers are merely—flowers;And the shadow of thy blissIs the sunshine of ours.

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours—

Our flowers are merely—flowers;

And the shadow of thy bliss

Is the sunshine of ours.

If I did dwellWhere IsrafelHath dwelt, and he where I,He might not sing one half so well,One half so passionately,While a bolder note than this might swellFrom my lyre within the sky!

If I did dwell

Where Israfel

Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing one half so well,

One half so passionately,

While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky!

[2]And the angel Israfel, or Israfeli, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who is the most musical of all God’s creatures.—Koran.

[2]

And the angel Israfel, or Israfeli, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who is the most musical of all God’s creatures.—Koran.

BYE-GONE HOURS.

WORDS BY THEHON. MRS. NORTON.MUSIC BYMRS. PRICE BLACKWOOD.

WORDS BY THE

HON. MRS. NORTON.

MUSIC BY

MRS. PRICE BLACKWOOD.

———

Philadelphia:John F. Nunns,184 Chesnut Street.

———

musical score

’Tis sad, ’tis sad to think uponThe joyous days of old—When ev’ry year that wearies on,Is number’d by some friendship gone!Some

’Tis sad, ’tis sad to think upon

The joyous days of old—

When ev’ry year that wearies on,

Is number’d by some friendship gone!

Some

musical score

kindly heart grown cold!Could those days but come againWith their thorns and flowers!I would give the hopes of years!For those by-gone hours!’Tis sad—’tis sad to number o’erThe faces glad and gay,Which we have loved! Some smile no more,Around us as they did of yore!And some have turn’d away!Could those days, &c.’Tis sad—’tis sad to come again,With changed heart and brow,To our youth’s home, where none remainOf those who made it blessed then—Who leave it lonely now!Could those days, &c.Oh! little things bring back to meThe thoughts of by-gone hours.The breath of kine upon the lea,The murmur of the mountain bee,The scent of hawthorn flow’rs!Could those days, &c.

kindly heart grown cold!Could those days but come againWith their thorns and flowers!I would give the hopes of years!For those by-gone hours!

kindly heart grown cold!

Could those days but come again

With their thorns and flowers!

I would give the hopes of years!

For those by-gone hours!

’Tis sad—’tis sad to number o’erThe faces glad and gay,Which we have loved! Some smile no more,Around us as they did of yore!And some have turn’d away!Could those days, &c.

’Tis sad—’tis sad to number o’er

The faces glad and gay,

Which we have loved! Some smile no more,

Around us as they did of yore!

And some have turn’d away!

Could those days, &c.

’Tis sad—’tis sad to come again,With changed heart and brow,To our youth’s home, where none remainOf those who made it blessed then—Who leave it lonely now!Could those days, &c.

’Tis sad—’tis sad to come again,

With changed heart and brow,

To our youth’s home, where none remain

Of those who made it blessed then—

Who leave it lonely now!

Could those days, &c.

Oh! little things bring back to meThe thoughts of by-gone hours.The breath of kine upon the lea,The murmur of the mountain bee,The scent of hawthorn flow’rs!Could those days, &c.

Oh! little things bring back to me

The thoughts of by-gone hours.

The breath of kine upon the lea,

The murmur of the mountain bee,

The scent of hawthorn flow’rs!

Could those days, &c.

Sports and Pastimes.—THE FOWLING-PIECE.

A bookpresents to the shot an elastic body, like down, through which large shot does not penetrate much farther than small, because it has to displace and carry with it a larger mass of paper. Fur and feathers of game do not present such a resisting body to the shot as the leaves of a book do; therefore, although large shot will bear the above test, a much fairer way of trying it would be to fire at thin pieces of wood fixed upright, (a pile of cigar boxes would answer the purpose). The latter trial would, we think, convince any one of the great difference in momentum between the two charges. At forty yards, not more than three No. 7 pellets could be calculated on to strike a partridge, and those from a light gun would necessarily be weak; whereas, at that distance, with our charge, two No. 2 pellets might be calculated upon, and with what effect we leave the experimentalist to decide, when he has tried it at a target composed of pieces of wood one eighth, one third, and one half of an inch thick.

It is not so much the velocity as the momentum of a shot that renders it effective. The momentum of a shot increases in a direct ratio with its weight. The momentum of a No. 2 shot much more than compensates for the diminished weight of powder and additional weight of lead that we have recommended.

