Chapter 6

BY EDGAR A. POE.

ROME. A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglione.

Alessandra. Thou art sad, Castiglione.

Castiglione. Sad!—not I.Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome,A few days more thou knowest, my Alessandra,Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!

Alless. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showingThy happiness!—what ails thee, cousin of mine?Why didst thou sigh so deeply?

Cas. Did I sigh?I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,A silly—a most silly fashion I haveWhen I amveryhappy. Did I sigh? (sighing.)

Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulgedToo much of late, and I am vexed to see it.Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—theseWill ruin thee! thou art already altered—Thy looks are haggard—nothing so wears awayThe constitution as late hours and wine.

Cas. (musing.) Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not ev'n deep sorrow—Wears it away like evil hours and wine.I will amend.

Aless. Do it. I would have thee dropThy riotous company too—fellows low born!Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio's heirAnd Alessandra's husband.

Cas. I will drop them.

Aless. Thou must. Attend thou also moreTo thy dress and equipage—they are over plainFor thy lofty rank and fashion—much dependsUpon appearances.

Cas. I'll see to it.

Aless. Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir,To a becoming carriage—much thou wantestIn dignity.

Cas. Much, much, oh much I wantIn proper dignity.

Aless. (haughtily.) Thou mockest me, sir!

Cas. (abstractedly.) Sweet, gentle Lalage!

Aless. Heard I aright?I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage!Sir Count! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou dreaming? he's not well!What ails thee, sir?

Cas. (starting.) Cousin! fair cousin!—madam!I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well—Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.This air is most oppressive!—Madam—the Duke!

Enter Di Broglio.

Di Broglio. My son, I've news for thee!—hey?—what's the matter? (observing Alessandra.)I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,You dog! and make it up I say this minute!I've news for you both. Politian is expectedHourly in Rome—Politian, Earl of Leicester!We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visitTo the imperial city.

Aless. What! PolitianOf Britain, Earl of Leicester?

Di Brog. The same, my love.We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite youngIn years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him,But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigyPre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth,And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.

Aless. I have heard much of this Politian.Gay, volatile, and giddy—is he not?And little given to thinking.

Di Brog. Far from it love.No branch, they say, of all philosophySo deep abstruse he has not mastered it,Learned as few are learned.

Aless. 'Tis very strange,I have known men have seen PolitianAnd sought his company. They speak of himAs of one who entered madly into life,Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.

Cas. Ridiculous! Now,Ihave seen PolitianAnd know him well—nor learned nor mirthful he.He is a dreamer and a man shut outFrom common passions.

Di Brog. Children, we disagree.Let us go forth and taste the fragrant airOf the garden. Did I dream, or did I hearPolitian was amelancholyman? (exeunt.)

II.

The suburbs. Politian alone.

This weakness grows upon me. I am faintAnd much I fear me ill—it will not doTo die ere I have lived!—Stay—stay thy handO Azrael, yet awhile!—Prince of the PowersOf Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me!O pity me! let me not perish now,In the budding of my hopes—give me to live,Give me to live yet—yet a little while:'Tis I who pray for life—I who so lateDemanded but to die!—what sayeth the Count?

Enter Baldazzar.

Bal. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feudBetween the Earl Politian and himself,He doth decline your cartel.

Pol. What didst thou say?What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comesLaden from yonder bowers!—a fairer day,Or one more worthy Italy, methinksNo mortal eyes have seen!—whatsaid the Count?

Bal. That he, Castiglione, not being awareOf any feud existing, or any causeOf quarrel between your lordship and himself,Cannot accept the challenge.

Pol. It is most true—All this is very true. When saw you, sir,When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigidUngenial Britain which we left so lately,A heaven so calm as this—so utterly freeFrom the evil taint of clouds?—and he did say?

Bal. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir,The Count Castiglione will not fight,Having no cause for quarrel.

Pol. Now this is true—All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,And I have not forgotten it—thou'lt do meA piece of service? wilt thou go back and sayUnto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,Hold him a villain—thus much, I prythee, sayUnto the Count—it is exceeding justHe should have cause for quarrel.

Bal. My lord!—my friend!———

Pol. (aside.) 'Tis he—he comes himself! (aloud.) thou reasonest well.I know what thou wouldst say—not send the message—Well!—I will think of it—I will not send it.Now prythee, leave me—hither doth come a personWith whom affairs of a most private natureI would adjust.

Bal. I go—to-morrow we meet,Do we not?—at the Vatican.

