For the Southern Literary Messenger.
During the Summer of 1834.NO. I.
During the Summer of 1834.NO. I.
On the morning of a bright and beautiful day early in July, I resumed my seat in the mail coach at Lexington, with the prospect of soon reaching the Virginia Springs. The line having been recently established was as yet little known, and on this occasion I was the only passenger. Ample opportunity was afforded for viewing the charming scenery which surrounds this village; and, certainly, the world can scarcely present a more lovely landscape than that which lay before us as we entered upon the turnpike which leads to the Springs.
At the foot of the hill which we were descending, "Woods's Creek" was stealing along through the shaded retreats and the velvet green which lines its banks; the adjoining hills were crowned with waving fields, now ripening for the harvest; the chimnies of the "Mulberry Hill" residence could just be seen, peering above the groves and the foliage which throw their charms around its retirement; the ruins of the "Old Academy"—where Alexander, Baxter, Matthews, Rice, and others of the first men in the Presbyterian Church were educated,—with its mouldering, ivy-covered walls, stood in melancholy solitude on the borders of the neighboring forest. Beyond, was the rolling country in its variety of scenery; and in the back ground, the House, Jump and North Mountains marking their clear outline, against the deep azure of a cloudless sky.
After winding among the hills for a few hours, we came in view of the long, unbroken range of mountains, over which we were to pass; and though still some miles from the base, the road could be distinctly traced, running in straight, and then in zigzag directions along the precipitous ascent. Soon after, we commenced our slow progress up the mountain, which might have been tedious had it not been that every successive moment which increased our elevation, revealed new beauties. The road itself is one of the curiosities of this region; it would scarcely seem possible for the ingenuity and energy of man to construct so safe and so delightful a passage over these rough and almost perpendicular ridges. At one point you may look from your carriage window upon the traveller some fifty feet below, parallel with yourself, and, paradoxical as it may appear, proceeding in the same direction, although he is bound for the opposite end of the road. So great are the angles necessary to be made in order to overcome the obstacles which nature had interposed. The declivity of the turnpike, however, is now so slight as to admit of travelling at almost any speed.
On reaching the summit, the view was inexpressibly grand. One of the loveliest sections of the Valley of Virginia spread its beauties below us. On one hand the "House Mountain" rose in solitary grandeur above the surrounding hills, and on the other the dark spurs of the Alleghany projected out into the more cultivated country. On the southwest, as far as the eye could reach, mountain after mountain could be seen. Immediately below and before us, were laid out as a map, the fertile fields, comfortable farm-houses and county roads of Rockbridge; the numerous streams reflected in silvery sheets, as they wound through the broken country and hurried along to pour their waters into the bosom of the James. Across the "Valley" at the distance of perhaps twenty miles, the great "Blue Ridge" stretched away towards the north and south, until it was lost in the deeper azure of the evening sky, or hid by the dark and heavy clouds which bear the summer's storm.
We were now upon the boundary which separates the "Valley" from Western Virginia. After gazing in admiration on the beauties of the country through which we had just travelled, I turned to enjoy similar scenes on the opposite side. But nothing except successive piles of mountains met the view. The deep vales and sun-tinged peaks, seemed to be still slumbering in their original wildness, and had it not been for the traces of art exhibited by our turnpike, and the sight of an iron foundry in the valley below, I should have been almost forced to the conclusion, that we were disturbing the silence of those forests which had never before echoed but to the cry of the panther, or the war-whoop of the wandering Indian.
Having halted a few minutes, the driver "shod" our coach, and rolling away with the sound of thunder down the mountain, we reached the inn where the stage stopped for the night, just as the sun was sinking behind the western hills. Our landlord and his better half were themselves Dutch, and had raised up a stout rosy-looking family, who attended to the domestic concerns of the establishment without the aid of servants. The house was situated on a level lawn between two lofty ridges of the Alleghany, part of which was neatly enclosed, and clothed with the richest green. The domicil itself was one story in height, with a piazza in front; and the peculiar national taste of the proprietor could be seen in the free use of red and black paint with which the establishment was ornamented. But the interior presented an aspect rather more inviting, after the fatigue of the day's ride. The snow-white table cloth, and the clean and plain, yet delightful fare, with which the table was bountifully supplied, gave evidence of the existence oftastein the culinary department, which amply compensated for the want of it in matters of less substantial importance. A handsome coach and four had driven up just as we arrived. After tea the guests assembled in the piazza, and we passed away in cheerful conversation the hours of a lovely summer's evening, in this wild valley among the mountains.
