Book 2 — REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Poetical Remains of the late Lucretia Maria Davidson, Collected and Arranged by her Mother: with a Biography by Miss Sedgwick. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia.

Some few months since, we had occasion to speak of “The Biography and Poetical Remains of the late Margaret Miller Davidson”—a work given to the public by Washington Irving. In common with all who read, we had been deeply interested in the narrative set forth. The portrait of the young and beautiful enthusiast, simply yet most effectively painted by one who touches nothing which he does not adorn, could not have failed to excite our warmest sympathies; and we dwelt upon the pleasing yet melancholy theme with a lingering delight. Of the biographical portion of the book we said, indeed, what every one says, and most justly—that nothing could be more intensely pathetic. In respect, however, to the “Poetical Remains,” the tone of our observations was not fully in accordance with that of the mass of our contemporaries. Without calling in question the extreme precocity of the child—a precocity truly wonderful—we were forced, in some slight measure, to dissent from that extravagant eulogium, which had its origin, beyond doubt, in a confounding of the interest felt in the poetess and her sad fortunes, with a legitimate admiration of her works. We did not, in truth, conceive it to be either honest or necessary, to mislead in any degree the public taste or opinion, by styling “Lenore,” as it exists, a fine poem, merely because its author might have written a fine poem had she lived. We emphasize the “might”; for the history of all intellect demonstrates that the point is a questionable one indeed. The analogies of Nature are universal; and just as the most rapidly growing herbage is the most speedy in its decay—just as the ephemera struggles to perfection in a day only to perish in that day’s decline—so the mind is early matured only to be early in its decadence; and when we behold in the eye of infancy the soul of the adult, it is but indulging in a day dream to hope for any farther proportionate development. Should the prodigy survive to ripe age, a mental imbecility, not far removed from idiocy itself, is too frequently the result. From this rule the exceptions are rare indeed; but it should be observed that, when the exception does occur, the intellect is of a Titan cast even to the days of its extreme senility, and acquires renown not in one, but in all the wide fields of fancy and of reason.

Lucretia Maria Davidson, the subject of the memoir now before us, and the elder of the two sweet sisters who have acquired so much of fame prematurely, had not, like Margaret, an object of poetical emulation in her own family. In her genius, be it what it may, there is more of self-dependence—less of the imitative. Her mother’s generous romance of soul may have stimulated, but did not instruct. Thus although she has actually given less evidence of power (in our opinion) than Margaret—less written proof—still its indication must be considered at higher value. Both perished at sixteen. Margaret, we think, has left the better poems—certainly the more precocious—while Lucretia evinces more unequivocally the soul of the poet. In our August number we quoted in full some stanzas composed by the former at eight years of age. The latter’s earliest effusions are dated at fourteen. Yet the first compositions of the two seem to us of nearly equal merit.

The most elaborate production of Margaret is “Lenore,” of which we have just now spoken. It was written not long before her death, at the age of fifteen, after patient reflection, with much care, and with all that high resolve to do something for fame with which the reputation of her sister had inspired her. Under such circumstances, and with the early poetical education which she could not have failed to receive, we confess that, granting her a trifle more than average talent, it would have been rather a matter for surprise had she produced a worse, than had she produced a better poem than “Lenore.” Its length, viewed in connexion with its keeping, its unity, its adaptation, and its completeness (and all these are points having reference to artistical knowledge and perseverance) will impress the critic more favorably than its fancy, or any other indication of poetic power. In all the more important qualities we have seen far—very far finer poems than “Lenore” written at a much earlier age than fifteen.