Pol. At the Vatican. (exit Bal.)If that we meet at all, it were as wellThat I should meet him in the Vatican—In the Vatican—within the holy wallsOf the Vatican. (Enter Castiglione.)

Cas. The Earl of Leicester here!

Pol. Iamthe Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,Dost thou not? that I am here.

Cas. My lord, some strange,Some singular mistake—misunderstanding—Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urgedThereby, in heat of anger, to addressSome words most unaccountable, in writing,To me, Castiglione, the bearer beingBaldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am awareOf nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,Having given thee no offence. Ha!—am I right?'Twas a mistake?—undoubtedly—we allDo err at times.

Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more!

Cas. Ha!—draw?—and villain? have at thee—have at thee then,Proud Earl! (draws.)

Pol. (drawing.) Thus to th' expiatory tomb,Untimely sepulchre, I do devote theeIn the name of Lalage!

Cas. (dropping his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the stage.)Of Lalage!Hold off—hold off thy hand!—Avaunt I say!Avaunt—I will not fight thee—I dare not—dare not.

Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?Shall I be baffled thus?—now this is well,Exceeding well!—thou darest not fight with me?Didst say thoudarestnot? Ha!

Cas. I dare not—dare not—Hold off thy hand—with that beloved nameSo fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee—I cannot—dare not.

Pol. Now by my halidomI do believe thee!—Coward! I do believe thee!Thou darest not!

Cas. Ha!—coward!—this may not be!(clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of the Earl.)Alas! alas!It is—it is—most true. In such a causeI am—I am—a coward. O pity me!

Pol. (greatly softened.) Alas!—I do—indeed I pity thee.

Cas. And Lalage———

Pol. Scoundrel!—arise and die!

Cas. It needeth not be—thus—thus—O let me dieThus on my bended knee. It were most fittingThat in this deep humiliation I perish.For in the fight I will not raise a handAgainst thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home—(baring his bosom.)Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon—Strike home. Iwill notfight thee.

Pol. Now s'Death and Hell!Am I not—am I not sorely—grievously temptedTo take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir!Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepareFor public insult in the streets—beforeThe eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee—Like an avenging spirit I'll follow theeEven unto death. Before those whom thou lovest—Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,—I'll taunt thee,Dost hear? withcowardice—thouwilt notfight me?By God! thoushalt!(exit.)

Cas. Now this—now this is just!Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!

Extracts from an unpublished Abridgment of the History of Virginia.

BARTHOLOMEW GOSNOLD.

This man's memory is closely identified with the history of this country, and his death was a sensible shock to the struggling destinies of Virginia. In the language of one of the historians, "Virginia had its origin in the zeal and exertions of Bartholomew Gosnold." He had early patronised the settlement of the Colony, while it was yet in embryo. He possessed a knowledge of the country not exceeded by any man of his time, which had been acquired by actual voyages to that region; and on his return, to the accuracy of his details of its real advantages, and to the ardor of his speculations upon its brilliant perspective, is mainly to be attributed the revival of the enterprise which had drooped with the misfortunes of Raleigh. The importance of the services of a man like Smith had not escaped his penetration, and he enlisted him in the expedition, by means most likely to engage the attention of an ardent and adventurous mind like Smith's—by opening to him schemes full of enterprise and danger, but full also of the promise of lasting fame. He had been the steadfast friend of Smith in all his persecutions before the Council; and although unable entirely to protect him, his known high standing with the company in England, to which they were all responsible, joined to his moderation and firmness on the spot, contributed much to assuage their dissensions, and operated as a partial check to the reckless depravity of Wingfield and his creatures.

SIR T. DALE.

Upon the whole this man's government in the colony, will rather be tolerated upon considerations of its expediency and utility, than applauded for its moderation and justice—impartiality will assent to the wisdom of his economy, illustrated by his subversion of the system of common stock, by which, without diminishing the amount of contribution exacted from the idle, he offered inducements and encouragements to the diligent, and thus effected the assurance of ample provision, independent of the natives—but aggressions upon the chartered and natural rights of mankind, find willing apologists enough among the sycophants and satellites of power, without receiving the sanction of history; and however his conduct may be extenuated by the admission that his office was rather one of ministry than authority, and that the forbidden power was precedent in the colony, that he rarely resorted to it, and only in extreme instances, there yet remains much to condemn in the adoption of martial law, and much to deplore in the fate of Abbot.

CAPTIVITY OF POCAHONTAS.