We reachedCovington, a village on Jackson's river, to breakfast the next morning, and by ten o'clock had arrived at Callaghens, a comfortable country tavern, where we intersected the line from Staunton. On the arrival of that stage, I changed conveyances, and with it the light and rapid travelling of the former coach, for the slow and heavy motion of one loaded down with passengers and baggage. I found as my new companions, a very agreeable gentleman from Philadelphia, with his wife and son, an intelligent young South American, a huge and awkward Mississippian, anincog.gentleman with a good countenance and a white hat of the first magnitude, a youth of about seventeen, whose emaciated countenance, hectic flush and distressing cough, told that consumption had marked him as its victim, together with one or two others not peculiarly interesting. We were now but fifteen miles from the White Sulphur; and the impatience of our passengers seemed to increase almost in the duplicate ratio as the distance diminished. Every few moments the interrogatory, "How far are we now?" was heard from some one of the company. At length the number of handsome vehicles, persons on horseback and on foot, which were passing and repassing us, shewed that we were in the vicinity of the Springs. In a few moments the enclosure came in view, and immediately after we drove up in front of the hotel at the White Sulphur. Groups of gentlemen were collected about the lawn and in the long piazza of the hotel. All eyes were eagerly turned towards our coach, and many came crowding round, in hopes of espying the face of an acquaintance among the new arrivals. The first physiognomy which greeted our vision was that of the manager of the establishment, who has no very enviable notoriety among the visitors. According to his usual system, he had our baggage deposited for the remainder of the day at the foot of the tree where we landed, whilst we were left to wander about the premises, without even a domicil in which to change our dusty travelling garb for one more in unison with our personal comfort, and the general appearance of those who were to constitute our temporary associates.
There is something in the first view of the White Sulphur, very prepossessing and almost enchanting. After rolling along among the mountains and dense forests, the wild and uncultivated scenery is at once exchanged for the neatness and elegance of refined society, and the bustle and parade of the fashionable world. Almost every state in the Union, and some of the nations of Europe may find their representatives at the White Sulphur, during the months of July and August. The last season was honored with an uncommon assemblage of interesting personages. We had Messrs. Clay and Poindexter of the United States Senate; McDuffie and others from the House of Representatives; Commodores Chauncey, Biddle and Rogers of the Navy; Judges Carr, Brooke and Cabell of the Court of Appeals; Col. Aspinwall, American Consul at London; the Hon. Mr. Sergeant of Philadelphia, and a host of dignitaries of somewhat lower degree,—also from the religious community, Rev. Doctors Johns and Keith of the Episcopal Church, and Rev. Messrs. Chester, Styles, (of Georgia) and others of the Presbyterian. Mr. Clay was just recovering from an injury he had received from the upsetting of the stage, but he moved about with the lightness and activity of a boy of 15. Indeed we almost thought that he descended from his dignity by his frivolous and careless air. He was affable and accessible to all. Mr. McDuffie, on the contrary, with his hard and forbidding countenance, was morose and distant, and the very reverse of the orator of Kentucky. Perhaps, however, due allowance should be made in favor of the former, on account of the infirm state of his health.
But the White Sulphur itself must not pass unnoticed. Its charms are worthy of being celebrated. The buildings, which are situated on a gradual acclivity, are arranged in the form of a hollow square. Adjoining the Kanawha turnpike, which passes the springs and parallel with it, are two large white hotels. One of these contains the dining and drawing rooms, and in the other there is a spacious saloon for music, dancing, &c. This is also used on the Sabbath as a chapel. In a line with these, and running in each direction, is a row of cottages one story in height, for the use of visitors. With this at the eastern extremity unites a continued range of beautiful white cottages, with venitians and long piazzas, forming another side of the quadrangle. At the distance of several hundred paces from the hotels, and parallel with them on the hill side, is the third range, which is built entirely of brick and extends for several hundred yards, until its lower termination is concealed amongst the trees which form a thick grove on the brow of the hill. On the western extremity of the area are the bathing houses, and above all, that which constitutes the great attraction—the spring. The reservoir in which the spring rises, is an octagon of about five feet in diameter, from which a constant and copious stream flows off, supplying the bathing houses. A few steps lead up from this reservoir, to a platform some twenty-five feet in diameter, furnished with seats and surrounded by a neat railing. The whole is protected by a beautiful temple, composed of lofty white pillars surmounted by a dome. From the interior of this dome is suspended a chandelier, by which the temple is lighted up in the evenings. A lawn of the richest green, tastefully laid out with gravelled walks, and shaded by an abundance of oaks and locusts, extends over the area of the quadrangle. At the distance of a few feet from the cottages is a light railing, along which, as also along the walks, are lamp-posts, from which the area is brilliantly illuminated in the evening.
We know of no scene more romantic and picturesque than that presented to a spectator from one of the cottages on the hill, after the lamps have been lighted for the night. The floods of light, streaming among the trees, and from every window; the throngs of the gay and fashionable, crowding the walks for the evening's promenade, and the thrilling melody of the rich music from a fine German band, throws quite a fairy-like influence around this pleasant retreat among the mountains.