The structure of a bird or quadruped not protected by feathers or fur—and we contend that game is very slightly so protected as against shot—may be compared with that of a ship. It is a well ascertained fact that a 64 lb. ball, moving with only half the velocity of a 32 lb. ball, would produce more than double the effect; the larger, but slowly-flying ball, would split a much thicker mast or beam, and do more damage to the frame-work of a ship, than the small one. Upon the same principle, we think large shot is more effective for shooting the stronger species of game.

But assuming that game is right well fortified with a covering of fur, feathers or down, that circumstance would not induce us to resort to small shot; quite the reverse, because we know that small shot cannot be fired through down effectively from a large gun at thirty yards, much less from a light fowling-piece. No stanchion-gun will shoot No. 7 effectively at ducks, geese, and the larger wild-fowl—the birds killed would be chiefly such as were struck in the head; not one would be stopped by a body blow. Yet large shot from the stanchion-gun, after passing through down, strikes an effective body blow. No doubt No. 7 may be shot through down, but after overcoming the resistance, it would scarcely injure the bird, certainly not break a bone.

Thus we find that small shot, fired from any gun, is totally inadequate to kill birds protected with down by a body blow; but that large shot, flying from a large gun with not half the velocity of the ineffectual small shot, achieves what is desired. It is the momentum that effects the object.

A collateral advantage arising from the use of large shot should not be overlooked. In order to kill in good style with small shot, the aim must be such that the bird fired at shall be near the centre of the charge as thrown; for if the bird be near the outer circle of the charge, it is ten to one that it is only slightly wounded; but if near the outer circle of a charge of large shot, it is ten to one that it is brought down; for it must not be lost sight of, that when large shot is used, a single pellet will mostly be sufficient to bring a bird down. There is a stunning effect produced by large shot, which throws the bird off its balance at once. Small shot has not the sameimmediateeffect. Hares, rabbits, grouse, pheasants, and full-grown partridges, will carry it off, though they fall within a hundred yards. It is very seldom, indeed, that a bird towers after being fired at with large shot.

The term friction implies a gradual contraction of the barrel towards the muzzle, which retards the progress of the shot, that more time may be allowed to the powder to burn. Relief accelerates the progress of shot through the barrels. What is the proper degree of relief or friction for different descriptions of barrels, is a subject fruitful of controversy; as is also the form of the breech. The best breech is that which will cause the greatest quantity of powder to consume in the barrel, and give the least recoil. The percussion system of firing has simplified the boring of guns. We think that short barrels intended to be fired by percussion, should be bored perfect cylinders, and the breech should be conical or nearly so, and capable of holding a little more than half a charge of powder. Long barrels should be bored true cylinders throughout the greater part of their length, a little relief being allowed near the muzzle.

A barrel, which recoils from being light, or from not being held firmly when fired, throws shot very weakly. So, on the other hand, barrels which have sufficient weight to break the recoil, or which are placed against something solid when fired, have their shooting power amazingly increased. The reason is, that when the gun is allowed to recoil, a portion of that power which should be employed in expelling the shot is uselessly expended on a yielding surface in a contrary direction: whereas, when the barrel is firmly fixed, or is of sufficient weight to break the recoil, that portion of the explosive force which strikes against the breech rebounds and is forced back upon the shot, and consequently becomes a portion of the available strength of the charge. This explains why the weight of the gun rather than a difference in length or bore regulates the shooting power. In what follows, Mr. Greener,[3]whose book contains a lucid exposition of the nature of projectile force, shows this more clearly:—

“The fact that the shooting powers of a gun are increased by its being fixed in an immoveable frame, is proved with the practice of mortars. Mortars on iron beds, and these firmly embedded in the earth, will throw a shell farther when on the ground than when placed on a platform, or on board a ship. It is for the purpose of destroying the recoil, that mortars for sea service, though of the same calibre as those intended for land-service, are made three times the weight. Dr. Hutton states, that he found no advantage by retarding the recoil in practice with artillery. He means, that no advantage is gained by stopping at three feet a gun accustomed to recoil to the distance of six. The statement is perfectly true. If he were to allow a gun to recoil only an inch, and then to strike against a solid substance, he would gain nothing. For if it recoil ever so little, the shooting force is as much weakened as if it recoiled twice as far.