“Amir Khan,” the longest and chief composition of Lucretia, has been long known to the reading public. It was originally published, with others, in a small volume to which Professor Morse, of the American Society of Arts, contributed a Preface. Partly through the Professor, yet no doubt partly through their own merits, the poems found their way to the laureate, Southey, who, after his peculiar fashion, and not unmindful of his previous furores in the case of Kirke White, Chatterton, and others of precocious ability, or at least celebrity, thought proper to review them in the Quarterly. This was at a period when we humbled ourselves, with a subserviency which would have been disgusting had it not been ludicrous, before the crudest critical dicta of Great Britain. It pleased the laureate, after some squibbing in the way of demurrer, to speak of the book in question as follows:—“In these poems there is enough of originality, enough of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power to warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patrons and the friends and parents of the deceased could have formed.” Meaning nothing, or rather meaning anything, as we choose to interpret it, this sentence was still sufficient (and in fact the half of it would have been more than sufficient) to establish upon an immovable basis the reputation of Miss Davidson in America. Thenceforward any examination of her true claims to distinction was considered little less than a declaration of heresy. Nor does the awe of the laureate’s ipse dixit seem even yet to have entirely subsided. “The genius of Lucretia Davidson,” says Miss Sedgwick in the very volume now before us, “has had the meed of far more authoritative praise than ours; the following tribute is from the London Quarterly Review.” What this lady—for whom and for whose opinion we still have the highest respect—can mean by calling the praise of Southey “more authoritative” than her own, is a point we shall not pause to determine. Her praise is at least honest, or we hope so. Its “authority” is in exact proportion with each one’s estimate of her judgment. But it would not do to say all this of the author of “Thalaba.” It would not do to say it in the hearing of men who are sane, and who, being sane, have perused the leading articles in the “London Quarterly Review” during the ten or fifteen years prior to that period when Robert Southey, having concocted “The Doctor,” took definitive leave of his wits. In fact, for any thing that we have yet seen or heard to the contrary, the opinion of the laureate, in respect to the poem of “Amir Khan,” is a matter still only known to Robert Southey. But were it known to all the world, as Miss Sedgwick supposes with so charmingly innocent an air;—we mean to say were it really an honest opinion,—this “authoritative praise,”—still it would be worth, in the eyes of every sensible person, only just so much as it demonstrates, or makes a show of demonstrating. Happily the day has gone by, and we trust forever, when men are content to swear blindly by the words of a master, poet-laureate though he be. But what Southey says of the poem is at best an opinion and no more. What Miss Sedgwick says of it is very much in the same predicament. “Amir Khan,” she writes, “has long been before the public, but we think it has suffered from a general and very natural distrust of precocious genius. The versification is graceful, the story beautifully developed, and the orientalism well sustained. We think it would not have done discredit to our most popular poets in the meridian of their fame; as the production of a girl of fifteen it seems prodigious.” The cant of a kind heart when betraying into error a naturally sound judgment, is perhaps the only species of cant in the world not altogether contemptible.

We yield to no one in warmth of admiration for the personal character of these sweet sisters, as that character is depicted by the mother, by Miss Sedgwick, and by Mr. Irving. But it costs us no effort to distinguish that which, in our heart, is love of their worth, from that which, in our intellect, is appreciation of their poetic ability. With the former, as critic, we have nothing to do. The distinction is one too obvious for comment; and its observation would have spared us much twaddle on the part of the commentators upon “Amir Khan.”

We will endeavor to convey, as concisely as possible, some idea of this poem as it exists, not in the fancy of the enthusiastic, but in fact. It includes four hundred and forty lines. The metre is chiefly octo-syllabic: At one point it is varied by a casual introduction of an anapæst in the first and second foot; at another (in a song) by seven stanzas of four lines each, rhyming alternately; the metre anapæstic of four feet alternating with three. The versification is always good, so far as the meagre written rules of our English prosody extend; that is to say, there is seldom a syllable too much or too little; but long and short syllables are placed at random, and a crowd of consonants sometimes renders a line unpronounceable. For example:

He loved,—and oh, he loved so well

That sorrow scarce dared break the spell.

At times, again, the rhythm lapses, in the most inartistical manner, and evidently without design, from one species to another altogether incongruous; as, for example, in the sixth line of these eight, where the tripping anapæstic stumbles into the demure iambic, recovering itself, even more awkwardly, in the conclusion:

Bright Star of the Morning! this bosom is cold—

I was forced from my native shade,

And I wrapped me around with my mantle’s fold,

A sad, mournful Circassian maid!