On the Sabbath, the saloon usually occupied as a dancing room, was consecrated to more hallowed purposes. At the call of the bell, a large and very respectable congregation assembled, and listened to a solemn and eloquent discourse from the Rev. Doct. Johns of Baltimore. It seemed peculiarly appropriate, that while resorting to these waters for healing the diseases of the body, we should also have recourse to the wells of salvation which have been opened in the house of David for the diseases of the soul. The grace and elegance with which the speaker on this occasion presented the truths connected with his office, was calculated to render them interesting, as well as to convey a sense of their importance even to the most indifferent.
It would be perhaps superfluous to speak of the healing efficacy of this celebrated spring; its renovating effects are annually exhibited, and have been for years. It has been, however, a matter of regret, that so little has been certainly known, as to the peculiar properties of this as well as the other mineral springs of Virginia, and of their application to different diseases. It is a lamentable fact that invalids, by resorting to one of the springs which was not at all suited to their case, have only aggravated their diseases, and hurried themselves more rapidly to the grave. No impression is perhaps more common and none more erroneous, than that if the use of a particular spring is efficacious in one complaint, it will be equally beneficial in others, no matter how different their nature, and that at all events if no good is gained, no positive injury is received. The very opposite of this is the fact. Unless there is a clear understanding of the pathology of the disease, and of the properties of the water, as well as the adaptation of its constituents to remove the malady in view, we are for the most part groping in the dark, and playing at best but a hazardous game. The want of a mineral water suited to the case of invalids, need however deter no one from visiting the Virginia Springs. Providence has supplied in this region a variety sufficient to answer the necessities of almost any case. The only difficulty is, to ascertain which of these watering places is adapted to the particular disease.
Doctors Bell and Horner have given to the public the results of some investigations in reference to these waters, but the former had never visited the springs, and the latter only for a few weeks of one season, without either proper apparatus to perfect a complete analysis, or sufficient opportunity for witnessing their practical effects. The consequence is, that both of these gentlemen, though eminent in their professions, have given their authority to statements which are in many respects erroneous. Difficulties from this source however will soon be remedied. Professor Rogers of William and Mary College, a gentleman eminently qualified for the purpose, visited the springs last summer with complete analyzing apparatus, and it is to be hoped that the cause of humanity will speedily realize the benefit of his valuable investigations. Dr. Tindall, who has made the White Sulphur his place of residence for several seasons, has devoted his attention to ascertaining the practical effects of the waters, and intended issuing a volume on the subject before the commencement of the next summer.
The efficacy of the White Sulphur is principally confined to affections of the liver, and derangements of the sanguiferous and biliary systems. Where there is any tendency to pulmonary disease, the use of this water should by all means be avoided. Its exciting effects are exceedingly prejudicial to such constitutions. A continued use of the water will occasion a rapid progress of the disease. Individuals of a consumptive habit have been known to hasten their end by a residence at the White Sulphur. One case at least has come within my own observation.
We cannot leave the White Sulphur without a deep feeling of regret, that the proprietors of this otherwise attractive and delightful place, should make so little provision for the comfort of visitors. The buildings, though extensive, are not at all sufficient to accommodate the numbers which now resort thither. During the last summer almost every house for miles on the roads leading to the springs, was thronged with persons who had been turned off at the hotel. Many of those who could obtain the privilege of remaining upon the ground, received exceedingly unpleasant accommodations. The table too, which assumes a prodigious importance after a week's residence and use of the water, is by no means such as should be afforded at such an establishment. Every visitor will recollect his dining-room experience at the White Sulphur. But one of the most unpleasant features of the whole, is found in the person of the manager, who, although naturally possessed of an amiable and accommodating disposition, we must say, in our opinion, is not qualified for the situation. It is much to be lamented, that this place which possesses decided advantages over any watering place in the United States and perhaps in the world—whose climate, scenery and healing properties are no where surpassed, and to which, notwithstanding the accommodations, crowds resort, should not be fitted up in a style suited to its merits.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
NO. III.
NO. III.
The sixteenth century was remarkable for the transcendant excellence of the Italian painters; every city had its school, and each school preserved a different style, distinguished for expression, grace or dignity. By schools, we do not mean academies, for there were none when these great men came forth ennobling nature: they studied in the "academic groves" of the Arno and the Tiber, and were themselves the establishers of those schools, that fettered genius with scholastic rules, and from that day the arts began to decline; each succeeding generation became imitators of the preceding one, and neglecting the study of nature and the poetry of art, they fell into a manerism, growing worse and worse down to their present puerile and meretricious style. And here permit us to correct a very prevalent error, that Italy at this day is distinguished far its living artists, when in fact no country of Europe is so deficient in men eminent in sculpture and painting; but for the present we will confine our remarks to the masters of the sixteenth century and their unrivalled works.