“To increase that force, a steady fixed resistance is required. The velocity of the projectile depends on the force of the immediate impulse. Before a gun, suffered to recoil, could rebound from striking some solid substance in its recoil, the charge would be gone, and could, therefore, receive no additional impetus from that rebound. The truth of this fact may be illustrated by throwing a hand-ball against any loose body with sufficient force to displace it. However hard or elastic that body might be, the ball would not rebound from it, but would fall perpendicularly down. Fix and secure that same body, and then the ball will rebound with little less force than that with which it was thrown against it. So it is with gunpowder. If it meet with a firm resistance, it will rebound and project the ball or shot with additional force.”

[3]The Gun, by William Greener. London, 1835.

[3]

The Gun, by William Greener. London, 1835.

——

There is a proverb current among sportsmen, that to kill a woodcock is to perform a day’s work, which doubtlessly originated in the circumstance of a woodcock being seldom found until a large extent of wood has been closely beaten. When, however, woodcocks are most abundant, it would not be a difficult task, according to that standard of labor, to do the work of a week in a day, in any noted cover; for every cover frequented by cocks acquires a notoriety which it seldom loses, since any wood well frequented with cocks one year, has generally a fair supply the next. But whether the same cocks that frequent a wood this year return the next, with their offspring, or whether an entirely new set of occupants take possession, we leave the ornithologist to decide. A certain description of woods are seldom known to fail of woodcocks during the winter months; these woods or plantations are such as are swampy, or have a stream of water running through them, or woods abounding in springs—or where, from the nature of the ground, or want of draining, the top water encourages the growth of moss. The woodcock is rarely found in woods where moss is not abundant. During a frost, cocks are found near fresh water springs; at other times they are most commonly flushed in the open glades of the densest woods, or rather in those parts of the woods not choked up at the bottom with fern, rushes, or brambles, but where they can freely run about, and in those parts where willows, oziers, hazel-trees, or crate-wood is plentiful. In such places it will readily be ascertained whether there are cocks or not, by the borings in the moss or dead leaves, and by the chalkings. A cock will often be found near its feeding place, after a dark night.

A cock will seldom fly far until it has been fired at several times: it should, therefore, when practicable, be marked down. By a judicious system of marking, many successive shots may be obtained at the same bird. It is seldom that the skilful shooter flushes a cock, which, with the aid of markers, he does not eventually kill. The difficulty of woodcock shooting arises, for the most part, from the birds being flushed in the thickest part of woods, and contriving to wing their flight through the trees in such a manner as to baffle the sportsman’s aim. After being fired at in a wood, cocks will frequently alight amongst hedge-rows on the outskirts, especially under a hedge running close to and parallel with a water-course, when they are easily killed, as they will not rise until the shooter is close upon them; and their flight is not difficult to master when there are no trees to obstruct the aim.

A shooter, who has not opportunities of grouse-shooting, deems cock-shooting the perfection of his art; but he considers himself more than repaid for his toil, if he bag a couple or two. Combined with pheasant shooting, it is glorious sport.

As cocks are birds of passage, and their tarriance in our covers is of uncertain duration, permission to shoot them is often given to persons whose honour can be depended upon not to kill pheasants. To any but a real sportsman this is a tantalizing employment; the pheasants rise before him every fifty yards, and he may perhaps not meet with more than a couple of cocks in a day.

Spaniels are the best dogs for this sport: they give tongue when close upon game, and so allow the shooter notice, in a situation where he could not see a pointer or setter.