Pocahontas was among this people, (the Potommacks;) the reason of her absence from her father's court, is imperfectly afforded by the early historians. Stith conjectures "it was to withdraw herself from being a witness to the frequent butcheries of the English, whose folly and rashness after Smith's departure put it out of her power to save them." Probably she had been exiled by the displeasure of her father, for her partiality to the English; or he had confided her to the protection of the neighboring king, to secure her from the dangers of the war in which he was involved with the whites.

The temptation of possessing such an hostage as the princess, was too powerful to be restrained, by the few scruples of conscience that arise in the breast of a rude English sailor. Argall seduced Jappassas, by a paltry bribe, and Pocahontas was betrayed by her perfidious host into the hands of the English, to be led into captivity. Power was never yet at a loss for plausible pretexts to palliate its outrage on virtue: policy, expediency, necessity, are the hackneyed themes resorted to, to mitigate the merited reprobation; but the human heart will not be answered so. Insulted, not convinced, by the proffered palliative, it recoils from the false and unnatural subterfuge, and true to its connate susceptibilities, entertains forever the same sentiment of instinctive abhorrence. As long as the memory of the compassionate Pocahontas shall be cherished by a remote and admiring posterity in Virginia, so long will the unhallowed names of Argall and Jappassas be associated with deep and bitter execrations.

DEATH AND MEMORY OF POCAHONTAS.

The Princess died at Gravesend, on the eve of her departure for Virginia. The office of her panegyrist is confined to the merest details. The simplest narrative of her life, is the profoundest eulogy to her memory. Born in an age too rude to afford her the precepts and the instructions of virtue, while the condition of her sex seemingly precluded her from opportunities for the display of shining merit, she has yet left examples so signal, that after-times will best evince their progress to refinement, by their successful emulation of her mercy, redeeming and saving from captivity and death—and of her capacious charity, feeding a famished people from her hand—and that people a stranger and an enemy. The eye and the bosom of beauty suffused, and throbbing under the compassionate influence of pity—the prostrate attitude—the dishevelled hair—and the impassioned gaze of Pocahontas suing for the life of Smith at the feet of Powhatan—the timid and delicate maiden, heedless of the wonted terrors of her sex, rushing to save, through darkness and danger—Pocahontas at Ratcliffe's massacre, sheltering in her bosom the head of the boy Spillman, and warding with her naked hands the glancing tomahawks; these are passages of her eventful life, beyond the efforts of the pencil or the pen; and, without the aid of any coloring in the representation, melt the coldest hearts into acknowledgments of their moral influence and beauty.

JOHN SMITH.

History is replete with examples of the vulgar great who have obtained high consideration in the world, by their lucky association with moving incidents, and who, without any intrinsic impulse, have tamely lentthemselves to the current of swelling events; nor are the instances rare, although rarely appreciated, of great virtue and capacity struggling in the tide of adversity, and sinking, not from any defect of their own resources, but by the depression of their fortune, and who have thus forfeited the world's applause, which awaits rather the prosperous than the deserving. But such is not the estimate of men and events which history owes to posterity; and in transmitting worth to fame, she should pay no adulation to fortune. In her discriminating page the character of John Smith will stand conspicuous, unclouded by the obscurity of the times, and the adversity of the events in which he acted and suffered—conspicuous for a constellation of high and shining attributes, such as at once inspire their possessor with the conception of great designs, and qualify him for their consummation. And his claims to reputation will not be tested merely by his achievements, when it is considered that his destinies confined him to a range of action too narrow for his capacity. How unjust to circumscribe his fame to the limits of a colony, whose faculties were capable to remove and extend the confines of empires! His glory dilates itself beyond the sphere to which it had been assigned by circumstances, and lays claim to the merit of any achievement possible to the greatest virtue.

CAPTIVITY OF SMITH.

Captain Smith was not aware of the stealthy approach of the Indians; a slight wound by an arrow was the first intimation he had of their presence.

In this peril, of a nature to quell the greatest courage, because its exercise must be hopeless, his energies did not desert him; seizing his Indian guide, he constrained him to serve as a shield against the missiles of the assailants—and interposing the Indian's person between himself and his enemies, he commenced his retreat in the direction of the canoe; but being obliged to make face to the Indians, his progress was consequently retrograde, and thus not being able to pick his way, he sunk through the ice to the waist in a morass. Here, embarrassed as he was, he slew with his musket three of the Indians, and for several hours kept the others at a distance, until fatigued with his fruitless efforts to extricate himself from the morass, and benumbed by the cold, he desisted from the idle contest. The Indians dared not yet approach him, until he had thrown his arms to a distance from him, when they raised him and carried him to a fire at the canoe, near which lay the dead bodies of his companions.