For three centuries the palm of excellence has been awarded to Michael Angelo for originality, to Raphael for correctness of design and expression, to Titian for color, and Correggio for grace; but that in which they all agree is sublimity. "This," says Longinus, "elevates the mind above itself, and fills it with high conceptions and a noble pride." The sources of the sublime he makes to consist of "boldness or grandeur in thought, pathos, expression, and harmony of structure," and these characterize the works of the Italian masters, and place them amongst the epics of the pencil. It is not, as pretended connoisseurs assert, in the high relief, the wonderful foreshortening, the boldness of the touch or fine finish, or even harmony of coloring, that these works claim superior merit, for in all these the Dutch as a school surpass them, but it is "in the grandeur of the thought, in the pathos, expression and harmony of the whole."
Michael Angelo's originality and creative powers surpassed those of all men, and his knowledge of the human figure constituted his praise and his reproach, for in the desire to display his anatomical learning, he overstepped the modesty of nature and exhibited his figures with a muscular developement, disproportioned to the strength required. In the Sistine Chapel, a little child holding the Cybeline book, is represented with the arms of an infant Hercules; and in his holy family at Florence, naked men are seen in the back ground at gymnastic exercises, having no connection with, or reference to the modesty of the subject; the execution of this picture is hard and the color opaque. Well might he exclaim after finishing it, "Oil painting is unworthy of men, I leave it to boys." Raphael was the boy against whom this sarcasm was hurled, whose works in oil will long survivehisfrescos, and who freed from envy—that passion of little minds—"thanked his maker that he had lived in the days of Michael Angelo." But theLast Judgmentis the work on which M. Angelo's reputation rests as a painter; it was the last he ever executed, and is strongly impressed with the peculiar character of its author, originality and vigor of thought, with incongruity of persons and place. The son of man appears in wrath to take vengeance on his enemies, and with an uplifted hand and frowning brows, seems to say "depart, ye cursed into everlasting punishment," and they are tumbling headlong down in every conceivable attitude; on the other hand the righteous are rising to eternal life, in groups of a masterly design, executed with such strength and simplicity as to convey the most sublime ideas of the subject; but the improper mixture of mythological fable and Christian faith detract much from its merit, and we are scarcely less disgusted with Charon ferrying his boat in hell, than with the angels playing with the cross in heaven; they are equally out of keeping, and the whole scene is deficient in drapery—even the blessed being stands exposed in the nudity of this frail tenement.
The work most justly to be brought in comparison with this, is theTransfigurationby Raphael. The subject is equally sublime, and composed with equal simplicity. The whole scene rises before you with such propriety of expression in every countenance, that it requires no interpreter to know them; no trifling ornament diverts the attention from the subject, and no idle levity detracts from the solemnity of the occasion. Human infirmity is brought in strong contrast with omnipotent power, and the mind is led by a natural gradation from our dependance up to his goodness. An epileptic boy of interesting age is supported in the arms of his father, and surrounded with friends and relations, who bring him to the disciples to be healed, and the imploring mother, the beautiful countenance of the sister, the anxious parent and suffering boy, excite our sympathy, and we look to the apostles for their miraculous power of healing, but their faith had failed them; sweet charity remained, and
"Hope the comforter lingered yet below,"
"Hope the comforter lingered yet below,"
as they point to the mount "from whence their help cometh." Following the direction we behold the prostrate three, Peter, James and John, veiling their faces in the ineffable presence; above, self-poised in mid air and bright in the radiance of supernatural light, the "son of man" is seen between Moses and Elias. It has been objected that there are two subjects here in one picture, but they are so closely allied in the history of the event, and simultaneous in time, that to separate them would be to destroy the effect and interest of both; nothing could be omitted without detracting from its merit, and nothing added without impairing its grandeur; with the exception of two men ascending the mount in sacerdotal robes, doubtless introduced against the wish of the artist, to gratify some officious patron.
These two paintings may represent the schools of Rome and Florence, and are justly esteemed the sublimest style of art. The former in fresco, the latter in oil, and both unattractive by the beauty of coloring or the magic of effect, but sublime in thought, expression and design. In presenting these to the admiration of the amateur and the study of the artist, we would not limit excellence to any one manner, but on the contrary, reprehend those who see no beauty save in a smoked antique, or in a modern English portrait, in the boldness of Salvator Rosa or the finish of Carlo Dolci. These may be all beautiful in their kind and have equal claims to admiration, though inferior in sublimity of design.