Formerly any one who was an adept at bringing down a woodcock, was certain of the enjoyment of a considerable local reputation as a shot, and he deserved it. Place one of their long, heavy, single-barrelled pieces, furnished with an ancient lock, flint of course, in the hands of a modern shooter, let him charge with powder similar to that used in the early days, and take his chance in a tangled brake, where the cock can make play among the branches for its life, and he will readily believe that killing a cock in those days was a real trial of skill. A short light detonator is thrown upon the bird, the trigger is drawn, and the shot reaches the mark in an instant; so speedy is the whole process, that it is scarcely necessary to make any allowance for the motion of the object, when attempting snap shots at short distances; but, with the fowling-piece and ammunition of the period we are speaking of, it was necessary to take aim half a yard above or before the object moving, for a bird would fly that distance at least, after the trigger was drawn, and before the shot reached it; or if it made a sudden turn, the shot swept past it. Besides the less chance of killing with one of those long heavy guns, the shooter would not fire half so often as with a light one; so much more time being necessary to bring up the piece and calculate the requisite allowance, the bird would generally be behind the next tree before the gun would be at the shoulder. Such was the slowness of ignition, that wild-fowl would take alarm at the flash from the pan, and dive out of harm’s way ere the shot reached the water. In all shooting, whether in the open or in cover, a deal depends upon where the shooter places himself,—a knowledge of this part of his art will enable him to obtain twice as many fair shots as his uninitiated companion. When shooting in high covers, the sportsman should push on hastily through those parts where, though very likely for game, he cannot command a view of it should it rise; but whenever he comes to a glade that commands a view in several directions, he should wait some time while his dogs beat around him, and his companions, buried in brambles and brushwood, pass him. It is often advisable to follow a footpath in a wood, particularly where ground shots are expected.

In our next, we shall pursue this subject, and give some remarks upon the lock, the percussion system, triggers, wadding, ammunition, etc., and shall then proceed with remarks upon Snipe Shooting, etc. We are determined to make this department a perfectvade mecumto the sportsman.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.[4]

[4]Owing to the temporary absence of Mr. Poe, the reviews in this number are from another hand. That department is exclusively under the control of Mr. Poe. C. J. Peterson, his coadjutor, has the charge of the other departments of the work.

[4]

Owing to the temporary absence of Mr. Poe, the reviews in this number are from another hand. That department is exclusively under the control of Mr. Poe. C. J. Peterson, his coadjutor, has the charge of the other departments of the work.

The Life and Times of Red Jacket, or Sa-go-ye-wat-ha; being a sequel to the History of the Six Nations. ByWilliam L. Stone.1 vol. Wiley and Putnam, New York and London, 1841.

The first settlers of this country found it tenanted by a people totally different from the effeminate races of Hispaniola and Cuba. Bold, patient and sagacious; sinewy in form and inured to fatigues; warlike in character, wise in council, and hospitable to a proverb, the savages of North America approached more nearly to an equality with the Anglo-Saxon race, than any people whom the rage for discovery had then made known to Europe. Nor was their progress in civilization to be despised. Their wigwams, though not luxurious, were comfortable; their women cultivated maize, tobacco, and numerous vegetables; pillows of wood were used in common by them and by the English peasantry; and, in the comforts of every day life, the savages of this continent fell little behind the mass of the European population. Women were held in high respect; their persons never violated in war, and their opinions consulted in cases of difficulty. The form of government in use among the Indians was singularly adapted to their condition. Like the ancient Germanic leader, the Indian chief was usually chosen for his wisdom, strength, and bravery—we sayusually, because in nothing has more ignorance been shown than in describing the Indian polity as everywhere the same. No general rule can be laid down respecting it. In most of the tribes the government was that of a democracy; in some that of an aristocracy; and, in a few instances, that of a nearly absolute despotism. Sometimes there was one chief in war and another in peace: now he was ruled by a council of old men, and now he had delegated powers equal to those of a dictator; but, on the whole, the usual polity appears to have been democratic, each brave having a chance of attaining the leadership by his eloquence, wisdom, or courage. Often these qualities preserved the supreme power in a family for generations, the son succeeding the father, unless a more worthy leader was chosen by the people. Where there was both a war chief and a civil ruler, the latter office was the more likely to be hereditary. In short, what Tacitus said of the ancient Germans, may be pronounced of the Indians: “Reges ex nobilitate, duces ex virtute sumunt: nec regibus infinita, nec libera potestas; et duces exemplo potius quam imperio præsunt.” “They took their kings on account of nobility, and their generals on account of valor: nor was the power of their kings absolute and unlimited; and their generals commanded by the authority which their example rather than their power gave them.” And, in another place, “de minoribus principes; de majoribus omnes”—“the principal men consulted and decided about the least, the whole body of the people about the greatest affairs.” Nor did the resemblance stop here. The same forest life, the same habit of recounting their deeds in chaunts, the same warlike character, the same wild and yet spiritual religion, and the same haughtiness of spirit, arising from the consciousness of independence, characterised alike our Teuton ancestors, whose freedom we inherit, and our predecessors on this continent, whose liberty we have destroyed. And to this day, if we may credit Catlin, the Western Indian remains the same proud being. The Sioux, glittering in his showy costume, and careering along the prairie with his spear and steed, reminds us of the ancient Pole, flashing with jewels, galloping to the diet at Warsaw, and seeming to justify the haughty boast of his order, “that if the sky were to fall they would support it on the points of their lances.”