Smith, with the vague intention of gaining time, and of making a favorable impression upon his captors, endeavored to establish a communication with their chief, whom he propitiated by the offering of his pocket compass. The curiosity of the savage was forcibly roused by the apparent life in the vibrations of the needle, the motions of which were visible through the crystal, although it eluded his touch; but when the prisoner, by signs, and so much of their language as he had acquired, engaged his attention to the description of its properties and uses—how, by its indication alone, the solitary hunter could track his pathless way, in darkness, through the deepest forests, and direct his canoe through the expanse of waters to its destined point, and this by mysterious and inscrutable influence between the heavenly bodies and the little talisman he held in his hands, the Indian's faculties were absorbed in the recital, and he remained fixed in an attitude of mute and vague wonder.

* * * * *

FYTTE I.

Leonore. Why art thou sad?

Lover. Sweet LeonoreCome hither and list! On their golden shoreYon waters sing. The winds are nigh;They have swept all cloud from the starry sky;And a rare song-woof their fingers weaveOn earth—in air. 'Tis a pleasant eve!A magic is in wind, moon and star—A magic that winneth hearts afarTo the days that are past. Come, best beloved,Look forth from this lattice: own the spellWhich hath moved a spirit long unmoved—While I tell thee a tale I love to tell.

Leon. A tale thou lovest!

Lover. Aye, by my word!As her wail is dear to the shadow bird,Whose haunt is low in yon Linden glen,I love the tale of my grievous pain.The bird of the shadow will wail her wail—Come hither, sweet Lady, and list my tale;No word of my lip shall wound thine ear.

Leon. I will list thy story—but O,not here!This lattice!—Hast thou——

Lover. Forgotten?—no.Here—erst—when the moon—a bended bow—Rained its ray-arrows on wave and air,And their jewelled points illumed thy hair,I saw thy lips part, and heard thee say,Thou wouldst love me well till thy dying day.I am happy!—But Lady, thou wilt not blameThis lip that sad words—sad words—brim o'erAt thought of one whom I may not name.Wilt thou list my dark story, sweet Leonore?

Leon. I hear thee.

Lover. The stars and the white-armed moonAre bright in heaven; and the breath of JuneIn the faint wind liveth. On such a night,With the sky as blue, with the moon as bright,I roved with one by a lonely shore;I have loved another, sweet Leonore!

Leon. I hear thee!

Lover. Wan were the brow and cheekOf her whose name I may not speak;And gentle the flow of her long fair hair;And her azure eye had a beauty rare.I won that girl to my doting heart:But a rival came, and his fiendish artFell witheringly—as falls the dewOn Brandon night. Her kinsman knewThat 'twas a sinful and deadly stain—This last wild love—so not againMet they—the lovers—in peace or pain!—He who had won by his fiendish artDied mad; andsheof a broken heart.They made her a grave by our love's lone shore,And I laughed in strange mirth, sweet Leonore.

Leon. Alas!

Lover. Yet a burning and restless painLived evermo' at my heart and brain.What balm sought I?—Forgetfulness,Ah!—wo is me! I had none to blessMy desolate heart: no soothing toneTo cheer my spirit seared and lone:No hand of love to clasp mine own.And anguish—great anguish dogged my step,Till I did swear me that a fiendSpake in mine ear with a hissing lip.I bared my brow to the haunted windOn wintry hills; and then in fearWould seek my couch most lone and drear,And mutter a name for the dead to hear.And in my mad dreams, sweet Leonore,I shuddered and moaned—"Pain evermore!"

Leon. Alas!

Lover. But time wore fleetly on,And the lines were less deep on my forehead wan.I sought to bury my wrongs in wine;And I sought in the crowd where star-eyes shineFor my thwarted heart a second shrine:—Yetthisin vain! I found it not,For naught from the book of Time mote blotThe one black page, and Memory everDwelt, till my temples throbbed with fever,On that stained page and its letters wild.

Leon. And yet thou lovedst!