The Venetian school revelled in the luxury of colors and feasted the eye with the most harmonious arrangement of the brightest tints and broadest light and shade; and some have supposed could these have been added to the Roman school, it would have been the perfection of art, but Sir Joshua Reynolds thought them incompatible, and it is not without probability that a gayer dress would have detracted from the simplicity and greatness of the Roman paintings, as would pearls in the ears of a fine statue. If the Venetians therefore, were not so sublime, they were more beautiful:
Of these, Titian stands pre-eminent in the truth of nature and the choice of the beautiful; a refinement is impressed on every product of his pencil, and from the portrait of Charles the 5th to the assumption of the Madonna at Venice, (his greatest work) there is a nobleness of air, an elevation of thought above common men or common things; it was this, not less than the truth of his coloring, that employed his pencil upon so many crowned and noble heads; his carnations glowed with the freshness of life, neither erring with too much of the blossom of the rose or the yellow of the marigold, and it is probable from his works, Fresnoy drew that admirable precept:
Correggio comes next in the scale of excellence, who with less truth of color than the Venetians, or greatness of design than the Romans, surpassed them all ingrace, that indescribable "je ne sais quoi," so delightful in the movements of some persons, and equally opposed to the rules of polished society and clownish rusticity. His figures repose with a nature unstudied, and his children play with an infant's artless innocence—though frequently homely in feature and badly drawn, they irresistibly charm the learned and the simple, and command at once the highest admiration and the highest price.1His finest work is probably the St. Jerome at Parma, so called from this saint's forming one figure in the group, with the infant Saviour, his mother, and Mary Magdalene. The anachronism of thus introducing persons who lived at different eras, did not affect the minds of good Catholics three centuries since, more than the same discrepancy does the modern reader of Anacharsis.
1A Holy Family, only 9½ by 13 inches in the national gallery in England, was purchased for 3000 guineas.
G. C.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
The year '35, rich as may be its promise of social and political good, has so far done little for the cause of letters. The seductions of political distinction, or the more substantial attractions of the lucrative professions, have turned from the paths of literature all whom genius and education have fitted to attain a high degree of intellectual rank; while in the peculiar department of romance, the master spirits, those who ruled the realms of fiction with undisputed sway, have retired from the scenes of their glory, and left their neglected wands to be played with by the puny arms of dwarfish successors. COOPER1has sheltered himself from the furious storm, which an injudicious and silly political pamphlet raised about his head, in some quiet nook in his own native state; while IRVING, the elegant, but over-nice, the gentle but languid IRVING, has abandoned romance for reality, to favor the world with sketches of Indian manners and scenery. PAULDINGand Miss SEDGEWICKhave ceased for a time, to inflict their stories of humor and love, upon the proprietors of circulating libraries, and provincial book-sellers. But the press has not ceased: others have been found to succeed to, if not to fill the places of those, whose genius the sanction of the world had approved, and whose names ranked high in our infant literature. Who are the new comers? Do they write as men having authority—the authority of heaven-stamped genius, to claim to be heard for themselves, and their cause?—or are they but raw, brawling braggarts, who have broken into the sacred circle, rioting like buffoons, disgracing what they could not honor? Are they menials of the mind, underlings of the intellect, who have filled the rich banqueting hall just abandoned by their superiors, sitting in squalid rags on the splendid seats of genius, and gulping down the dregs of the deserted wine, and the scraps of the half consumed feast—boors rioting in the sumptuous apartments of their lords? Are they men, who, by a vigorous and educated intellect, and the patient study of the works of the great writers of romance, have fitted themselves to pour forth words of burning eloquence, of bitter satire, of side-shaking humor, and irresistible pathos? Are they artists, who, by the curious and intricate construction of their fable, know how to excite and sustain the deepest interest, ever urging upon the heart some tender affection, some exalted feeling of honor and chivalry?
1Since this sentence was penned, we have noticed the advertisement of a new (satirical?) novel, (The Mannikins,) from the pen of this gentleman, to be published during the summer.