At the period of its settlement by the whites, the two most powerful nations of what now forms the Northeastern section of the United States, were the Lenni-Lenape and Mengwe—the former occupying the shores of the Delaware river, and extending into Connecticut—and the latter living chiefly in the Valley of the Mohawk and its vicinity. Neither of these people were the original occupiers of the land; but who their predecessors were, or whence they came, no man can tell. Their language, customs and laws are as unknown to us as those of the Antediluvian world. They have passed away and left no sign. Now and then the traveller, through some primeval forest, will come across the ruins of their forts—rude, vague and vast—but he can gather nothing from these silent mounds, except the single fact, that a race once peopled this continent superior in civilization to the Indians. The Alligewi gave name to our mountains,[5]and that is all we know.

Betwixt the Lenni-Lenape and Mengwe there raged continual wars, in which the former nation generally came off victorious. At length, however, the several tribes of the Mengwe united into a confederacy known as that of the Five Nations; and, being supplied with fire-arms by the Dutch, succeeded in subduing the Delawares, and forcing them to assume the character ofWOMEN. This singular ceremony was performed at Albany, in the presence of the Dutch, in 1617. From that time the Iroquois have been the dominant nation. A work recording their history, explaining their governmental polity, and discussing their manners and customs would throw great light on the whole Indian race, and prove invaluable to the student; and it is as one of a series, intended to carry out such an idea, that the present volume has been published. The author has divided his subject into four periods: the first of which will contain the history of the Six Nations, up to the arrival of Sir William Johnson—the second will be occupied by the life and times of that remarkable individual—the third carries on the history through the life of Brandt—and the fourth, the present work, brings the subject up to the sale of the last Seneca lands in 1838. Only the last two eras of this history have as yet seen the light.

The life of Red Jacket is the least important portion of this subject, affording little more than a narrative of treaties for the sale of lands, with an occasional glimpse at the polity of the Six Nations, and the Senecas in particular. The period is not one calculated to display the powers which the early history and origin of the Six Nations might call forth. Industry and research are nearly all that is required. Both of these qualities Colonel Stone has evinced. There is little that is positively new in the book, but many doubtful questions have been settled, and a clearer insight given into the Indian character and customs than we had been led to expect. As an instance of the latter, we notice the fact mentioned of the women and war-chiefs in the Canandaigua council, who took the business of the treaty out of the sachems’ hands, asserting that the latter had no right to refuse the sale of lands, against the opinion of the women and braves. We are also made more fully acquainted, in this volume, with the subjection, in general, of the military to the civil power among the Indians. Perhaps the style is objectionable in one or two particulars, and there are too many speeches given “in extenso;” while events of little importance sometimes occupy as much space as those of greater moment, and tend to give an occasional prolixity to the work, which would be well worth the author’s revision when a second edition comes to be demanded. The anecdotes which intersperse the volume are highly characteristic. On the whole, in collecting and arranging so many undigested facts, and in preserving from oblivion the oral traditions of the actors in the scenes he relates, Colonel Stone has shown a commendable industry. But his work is only begun. The mere record of a chieftain’s life, however celebrated the individual may be, is secondary to the history of a mighty people and the inquiry into its origin. We care little, comparatively, when or how Red Jacket spoke, but we do care whence his people came. Our object is to learn the polity and customs of his nation, to analyze its language—in short, thoroughly to understand its history and character. To do this is what constitutes Colonel Stone’s design, but as yet he has only incidentally carried out his plan. Neither the life of Brandt nor that of Red Jacket does more than skim over the great question our author has proposed to discuss. Biography is not history: the narrative of a few land treaties is not the account of a nation’s glory. As the greatest people of the Indian race, and as the conquerors of the Alligewi, we feel an interest in dissipating the obscurity which attends the origin of the Six Nations. It is in vain to say such an attempt would be fruitless. Has it ever been methodically, analytically, perseveringly tried? Why does Colonel Stone avoid this portion of his subject—the portion which should naturally claim his attention first? We tell him frankly that he would gain ten times more reputation, and prove himself possessed of ten times more talent, if he would come up to this matter gallantly, and not scour around and around it, like a frightened hound.