Lover. A dream beguiledMy life from anguish. Leonore!Canst thou unlock the mystic loreOf sleep and its visions dim and bright?I slumbered—in pain: the lingering blightStill lay on my spirit. I dreamed a dream!Like motes on the swell of a noonday beam,A thousand vague forms passed me by,Wheeling and circling hurriedly.These passed, and methought a lady brightLeant on my arm, and clasped my hand:Her chiselled temples were high and white;But her life did seem as a name in sand,With the waters near:—For her eyes were wild,And her long teeth glittered as she smiled,And her cheek was sunken. I ne'er had seenThat lofty brow with its lily sheen,In my waking hours, and ne'er till thenHad I heard what I yearned to hear again—That lady's voice!—Sweet Leonore,'Twas a gentle joy to linger o'erThat dying one so fair and meek.While I gazed in love on her faded cheek,She shuddered and—died! I sprang, aghast,From my couch, and moaned.The strange dream passed—Passed from its seat on my troubled brain.I awoke to the forms of earth again.Time flew his soar, as Time aye flies;And I basked in the light of earthly eyes,Till, joyous of heart, and light of mood,I fled from naught save solitude.I laughed, and many a hoary headShook thoughtfully, and wise men said—As stole vague fears of a stormy morrow—"Naught knoweth yon gallantyetof sorrow."In a crowded hall, on a festive night—Aloof from the fears of dotard eld—I spake in the ear of a Lady bright,Whom—awake—I had ne'er, till then, beheld.Thinewas that ear: and much it movedThe chords of my spirit, best beloved,To gaze on the peerless Leonore.Thou—thouwast the Lady of the dream;And I unriddled the mystic loreWhich mortal men a madness deem,And said, while my heart leapt joyously,"The dream was the voice of destiny.Kind Heaven hath sent this gentle one—This being of beauty—of beauty to atoneFor the viper's tooth: and she will beThrough sorrow and joy, mine faithfully,Till the days of her life on earth are o'er"—And I wooed and won thee, Leonore.

He ceased. The Lady turned her head,Her soft cheek flushed with a ruby fever—But she gazed in his face and meekly said,"As I love thee now will I love thee ever."

Then passion came to the Lover's eye,And as he bowed him, tenderly,To kiss the brow of his Leonore,These words spake he—"Bliss evermore!"

But constancy dwelleth not on earth,And this world's joy is of little worth,For we know that ere the birth of morrow,The cup may be changed for one of sorrow.This is a truth my heart hath learned,From one who loved, and then falsely spurned:This is a truth which all must knowWhose lots are cast in this world of wo.

A poet's thanks for thy courtesy,Thou gentle one, whose step with meHath kindly been!

One fytte is done—Yet sith thus far we twain have gone,I'll "ply my wrest,"1then tell thee moreOf the loves of the Lady Leonore.

L. L.

1Wrestwas the name of the key used in tuning his harp by the ancientSongleuror minstrel. "Ply my wrest" is an expression to be met with frequently in the early English poets.

The preservation of a pure English diction is not sufficiently aimed at in America. Some are so entirely Britannic, as to receive every thing for legal tender in letters, which comes across the water. This is thenceforward duly 'marqué au coin.' Others are so patriotically republican, as to set about the task of nursing the countless brood of cis-Atlantic words, into literary respectability. Both are in error. It is not enough to avoid Amercanisms; nor is it expedient to manufacture a pye-bald dialect, of vulgarisms and provincialisms, for the mere satisfaction of calling it our own. In England, no less than here, the language is growing to an unhealthy exuberance, and many of the words whichare fathered on the poor Americans, are distempered excrescences of the overgrown British trunk. Nothing but the appeal to a standard of former golden days of literature and classic taste, can save the noble tongue of freemen from becoming an unwieldy, cacophonious, inconsistent mass of crudities. How much more is there danger, lest the other party, by encouraging unauthorized and American inventions in language, lay the foundation for provincial dialects, which shall hopelessly diverge from one another, until the Mississippian and the Virginian shall be as diverse as were the Athenian and the Macedonian. What this difference was, may be seen at a glance even in Demosthenes on the crown; where the orator blunders in Attic, while he reads in the same breath a decree of the Byzantes in broad-mouthed Doric.

To some minds this may seem a trifling subject; like the countryman's nightingale in Catullus, 'vox et praeterea nihil.' But, as Mirabeau said,Words are things.Language and thought act reciprocally. Unity of speech presupposes unity of thinking; but it also propagates it. Where provincial dialects begin to grow into languages, there is a corresponding divergence of national feeling. In our boundless country, after all our attempts to the contrary, this diversity of language will take place. It is now taking place. We begin to distinguish by his idiom and his pronunciation, the New Englander, the Southron, and the native of the great Western Valley. And there is no possibility of avoiding a separation of greater moment, without some common and acknowledged standard to which the appeal may be made; a standard not fabricated, but adopted—which shall be maintained by men of letters, in opposition to the immensely varying license of the illiterate mass in the respective districts of America.