And I then vow’d that rapture should never move

This changeless cheek, this rayless eye,

And I then vowed to feel neither bliss nor love,

But I vowed I would meet thee and die.

Occasionally the versification rises into melody and even strength; as here—

’Twas at the hour when Peris love

To gaze upon the Heaven above

Whose portals bright with many a gem

Are closed—forever closed on them.

Upon the whole, however, it is feeble, vacillating, and ineffective; giving token of having been “touched up” by the hand of a friend, from a much worse, into its present condition. Such rhymes as floor and shower—ceased and breast—shade and spread—brow and wo—clear and far—clear and air—morning and dawning—forth and earth—step and deep—Khan and hand—are constantly occurring; and although, certainly, we should not, as a general rule, expect better things from a girl of sixteen, we still look in vain, and with something very much akin to a smile, for aught even approaching that “marvellous ease and grace of versification” about which Miss Sedgwick, in the benevolence of her heart, discourses.

Nor does the story, to our dispassionate apprehension, appear “beautifully developed.” It runs thus:—Amir Khan, Subahdar of Cachemere, weds a Circassian slave who, cold as a statue and as obstinately silent, refuses to return his love. The Subahdar applies to a magician, who gives him

a pensive flower

Gathered at midnight’s magic hour;

the effect of whose perfume renders him apparently lifeless while still in possession of all his senses. Amreeta, the slave, supposing her lover dead, gives way to clamorous grief, and reveals the secret love which she has long borne her lord, but refused to divulge because a slave. Amir Khan hereupon revives, and all trouble is at an end.

Of course, no one at all read in Eastern fable will be willing to give Miss Davidson credit for originality in the conception of this little story; and if she have claim to merit at all, as regards it, that claim must be founded upon the manner of narration. But it will be at once evident that the most naked outline alone can be given in the compass of four hundred and forty lines. The tale is, in sober fact, told very much as any young person might be expected to tell it. The strength of the narrator is wholly laid out upon a description of moonlight (in the usual style) with which the poem commences—upon a second description of moonlight (in precisely the same manner) with which a second division commences—and in a third description of the hall in which the entranced Subahdar reposes. This is all—absolutely all; or at least the rest has the nakedness of mere catalogue. We recognize, throughout, the poetic sentiment, but little—very little—of poetic power. We see occasional gleams of imagination: for example—

And every crystal cloud of Heaven

Bowed as it passed the queen of even.

Amreeta was cold as the marble floor

That glistens beneath the nightly shower.

At that calm hour when Peris love

To gaze upon the Heaven above,

Whose portals bright with many a gem

Are closed—forever closed on them.

The Subahdar with noiseless step

Rushed like the night-breeze o’er the deep.

We look in vain for another instance worth quoting. But were the fancy seen in these examples observable either in the general conduct or in the incidents of the narrative, we should not feel obliged to disagree so unequivocally with that opinion which pronounces this clever little production “one which would not have done discredit to our most popular poets in the meridian of their fame!”

“As the work of a girl of sixteen,” most assuredly we do not think it “prodigious.” In regard to it we may repeat what we said of “Lenore,”—that we have seen finer poems in every respect, written by children of more immature age. It is a creditable composition; nothing beyond this. And, in so saying, we shall startle none but the brainless, and the adopters of ready-made ideas. We are convinced that we express the unuttered sentiment of every educated individual who has read the poem. Nor, having given the plain facts of the case, do we feel called upon to proffer any apology for our flat refusal to play ditto either to Miss Sedgwick, to Mr. Irving, or to Mr. Southey.

The Seaman’s Friend; Containing a Treatise on Practical Seamanship, with Plates; A Dictionary of Sea Terms; Customs and Usages of the Merchant Service; Laws Relating to the Practical Duties of Masters and Mariners. By R. H. Dana, Jr. Author of “Two Years Before the Mast.” Little and Brown: Boston. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia.

