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[page 315:]

CALAVAR; or The Knight of the Conquest: a Romance of Mexico. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1834.

    WHO reads an American book? was tauntingly asked some years since, by the Edinburg or Quarterly Review, — we do not recollect which, — nor is it important to know. For the present we will answer the question somewhat in the Hibernian or Yankee style, by a re mark which is not exactly responsive; and that is, that if Sir Walter Scott himself were living, he would have the candor and honor to acknowledge that "Calavar" was vastly superior to some five or six of the last litter of his own great genius, and not very far behind the very best of those renowned performances which have thrown a classic glory over the bleak hills and barren moors of Scotland. But whether that would have been the award of Sir Walter or not, impartial critics on both sides of the Atlantic, and coming generations, if "Calavar" should escape the vortex of oblivion, — will undoubtedly render a judgment somewhat similar. It is certainly the very best American novel, excepting perhaps one or two of Mr. Cooper's, which we have ever read; that is, if boldness of design, vigor of thought, copiousness and power of language, — thrilling incident, and graphic and magnificent description, can constitute a good novel. For the first fifty or sixty pages, it is confessedly somewhat heavy; still the reader will perceive that a master spirit is at work, to whose guidance he confidingly trusts. In a short time the whole interest of the narrative rushes upon him; he gazes in imagination upon the beautiful and Eden like vallies of Mexico; he throbs with pain at the spectacle of slaughtered thousands of the brave aborigines, and he sympathises with the tender sorrows and heroic sufferings of the only female who figures in the story, and she too in the unwomanly garb of a page, destined to perform the somewhat curious, and certainly very unthankful office, of a menial to her own lover. Here we think the author has decidedly failed, — we mean in the invention and arrangement of his story. He is entirely too unnatural even for romance. There is too much im probable and miraculous agency in the various life-pre serving expedients, and extraordinary rescues which are constantly occurring,— and which, although taken singly, do not surpass the strange events of actual life, shock us nevertheless by their perpetual succession, and impart to a tale founded upon historical truth, an air of oriental fiction which is not agreeable. The author, who is vastly superior to Cooper in dialogue, is, we fear, equally unqualified with that writer, to depict the female character in all its exquisite traits and attractive graces — else why not give us more than a mere glimpse at the daughter of Montezuma, (the beloved of the melancholy De Morla,) whose image we behold as in a "glass darkly," and whose wretched fate we regard with the less anguish, knowing so little as we do of the fair and unfortunate victim. Even Jacinto is a mysterious and shadowy, though lovely being, with whom we have not, and cannot well have much sympathy. Some few passages indeed, illustrate the disguised princess with great force, — and throughout there is an unaccountable anxiety felt towards her; but she is not sufficiently presented in the foreground of the picture, to awaken a positive and powerful interest in her behalf Jacinto, alias Leila, is nevertheless a most delightful vision, — seen always under very unfavorable circumstances, [column 2:] — but when seen, winding around the heart of the reader in spite of himself, — a beautiful, modest, heroic boy, — and yet a girl, — the discovery of whose sex, though anticipated, does not beam upon the reader until towards the latter end of the story. By the way, there is something very strange and improbable in the idea, that this same sweet creature should have waited upon her own lover in the assumed character of page or servant, and he, the lover, not to know it. It is altogether too marvellous, and the author of "Calavar" ought not to have drawn such a heavy draft upon the reader's credulity. As to Don Amador de Leste, he is in fact the hero of the story; instead of that demented melancholy uncle whose name gives the title to the romance, but whose agency in it is of very little importance, and whose wild and mournful aberration of mind attracts less of admiration than pity, sometimes mingled with a feeling allied to disgust. The character of Botello too, half knave and half conjurer, is, we think, somewhat of a failure; perhaps not altogether so, for he relieves the mind from the contemplation of spectacles of blood and misery, — and that of itself is a refreshment for which we ought to be thankful.

    Notwithstanding these strictures, which impartial justice required, we still maintain the opinion that Calavar is the production of a man of great capacity. If he follows up this first effort by corresponding success in the region of historical romance, he will assuredly outstrip all his competitors on this side of the Atlantic. The history of the conquest of Mexico, affords an admirable field for the novelist; and in the faithful delineation of Cortez, the extraordinary spirit who directed the work of devastation and surmounted almost superhuman difficulties in his triumphant career, — we think that the author of "Calavar" has been wonderfully successful.

    We forbear making quotations from the work, or entering into a more minute analysis of the story. Our chief object is to inform our readers that "Calavar" is an American production, which will not shrink from competition with the very best European works of the same character. Faults it has, and some of them obvious and censurable; but its display of intellectual power and its various beauties are so transcendant, [[sic]] that its blemishes are lost like specks upon the orb of day.

    The description of the flight of the Spaniards over the dike of Tacuba, and of the horrors of the "Melancholy night," so called in history, is awfully sublime. In truth the whole work abounds in powerful delineation both of character and scenery, and it is with pride that we hail it as at once assuming and commanding a proud rank in the department of historical romance.

[The attribution of this item is highly problematic. The general argument against giving Poe as the author is that it appeared in the Southern Literary Messenger prior to Poe's known initiation of his involvement with that magazine. (The February issue was not available until about March 15, 1835.) The argument in favor of Poe's authorship depends primarily on the link between this review and a review of Bird's Infidel (SLM, June 1835). Poe is known to have reviewed Bird's Hawks of Hawks-Hollow (SLM, December 1835), and the three reviews are often considered as a trio. On the other hand, Poe's entry from the 1850 Griswold edition of the "Literati," presumably prepared by Poe himself, combines the reviews of Hawks of Hawks Hollow and part of Sheppard Lee, but does not include anything of these two earlier reviews, suggesting that Poe was not the author.]

[Mr. Cooper, mentioned twice in the course of the review, was James Fenimore Cooper, a well-known novelist for whom Poe almost always had harsh words.]

[S:0 - SLM, 1835]