Such a standard exists in the authorized classics of Great Britain. If we depart from this, we not only fall to pieces at home, but eventually sever our literature from that of the mother country; a mishap to be deprecated by every man who wishes his posterity to drink at "the well-spring of English, pure and undefiled," or who desires our American authors to be honored in Great Britain. We would not be such purists in language, as to stigmatize every word not found in Johnson. There is a fastidiousness on one side, as evil as the recklessness on the other. Fox rejected all words not found in Dryden, and Bulwer speaks of one so addicted to the Saxon element of our tongue, that his English stalks abroad "as naked as a Pict." New objects are discovered in nature, new distinctions are taken in science, new relations are discerned in ancient truths, and all these justify new words. But we are not in danger of pruning too close in this land of universal license. The purity and melody of our language are threatened from the side of indiscriminate adoption of needless words and phrases. The basest provincialisms begin to install themselves in works of reputed elegance; and grammatical solecisms are daily "being engrafted" on our stock. The last phrase is here inserted as a specimen, with our challenge to all the sciolists and misses who use it, to furnish an instance of a similar construction, in any writer of merit, from Robert of Gloucester to Sir James Mackintosh.

Provincialisms are cited abroad as Americanisms. Though "I guess" is often used by Locke in the Yankee acceptation, yet even in America it is confined to a particular region, where un-English phraseology is rife. So the sad abuse of that poetical wordeveningto meanafternoon—an abuse which makes mere prose of such a verse as

"Like a bright exhalation in the evening,"

is confined to a 'section' of our states. Mutual recrimination and banter tend to rub off these points of vulgarity, which show themselves most in such as move in narrow circles. No one State or District can justifiably throw stones, for we all live in glass houses. We have known a New Englander laugh at the Southern use of the wordclever;ignorant utterly that the latter is the only English acceptation. And in like manner we knew a vagrant word-catcher to have in his list of VirginianismsGood bye t' ye, a phrase purely Shakspearian. The Philadelphian calls a certain savoury bird aQuail;according to Wilson, he is right, and the Marylander wrong in calling it aPartridge. But the Southron makes reprisals in the case of another sort of game, for he rightly calls that aHarewhich the North-man eats under the title ofRabbit. To speak of pronunciation would be endless. That of the South accords with England's best orators and dictionaries in all such words astutorvicetootor—path,wrath,carpet,garden, &c. Yet many sedulous students of Walker never find this out. Dr. Noah Webster would fain have us believe that orthoepy demands such sounds asnatur,featur,creatur. We rejoice that even in Connecticut this barbarism is growing into discredit. The learned Doctor would also improve English so as to writeSaviorforSaviour,BridegoomforBridegroom,DuelistforDuellist, and the like. We humbly crave leave to wait until any one English work can be produced in which these elegancies shall appear. It is anEnglish, not anAmericanlanguage which we are called upon to nurture and perfect. Let no scholar deem it beneath his dignity to aid in the work. Then we shall no longer see such a term asfirstlyin a work on metaphysics, nor hear such a double adverb asillyon the floor of Congress—no longer hear of an event'stranspiring, before it has become public, nor of an argument beingpredicatedon such and such facts.

BOREALIS.

MRS. SIGOURNEY—MISS GOULD—MRS. ELLET.

Zinzendorff, and other Poems. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, New York: Published by Leavitt, Lord & Co.1836.

Poems—By Miss H. F. Gould, Third Edition. Boston: Hilliard, Gray & Co.1835.

Poems; Translated and Original. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet. Philadelphia: Key and Biddle.1835.