At a period when the crowd of novels issued almost daily from the press, threatens serious injury to the literature of the age, not only by withdrawing men of high natural capacities from the arduous study of graver and more important subjects, but by throwing before the public such a mass of matter, that unless they be neglected, (which from their seductive character is not likely to be the case,) nothing else can be read, it is of the highest importance, that an elevated standard should be fixed by which to measure these productions. The popular objection so often urged against this species of literature, is not without some foundation in truth; and the only mistake made by those who have brought it forward, consists in applying to the species, that which is true only in individual cases. The influence of these fictitious histories, from the rude form of the early romance, down to the brilliant productions of the best writers of the present century, has been, however, on the whole, advantageous to general literature, and of the most humanizing effect upon society. Nothing could betray more silly ignorance, than to contrast this class of authors with those who have chosen higher and more essentially important subjects; and because law, and philosophy, and mathematics, may be in themselves, of a deeper interest and more universal value, to regret the time and talent devoted to this elegant and refining department of letters, as so much labor and opportunity thrown away. So far from being wasted, we question, if even the most brilliant discoveries in science, have contributed as much to the comfort and enjoyment of society. It would be difficult to calculate the actual amount of moral good, that may have been effected by the constant holding up to the young and ardent, but plastic mind, the bright and winning examples of female loveliness and manly virtue, that abound in these popular and ever attractive volumes. And those who underrate their powerful influence, know little of the actual workings of the human heart—of the secret influences that direct, for good or for evil, the wayward thoughtfulness of the young. The whole class of romances, then, viewed as a means of forming individual character, must assume in the eyes of the moralist and statesman, an importance far beyond their intrinsic value, as literary works; and it is the forgetting of the ulterior and vastly more interesting purpose which they serve, in the general economy of society, that has misled many virtuous and even able men, to undervalue and despise the whole species as frivolous and worthless. A proper regard to their influence, exerted in this way, must lie at the bottom of all sound criticism, or the labors of the reviewer degenerate at once far below the flippancy of the most trashy of the works he reads but to condemn. The novel is only valuable as illustrating some peculiarities, defects, or excellencies of character—passages of historical interest, or the manners and customs of a class; and its success must depend on the ability with which it is adapted to the end desired to be accomplished. It is only the more unthinking class of writers, who mistaking the means for the end, have lost sight of allobjectin the composition of their tales. Don Quixotte was not written as a mere record of amusing absurdities; its purpose was to put down the injurious and ridiculous follies, which the wit of Cervantes happily lashed out of Spain. And it will be found that no work has obtained an extensive and lasting popularity, that did not recommend itself by something beyond the mere detail of the story, and the humor of the dialogue. But to return from this long digression.
THEINSURGENTS. We commence with these volumes as decidedly superior, in point of ability and interest, to other works on our table, from the pens of American writers. They are the production of one who has written before, who knows his own strength, and has fallen, (if we may use the expression,) into the regular gait of authorship—he is broken to the press. An outline of the plot, will the better enable those who may not have perused the work itself, to comprehend the justice of the scenes, and to understand the excellencies or defects of the various characters that figure on the stage. The story is laid in Massachusetts, at the period of the insurrectionary movements, among the inhabitants of some of the interior counties, during the administration of Governor Bowdoin, and immediately after the close of the revolutionary war.Col. Eustace, an officer of the revolutionary army, a generous but careless manager of his own affairs, has after several years of arduous service, and in consequence of ill health, retired to an estate fast falling to ruin, under the thriftless conduct of the open-handed thoughtless veteran.Henry Eustace, his eldest son, had served for two years as an adjutant to his father, and returned after the close of the war, full of ardent aspirations, and without any regular profession, to his paternal home.Elizabeth Eustace, is the only daughter of the old Colonel, and as the propriety of the novel requires, a lovely and interesting girl.Tom Eustace, a younger brother, plays a subaltern part in the developement of the story.Frank Talbot, an officer but a few years the senior of Henry Eustace, succeeds to the Colonelcy, vacant by the retirement of the elder Eustace; and after the disbanding of the army, returns to his residence in the village, near the estate of Col. Eustace, and is soon deeply immersed in professional business as a lawyer, and in the political duties of a representative of his native town, in the General Court, the title by which the Legislature of Massachusetts was then distinguished. Frank too, has a sister,Mary, somewhat the senior of Elizabeth, and distinguished from her by a reserved manner and studious habit, but little characteristic of her age and sex. The concluding portion of the second chapter, discovers the secret attachment, which Elizabeth Eustace already bore the young legislator, and drops the reader a hint of what the after pages of the work more fully disclose.