Red Jacket was a sachem or civil chief among the Senecas. He seems to have been of no family, and to have won his way to the first place in the councils of his people, by his tact, his patriotism, and, more than all his eloquence. Few men have ever lived who surpassed him in oratory, if we may judge his proficiency in that art by the effect he produced on his hearers. All that has been related of Demosthenes and Cicero among the ancients, or of Bolingbroke and Chatham among the moderns, may be applied with equal truth to this great orator of the Senecas. When he rose to speak not a word was heard—when he took his seat his enthusiasm infected all. He was even able to carry his point when superstition, in its darkest guise, was arrayed against him. Some specimens, at least, of such wonderful powers of eloquence may naturally be expected to have come down to us; yet, with but one or two exceptions, his printed speeches are tame to mediocrity. Much of this, no doubt, is to be attributed to incompetent translations: indeed, our author lays the whole fault at this door. But there is another and simpler reason, to which Colonel Stone has not alluded.

Every nation has its distinctive spirit, or, to speak more plainly, its peculiar mode of thought. To this the orator must accommodate himself. The same style of eloquence which affects an Englishman, falls cold on the ear of an Italian. Even the Philippics of Demosthenes, or the orations of Cicero, were unrivalled, only so far forth as they were adapted to the peculiarities of an Athenian or Roman audience; and, had the situation of either of these orators been changed, there is great chance that, unless they altered their style, they would have been hooted from the forum, or at least listened to in silence. So with the oriental orators, whose most celebrated passages seem turgid to us. We take it, then, that one of the great secrets of this apparent tameness in Red Jacket’s orations, arises, as much from our different appreciation of his style, as from the inadequacy of the translations. We admit that there exists no perfect transcript of a harangue by him, but could one of his speeches be handed down to us, word for word, we predict that it would seem to us little better than turgid bombast or inflated allegory. Yet that Red Jacket was a greatSenecaorator, we have the concurrent testimony of more than fifty years—to say nothing of the evidence, in the book before us, of his vigorous intellect and grace of manner, the two most important requisites for oral eloquence.

The character of this celebrated chieftain was an odd mixture of “dirt and divinity.” He was great as a whole, but mean in the detail. He ruled over warriors, and was an arrant coward. He professed to be frank, and lived on intrigue. His constant struggle was to retain the lands of his people, and yet more than once he would have sold them for his personal emolument. He was a hypocrite, a drunkard, and devoured by vanity; but he was also an orator, a statesman, and devoted to his country. He sometimes was capable of the loftiest generosity, and at other times he would stoop to cheat the government out of a coat. But in one thing his character is above reproach—he never ceased asserting the rights of his country; and from the treaty at Canandaigua, down to the latest hour of his life, he opposed manfully every alienation of the Seneca soil. He was often unsuccessful, and always misrepresented; but he did not relax his efforts. On the size of their domain, he said, depended the importance of his people; and that people it was his ambition to preserve an entire nation. For this he would have built up a wall of separation betwixt them and the whites—for this he excluded missionaries—for this he opposed schools—for this he denounced intermarriages—for this he lived and died a pagan. Yet he survived to see all his efforts in vain. He survived to behold the Senecas dwindled to half their numbers, to see their forests cut down, and to witness their lands slip piecemeal from their hands. How melancholy to contemplate the poor old chief, when, returning to hunt in the beautiful valley of the Gennesee, he found the ravages which the white men had made in the forest so great, that he sat down and wept.

We have said that Red Jacket was intemperate; and the vice grew on him as he grew older. When a council was to be held, however, he abstained from indulgence until the deliberations were past, but then his excesses were often frightful. An anecdote is related by Colonel Stone, which shows the old chiefs propensity in rather a ludicrous light. Colonel Snelling was a great favorite with him. When that officer was given the command of Governor’s Island, Red Jacket bade him farewell in the following words:

“Brother:—I hear you are going to a place called Governor’s Island. I hope you will be a governor yourself. I understand that you white people think children a blessing. I hope you may have a thousand.And above all, I hope, wherever you go, you may never find whiskey above two shillings a quart.”