Mrs. Sigourney has been long known as an author. Her earliest publication was reviewed about twenty years ago, in the North American. She was then Miss Huntley. The fame which she has since acquired is extensive; and we, who so much admire her virtues and her talents, and who have so frequently expressed our admiration of both in this Journal—we, of all persons—are the least inclined to call in question the justice or the accuracy of the public opinion, by which has been adjudged to her so high a station among theliteratiof our land. Some things, however, we cannot pass over in silence. There are two kinds of popular reputation,—or rather there are two roads by which such reputation may be attained: and it appears to us an idiosyncrasy which distinguishes mere fame from most, or perhaps fromallother human ends, that, in regarding the intrinsic value of the object, we must not fail to introduce, as a portion of our estimate, the means by which the object is acquired. To speak less abstractedly. Let us suppose two writers having a reputation apparently equal—that is to say, their namesbeing equally in the mouths of the people—for we take this to be the most practicable test of what we choose to termapparent popular reputation. Their names then are equally in the mouths of the people. The one has written a great work—let it be either an Epic of high rank, or something which, although of seeming littleness in itself, is yet, like the Christabelle of Coleridge, entitled to be calledgreatfrom its power of creating intense emotion in the minds of great men. And let us imagine that, by this single effort, the author has attained a certain quantum of reputation. We know it to be possible that another writer of very moderate powers may build up for himself, little by little, a reputation equally great—and this, too, merely by keeping continually in the eye, or by appealing continually with little things, to the ear, of that great, overgrown, and majestical gander, the critical and bibliographical rabble.

It would be an easy, although perhaps a somewhat disagreeable task, to point out several of the most popular writers in America—popular in the above mentioned sense—who have manufactured for themselves a celebrity by the very questionable means, and in the very questionable manner, to which we have alluded. But it must not be thought that we wish to include Mrs. Sigourney in the number. By no means. She has trod, however, upon the confines of their circle. She does notoweher reputation to the chicanery we mention, but it cannot be denied that it has been thereby greatly assisted. In a word—no single piece which she has written, and not even her collected works as we behold them in the present volume, and in the one published some years ago, would fairly entitle her to that exalted rank which she actually enjoys as the authoress,time after time, of her numerous, and, in most instances, very creditable compositions. The validity of our objections to this adventitious notoriety we must be allowed to consider unshaken, until it can be proved that any multiplication of zeros will eventuate in the production of a unit.

We have watched, too, with a species of anxiety and vexation brought about altogether by the sincere interest we take in Mrs. Sigourney, the progressive steps by which she has at length acquired the title of the "American Hemans." Mrs. S. cannot conceal from her own discernment that she has acquired this titlesolely by imitation. The very phrase "American Hemans" speaks loudly in accusation: and we are grieved that what by the over-zealous has been intended as complimentary should fall with so ill-omened a sound into the ears of the judicious. We will briefly point out those particulars in which Mrs. Sigourney stands palpably convicted of that sin which in poetry is not to be forgiven.

And first, in thecharacter of her subjects. Every unprejudiced observer must be aware of the almost identity between the subjects of Mrs. Hemans and the subjects of Mrs. Sigourney. The themes of the former lady are the unobtrusive happiness, the sweet images, the cares, the sorrows, the gentle affections, of the domestic hearth—these too are the themes of the latter. The Englishwoman has dwelt upon all the "tender and true" chivalries of passion—and the American has dwelt as unequivocally upon the same. Mrs. Hemans has delighted in the radiance of a pure and humble faith—she has looked upon nature with a speculative attention—she has "watched the golden array of sunset clouds, with an eye looking beyond them to the habitations of the disembodied spirit"—she has poured all over her verses the most glorious and lofty aspirations of a redeeming Christianity, and in all this she is herself glorious and lofty. And all this too has Mrs. Sigourney not only attempted, but accomplished—yet in all this she is but, alas!—an imitator.

And secondly—in points more directly tangible than the one just mentioned, and therefore more easily appreciated by the generality of readers, is Mrs. Sigourney again open to the charge we have adduced. We mean in the structure of her versification—in thepeculiar turns of her phraseology—in certain habitual expressions (principally interjectional,) such asyea!alas!and many others, so frequent upon the lips of Mrs. Hemans as to give an almost ludicrous air of similitude to all articles of her composition—in an invincible inclination to apostrophize every object, in both moral and physical existence—and more particularly in those mottos or quotations, sometimes of considerable extent, prefixed to nearly every poem, not as a text for discussion, nor even as an intimation of what is to follow, but as the actual subject matter itself, and of which the verses ensuing are, in most instances, merely a paraphrase. These were all, in Mrs. Hemans, mannerisms of a gross and inartificial nature; but, in Mrs. Sigourney, they are mannerisms of the most inadmissible kind—the mannerisms of imitation.