The great sacrifices of property, incident to a war of seven years, and the heavy imposts which the necessities of the state government impelled it to levy on those who were already deeply involved, stirred up among that class of the people, a spirit of sullen discontent; and the legislature was already the arena on which the relief, or popular party on the one hand, and the creditors on the other, had arrayed themselves in fierce opposition. Talbot, who is represented as "devoured by an ambition for political power and distinction," with an active restless spirit, determined to disregard all principle, whenever a more conscientious course might interfere with the gratification of his political aspirations, embraced the side of the malcontents, and was now on a visit to his constituents, for the purpose of rousing them up to more active remonstrance against the measures of the creditors' or government party, already supposed to have secured a majority in the lower house of the State Legislature. Henry Eustace, at this time, visits his friend, and consults with him on the choice of a profession. Medicine, to which he at first inclined, is soon abandoned, for the more attractive employment of politics; and fascinated by the popular eloquence of Talbot, whose enthusiasm had already enflamed the ardent blood of Henry, he becomes one of the most violent of the partizans of the party to which Talbot was then attached. While on this visit to the neighborhood, Talbot engages himself to Elizabeth Eustace. His talents and influence had already attracted the attention of the friends of the government, and they resolve to tempt him to desertion from his present associates, by the offer of electing him, by their support, to the Senate, to which he already aspired, but with little hope of success, from the votes of his own party. Having espoused the popular cause, from motives of personal interest, he as readily abandons it, when more seductive offers are held out by the opposite party. The baseness of Talbot, who seizes the first opportunity to betray the cause he had formerly supported, is an unexpected blow to Eustace, and severs the friendship that before existed between them. The latter assumes the secret command of the conspirators, while Talbot devotes all his energy and abilities to the service of his new friends of the government; and every day widens the difference between them. A large portion of the two volumes is taken up with descriptions of the various marchings and counter-marchings of the insurgents and the militia, in the course of which Talbot and Eustace engage in single combat; the latter strikes the sword from his adversary's hand, and spares him his life. The story then goes on, without any thing of importance occurring, until the conflict between the two parties in the Legislature, is decided in favor of the government, by the passage of a law for the suspension of thehabeas corpusact. The hatred between Talbot and Eustace had already become of the most rancorous and malignant character, and the arrest of the latter, who had been once saved by the sister of Talbot, is now effected by her brother at the head of a party of soldiers. Thus deprived of their chief support, in the person of Eustace, the insurgents are soon dispersed, not however without a skirmish, in which they are put to flight, in a way at once ludicrous and conclusive. The first fire disperses them, never to recover. Elizabeth Eustace and Mary Talbot, in the mean time, manage to bring about a reconciliation between the two hostile brothers, to whom they had been respectively engaged, and a double marriage consummates the happiness of this quartette, and concludes the second and last volume of the "Insurgents." So much for the story, which though simple enough in the detail, is liable to the serious objection, that must ever lie against that division of interest, the necessary consequence of introducing a double set of characters into a plot, that should be single and simple. The unities of the drama are not more essential to the perfection of pieces designed for theatrical representation, than is the preservation of an individual and prominent interest in the hero of a novel. The narrow compass of a couple of duodecimos, is not more than sufficient for the painting of one chief character, with the sketches of the minorpersonæ, necessary to sustain the interest of a plot. An attempt at double teaming a novel, with two sets of heroes, invariably results in destroying that prominence of interest, which a closer adherence to the legitimate form of the fable, naturally and necessarily insures; and no more striking illustration of our position could be found, than in the volumes before us. The characters of Eustace and Talbot, neither contrast with effect, nor harmonize in the general management of the plot; and the awkward and unnatural reconciliation, which is finally brought about, to say nothing of the perplexities into which the cross-loves of the four, plunge the writer, is the best evidence that this double-plotting has injured the effect of the story, by rendering it necessary to force a conclusion.
As the fidelity to nature, in the character of the principal actors, must always be one of the highest sources of interest to a critical reader, we shall notice very briefly, the manner in which the author of the "Insurgents" has succeeded in thepersonnelof his descriptions. The old Colonel, the father of Henry Eustace, is exactly such a personage as every reader may have met with—brave, generous, careless, and ignorant, he is, perhaps, a very correct picture of the better part of theancien regimeof our colonial and revolutionary times. Without any striking peculiarities of character, and playing but a subaltern part in the story, he only appears as a piece of the family furniture, brought into play, by the casual location of the scene. The reader has no cause to regret the slightness of the acquaintance. The Colonel's second son, Tom, is but an appendage to the story. Henry, one of the heroes, begins in the army, a mischief loving, rule breaking, but active and gallant youth; and in the progress of the story, becomes an eloquent, restless, rebellious demagogue—stirring up insurrection among the people—defending in the Legislature, with consummate ability, their pretended wrongs and actual treason; and upon one occasion, displaying in the field, the chivalrous courage of his hot and impatient years. He is, however, always honorable and sincere. His treason is infatuation, and hisdemagogueism(if we may coin a much wanted word,) the frenzy of passion and thoughtlessness. Talbot, on the contrary, is bold and eloquent; a brave soldier, and an accomplished advocate; but a cunning and unprincipled politician, who, in the beginning of his career, espouses the cause of the malcontents, as the only means of securing the representation of his native village in the Legislature, and as quickly abandons it, when a higher office is promised him by the friends of the government, as the price of his desertion. Dr. Talbot, a country physician "of long practice and high repute," is an abrupt, rough, but good natured disciple of Esculapius, and seems to have been intended for no other purpose, than to enable the author to discharge his wit at the expense of some of the ill mannered admirers of the surly blackguardism of the Abernethy school of medical gentility. Of the two heroines, Mary Talbot is a thoughtful, reserved, bright eyedblue;Elizabeth Eustace is younger, and prettier, but more entirely the child of nature. Neither of them, however, say or act any thing that can distinguish them from the commonmaterielof all novel-women, and serve rather the necessities of the plot, than the illustration of any of the more touching or exalted beauties of female character. Of theDii minorum gentium—the lower order of character, Zeek Morehouse, a worthless understrapper about the old Colonel's domestic establishment—Hezekiah Brindle, another domestic, who, when fortune had abandoned the standard of the Insurgents, with the most simple hearted treachery, "'lists for a private" in the adverse army—Deacon Hopkins, a thin visaged, flint hearted knave, the usurer of the parish—Captain Moses Bliss, the inn keeper, one of those pert, low rogues, so often found in village taverns—Captain Shays, the leader of the insurgents, and the very impersonation of the spirit of the militia service—Mrs. Appleton and Mrs. Shattuck, specimens of the virago, are all rather amusing examples of Yankee low life, and afford occasion for much characteristic, if not very interesting dialogue. The other characters brought out in the developement of the story, scarcely deserve to be noticed, serving as they only do, like soldiers drafted from the cobbler's stalls and tailors benches, for the use of the stage, to help the author through the necessities of his plot.