Red Jacket died in 1830, and with him perished the glory of the once powerful Six Nations. Their subsequent history is well known. Their last rood of land in New York has now passed into the hands of the white man; the places which knew them shall know them no more, and in a few years the Iroquois will be numbered with the dead.

The short sketches of the lives of Cornplanter, Farmer’s Brother, and Harry O’Bail, in the conclusion of the work, are unusually interesting.

The volume is printed well, on paper of the finest quality, but disfigured, here and there, with typographical mistakes.

[5]Alleghany.

[5]

Alleghany.

The Ancient Régime: A Novel. ByG. P. R. James, Esq.2 vols. Harper and Brothers.

“Stale, flat, and unprofitable” are the novels of Mr. James, and of all his novels the Ancient Régime is the most flat. We have just flung down the book, wondering how any man could, “sanâ mente,” in a sane mind, publish two volumes so very common-place. Yet Mr. James has done it, once and again, and yet again, and—God help us—seems determined to do it, so long as he can find a publisher.

We do not say that the novels of James are unreadable, paradoxical as it may seem, after what we have written. They are, on the contrary, pleasant, often instructive. In some respects they are even well written: if they were not so written, we should pass them in silence; but when a man of talent persists in writing such common-place affairs as Corse de Leon and the Ancient Régime, we feel bound to caution the public against reading them.

In reviewing the last novel of this author, we took occasion to comment on his repetition of himself; and had not but a bare six months elapsed since the publication of that article, we should have thought, that he had commenced this work with our criticism before him; for the whole conception of the Ancient Régime—according to the preface—is essentially different from that of Mr. James’ former romances. To do him justice, he seems to have set out intending to write something really new. But a dog that has once tasted blood is forever killing sheep,—and our novelist, after the first few chapters of the work, runs into all his old habits. Indeed, had he not told us in set phrases that his object was to show the gradual changes of a female mind from infancy to womanhood, and that too while she was in the peculiar position of a ward of a man to whom she bore no relationship: had he not told us this—we say—and added that he had in the Ancient Régime attempted a new and more gentle style, we should have divined neither the one fact nor the other.

There is too muchclap-trapin the work before us. Most novelists are contented if their hero saves the life of his mistress once in the space of two orthodox volumes. But James thinks this entirely too little. His heroine seems put up like a ten-pin, only to be bowled at; for her life is preserved once from a wolf—once from a robber—and once from an assassin—and beside this, her honour is kept in jeopardy, as a kind of running commentary, through the whole book. We are tempted to say with Titmouse, “ ’Pon honour—most uncommon luck.” Then, too, everything happens, not as it would in life, but just as it ought to happen. Such a chain of fortuitous circumstances, following each other link by link, we venture to say, author never imagined, since the old romances of chivalry gave up the ghost. The deserted babe passes into the very hands to which itshouldgo—the supposed father gets a place in the police,the very thing for all hands—the young lady when grown up falls in love with the son of theonly man living who knows her parentage—the king is frustrated in meeting Annette, until after Du Barry has given hima new object of pursuit—the Baron de Cajore is arrested at thevery instanthe is arresting the hero—Ernest de Nogent is rescued in the park at Maupayjust ashe is about to be stabbed from behind—and last of all, the assassin de Cajore is killed off at the end,in the very nick of time, and when all the actors are conveniently assembled to look on, at a nice little tea-party in the forest. Nothing, indeed, is done naturally: everything is brought about by luck.

In the second place, the characters of the Ancient Régime are only new editions—by no means improved ones—of thedramatis personæof James’ former novels. Some wicked wag said that the old dramatists wanted only a king, a fool, a woman, and a villain, to make a tragedy, and Mr. James seems to have taken up the joke as serious. He is like a wax-work keeper: he has one figure, which, by dint of changing the dress, passes for everything under the sun. His heroes and heroines are never dissimilar: he has always one noble and one poorer rogue: he never forgets to bring in a king or a queen, or both; and he fills up the by-play with a few supernumeraries, who talk a great deal and do a very little. If you read one of his novels, you read, in fact, all. Then there are perils, rescues, a duel or two, generally a trial, and now and then a sprinkling of battles, ambuscades, and the like. Sometimes the hobby is one thing and sometimes another, but he never mixes the draught without putting in a little of all the ingredients. In his last novel his fancy ran on battles—in this one, trials appear to rule the roost. To sum up this head, Mr. James seems to be like a horse in a mill, who, though every time he goes his rounds, may kick up his heels after a new variety, never gets out of the same beaten track, or rises above the same humdrum pace.