The publishers of this neat little volume have very prudently stereotyped it; anticipating an extensive and continuous demand. In truth, the work belongs to the class of the obviously needful, and its circulation and appreciation are matters of certainty. Ever since men “went down to the sea in ships,” there has been a difficulty in procuring exact, compact, and universally intelligible information on the very topics which Mr. Dana now discusses. The necessary knowledge was to be gleaned, imperfectly and superficially, from amid a mass of technical jargon, diffused over a world of questionable authority. Books on Seamanship are extant, to be sure—works of the highest scientific merit and ability—and the writings of Captain Basil Hall give, incidentally, a vast fund of intelligence on naval subjects; but the true desideratum was a work which could only be written by an individual placed exactly in the circumstances which surrounded Mr. Dana. It is well known that he is a man of talent and well educated; that ill-health induced him to try a sea-voyage in the capacity of common sailor; and that thus he has been enabled to combine the advantages of theoretical and practical science. His “Two Years Before the Mast” was, very deservedly, one of the most popular books ever published, and proved immensely profitable—at least to his booksellers. It gave, in a rich strain of philosophical observation, all the racy spirit, as the present volume conveys all the exact letter of the sea.

There is only one improvement which we could wish to suggest. An appendix, we think, should be added; embracing, first, in as popular, that is to say, in as untechnical a form as possible, the philosophy of latitude and longitude—the general principles of which may be rendered intelligible to almost any understanding—and, secondly, the formulæ employed in the application of these principles to navigation, with concise rules for the use of the sextant and chronometer, and for solar, lunar, and stellar observations.

The Miser, or the Convicts of Lisnamona. By William Carleton, Author of “Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry.” Two Volumes. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia.

This story originally appeared in the “Dublin University Magazine,” under the title of “Fardorougha, or The Miser.” It was much copied and admired, and has all the Irish merit for which its author is so famous.

Fragments From German Prose Writers. Translated by Sarah Austin. With Biographical Sketches of the Authors. D. Appleton and Company. New York.

This is a book about which little can be said, except in the way of general and pointed commendation. Its title fully explains its character; although the fair authoress is at the trouble of enlarging upon the nature of the fragmentary contents. These scraps embody specimens of every variety of the prose literature of Germany—convey, in petto, its whole soul. The lives of the authors are invaluable. The volume is, in point of mechanical appearance, one of the most beautiful ever issued, even by the Appletons.

Confession; Or the Blind Heart. A Domestic Story. By the Author of “The Kinsmen,” “The Yemassee,” “Guy Rivers,” etc. Two Volumes. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia.

In general, Mr. Simms should be considered as one giving indication, rather than proof of high genius. He puts us in mind of a volcano, from the very darkness issuing from whose crater we judge of the fire that is weltering below. So far, with slight exceptions, he has buried his fine talent in his themes. He should never have written “The Partisan,” nor “The Yemassee,” nor his late book (whose title we just now forget) about the first discovery of the Pacific. His genius does not lie in the outward so much as in the inner world. “Martin Faber” did him honor; and so do the present volumes, although liable to objection in some important respects. We welcome him home to his own proper field of exertion—the field of Godwin and Brown—the field of his own rich intellect and glowing heart. Upon reading the first few pages of “Confession,” the stirring words of Scott arose to our lips—“My foot is on my native heath, and my name is McGregor.”

It is our design to speak in full of the volumes before us; but we have left ourselves no space for the task, and must defer it, perforce, until the new year.

Cecil; Or The Adventures of a Coxcomb. A Novel. Two Volumes. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia.

This work is an obvious but very spirited and excellent imitation of the Pelhams and Vivian Greys. It abounds, even more than either of these works, in point, pungency and vivacity, but falls below them in true wit, and in other higher qualities. Altogether, it is richly entertaining, and will meet with success. The theme is a good one well managed.