The conduct of the story, is in some respects extremely, and very often unnecessarily, faulty. The introduction of Zeek Morehouse, in the second chapter, is a bungling expedient to beat out the author'smateriel, over a larger surface for the publisher: and the whole scene in the kitchen, and afterwards in the presence of the Colonel's family, is low and dull. The Doctor (Talbot,) is always an unnecessary personage, and we hardly think there is any thing about him, to compensate the delay in the story which his presence occasions. The affair of "Mary Gibbs's misfortune," is awkwardly brought in, and unsatisfactorily disposed of. We are sorry for the misconduct of Eustace, and rather vexed at the facile forgiveness with which his mistress overlooks it; while the silence of the novelist gives a venial character to one of the most crying offences against individual happiness and social order. Osborne, and his adventures, from the commencement, through his trial and mock punishment, down to the period of the marriage with Miss Warren, form an episode that only swells the volume, without helping on the story, or affording the author any opportunity (that he had not before,) for remark, or the illustration of character. He is nothing but the shadow of Eustace, in point of character; and Miss Warren, as a sketch of a flirting fashionable, is not worth the pains taken to introduce her to the reader. The capital defect of the plot, however, is in the conclusion. The bitter contempt which Eustace must have felt, (and which he seizes every opportunity to express,) for the baseness of Talbot, in betraying the cause of the popular party, and the rancorous hatred which his subsequent violent persecution of him, had engendered in the breast of Eustace, (see vol. 2, p. 266-7,) to say nothing of the cordial detestation with which Talbot returned his ill will, (see vol. 2, p. 268,) renders the reconciliation, effected without any sort of explanation, apology, or clearing up of the guilt of either, unnatural and disgusting. Eustaceknewthe baseness of Talbot, and the latter (a bearded man, and a soldier,) had just declared that he would sooner follow his sister to the grave, than see her united to his enemy; and yet, presto! the author having finished out his second volume, the traitor and his bitter foe, shake hands, and enter at once into an exchange of sisters by a double marriage! In this particular, the story is contrived with great want of skill.
The author seems to have been aware of the propriety and good taste of preserving historical correctness in a novel, founded on scenes in real life; but he does not comprehend, to its full extent, the spirit of that sound canon. So far as the progress of the story, in the movements of the insurgents, is concerned, theeventsare in strict keeping with Bradford's account of the insurrections in Massachusetts. But this was but a small part of the duty of the novelist; and he has violated all the rest. The open rebellion of the greater part of the population of several counties, threatened the most serious and alarming evil; perhaps the total overthrow of the government of the state; and the spirit of the people had become sullen and gloomy. In the "Insurgents," however, the whole affair is treated with ridicule, and the reader of the novel is left with an impression that the insurrection was of a character, compared with which, the adventures of Don Quixotte and his squire, were serious and important! Shays, who was the head of the malcontents, and commander in chief of the disorderly forces that were arranged against the government, is painted in the novel, as a despicably ignorant and silly creature. Now, such would not have been the character of a man, elected to head a band of desperate insurgents, upon the point of engagement with the forces of a powerful commonwealth! We may add, that the whole body of the relief party, with the exception of Eustace, and his friend Osborne, are described as frivolous gasconading clowns. In this respect, then, there has been a gross falsification of history, and the extremely literal adherence of the author, to historical correctness inevents, renders this striking variation the more apparent, and the more to be lamented.
The moral of the "Insurgents," is defective. The treachery of Talbot, and the indignant virtue of Eustace, are rewarded with the same final happiness; and the unfortunate Mary Gibbs does not even suggest to the author a word of censure, upon her guilty seducer. We should have been glad to have made such extracts from the work, as would have enabled our readers to judge for themselves of its merit; but there are few, if any passages, in either volume, of very striking interest, and any partial quotation would rather have misled, than corrected their judgment.