In respect to the use of the quotations, we cannot conceive how the fine taste of Mrs. Hemans could have admitted the practice, or how the good sense of Mrs. Sigourney could have thought it for a single moment worthy of her own adoption. In poems of magnitude the mind of the reader is not, at all times, enabled to include in one comprehensive survey the proportions and proper adjustment of the whole. He is pleased—if at all—with particular passages; and the sum of his pleasure is compounded of the sums of the pleasurable sensations inspired by these individual passages during the progress of perusal. But in pieces of less extent—like the poems of Mrs. Sigourney—the pleasure isunique, in the proper acceptation of that term—the understanding is employed, without difficulty, in the contemplation of the pictureas a whole—and thus its effect will depend, in a very great degree, upon the perfection of its finish, upon the nice adaptation of its constituent parts, and especially upon what is rightly termed by Schlegel, theunity or totality of interest. Now it will readily be seen, that the practice we have mentioned as habitual with Mrs. Hemans and Mrs. Sigourney is utterly at variance with this unity. By the initial motto—often a very long one—we are either put in possession of the subject of the poem; or some hint, historic fact, or suggestion is thereby afforded, not included in the body of the article, which, without the suggestion, would be utterly incomprehensible. In the latter case, while perusing the poem, the reader must revert, in mind at least, to the motto for the necessary explanation. In the former, the poem being a mere paraphrase of the motto, the interest is divided between the motto and the paraphrase. In either instance thetotalityof effect is annihilated.

Having expressed ourselves thus far in terms of nearly unmitigated censure, it may appear in us somewhat equivocal to say that, as Americans, we are proud—very proud of the talents of Mrs. Sigourney. Yet such is the fact. The faults which we have already pointed out, and some others which we will point out hereafter, are but dust in the balance, when weighed against her very many and distinguishing excellences. Among those high qualities which give her, beyond doubt, a title to the sacred name of poet are an acute sensibility to natural loveliness—a quick and perfectly just conception of the moral and physical sublime—a calm and unostentatious vigor of thought—a mingled delicacy and strength of expression—and above all, a mind nobly and exquisitely attuned to all the gentle charities and lofty pieties of life.

The volume whose title forms the heading of this article embraces one hundred and seventy-three poems. The longest, but not the best, of these is Zinzendorff. "It owes its existence," says the author, "to a recent opportunity of personal intercourse with that sect of Christians who acknowledge Zinzendorff as their founder; and who, in their labors of self-denying benevolence, and their avoidance of the slight, yet bitter causes of controversy, have well preserved that sacred test of discipleship 'to love one another.'" Most of the other pieces were "suggested by the passing and common incidents of life,"—and we confess that we find no fault, with their "deficiency in the wonderful and wild." Not in these mountainous and stormy regions—but in the holy and quiet valley of the beautiful, must forever consent to dwell the genius of Mrs. Sigourney.

The poem of Zinzendorff includes five hundred and eighty lines. It relates, in a simple manner, some adventures of that man of God. Many passages are very noble, and breathe the truest spirit of the Muse. At page 14, for example.

Again at page 21, we have something equally beautiful, in a very different way. The passage is however much injured by the occurrence of the word 'that' at the commencement of both the sixth and seventh line.

All this is exquisite, and in Zinzendorff there are many passages of a like kind. The poem, however, is by no means free from faults. In the first paragraph we have the following:

To suppose the Susquehannah roaming through thebreastof any thing—even of a valley—is an incongruity: and to say that such false images are common, is to say very little in their defence. But when the noble river is bedizzened out inrobes of silver, and made to wash with its bright waters nothing better thancurtains of velvet, we feel a very sensible and a very righteous indignation. We might have expected such language from an upholsterer, or amarchande des modes, but it is utterly out of place upon the lips of Mrs. Sigourney. To liken the glorious objects of natural loveliness to the trappings and tinsel of artificiality, is one of the lowest, and at the same time, one of the most ordinaryexemplifications of thebathos. At page 21, these verses occur:

The image here italicized is striking, but faulty. It is deduced not from any analogy between actual existences—between woe on the one hand, and the sea on the other—but from theidentity of epithet(deep) frequently applied to both. We say the "deep sea," and the expression "deep woe" is certainly familiar. But in the first case the sea is actually deep; in the second, woe is but metaphorically so. Sound, therefore—not sense, is the basis of the analogy, and the image is consequently incorrect.

Some faults of a minor kind we may also discover in Zinzendorff. We dislike the use made by the poetess of antique modes of expression—here most unequivocally out of place. For example.

The versification of Zinzendorff is particularly good—always sweet—occasionally energetic. We are enabled to point out only one defective line in the poem, and in this the defect has arisen from an attempt to contractenthusiasminto a word of three syllables.

There are, however, some errors of accentuation—for example:

Again—

We observe too that Mrs. Sigourney places the accent inWyomingon the second syllable.

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