In the third place, there is no ingenuity in the plot of the Ancient Régime. You see, at once, not only how all is to end, but you penetrate into every detail of the plot. By the time you have read thirty pages, you know that Annette is not Pierre Morin’s daughter—that the Abbé is the unknown companion of the murderers—that Pierre Morin is the person who warns Castelneau to leave Paris—and that the sign which induces the Abbé to obey, is the discovery of his own seal, which had been lost at the door of Fiteau’s shop, impressed on the letter of warning. A plot, so loosely contrived, wants interest; and if you go through the book at all, it is with labor.

But even that very respectable gentleman, who unfortunately is provided with a tail, is not, according to the popular rumour, without his good qualities; and Mr. James, despite all we have said, is yet a writer of talent—talent running a muck, we contend—but still talent. More than this—he is a historian; not a mere chronicler, but a historian. He knows the manners, costume, and general spirit of the ages of which he writes, and his novels may, so far forth as they embody this knowledge, be read with interest. This, too, is the secret of his continued success in despite of his many faults. This, too, is why he is called the great historical novelist of the age, though in painting accurately the characters of his leading personages, such as Richelieu, Philip Augustus, &c., he is far beneath Grattan—a writer, by the bye, less known in this country than he deserves to be. In another thing James is deficient as a writer of historical romance—he does not enter, as fully as he ought, intothe spirit of the age. Here Bulwer, in his Rienzi, has shown himself superior to the author of Richelieu; to say nothing of Scott, who, whatever license he took with particular personages, always depicted vividly the spirit of the age of which he wrote.

We take leave of this novel with a brief prophesy respecting its author: he will, in fifty years, be of no more note than any one of the thousand and oneimitatorsof whose class he is the head.

America, Historical, Statistical and Descriptive: with numerous engravings. ByJ. Silk Buckingham.2 vols. Harper and Brothers.

If ever there was an inane author—if ever there was an arrant egotist—if ever there was a traveller ignorant of his subject, that author, egotist, and traveller, is J. Silk Buckingham, late missionary in the cause of morals, to the world in general and to this land in particular, and now the author of a romance which he entitles “America, historical, statistical, and descriptive.” How could a man suffer himself to be so egregiously gulled, as Mr. Buckingham has proved himself to have been, in these volumes? If his lectures on the Holy Land contained a tithe of the exaggeration of this journal, what a precious mess of stuff his audiences must have swallowed!

Mr. Buckingham opens with a sweeping condemnation of all former writers on America, and then adroitly insinuates that his work is the “ne plus ultra” of all works. No one who heard him lecture can doubt his egotism or vanity. We were not, therefore, much surprised at this exordium. The text, however, keeps up the farce, and whether describing the emoluments of the bar, the genius and productions of our poets, the statistics of the States or Union, the conduct of political parties, or the advance of taste, morals, or religion, he is sure to drag in something respecting himself, and to misrepresent, more or less, the subject under discussion. Did the book merit the time and space, we would quote some of its remarks to shew what an arrant block-head, or else what a wilful libeller, this J. Silk Buckingham is.

This want of truth in Mr. Buckingham is unpardonable. While here, he was feasted, huzzaed, followed by crowds, in short made a lion of,—and, as he himself says, he had every opportunity to gain correct information. But he seems to have slighted them all. His exaggerations out-romance Amadis de Gaul. He is beside painfully dull, prosing away, page after page, just as he used to dilute his twaddle, when retailing it, by the hour, at a shilling a head. His work scarcely lays claim to mediocrity. Although ushered in by a flourish of trumpets from presses on both sides of the Atlantic, and attended by a pompous dedication to His Royal Highness Prince Albert, the volumes are inferior in every respect to the unpretending work, on this country, lately published by Mr. Combe. As Brougham said of Sheridan’s statesmanship, “it is neither a bad book, nor a good book, nor an indifferent book—the fact is, it is no book at all.”

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