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YONNONDIO, OR WARRIORS OF THE GENESEE; A Tale of the 17th century, by William H. C. Hosmer. — Well, Yonnondio, Mr. Hosmer's long-expected poem, is before us, and we rise from its perusal with a high sense of its merits. Our literary men have so often signally failed in portraying Indian character, that we feared, notwithstanding our respect for the poet's knowledge of the Seneca language and legends, that his work would disappoint public expectation. The story is captivating, and unites historical truth with the charm of romance. De Nouevilre's invasion — an event that occurred 160 years ago — is a “framework of fact” which genius has successfully clothed with “fancy's drapery.” Limits will not allow an analysis of the plot. Blanche, Wunnu-they, Le Troye, De Grai, the sachem and his son, are life-like portraits.
Instead of tedious detail, Mr. Hosmer finishes a spirited outline of character by a few bold and abrupt strokes — in proof of which I refer the reader to sketches of the Jesuit in the 1st canto, De Grai in the 2d, and the following:
“Stern Time, in robbing form and face
Of youthful symmetry and grace,
Could not subdue his pride, nor dim
The hawk-like fierceness of his gaze;
And brawny chest and iron limb
Unwasted were by length of days:
His lofty forehead was a page
Rough with the wrinkling lines of age;
His port majestical and proud,
His form commanding and unbowed,
Like some old oak, in ancient moss,
And rough, indented rind encased,
From whose gray trunk the vernal gloss
Had many a lustrum been effaced;
Stiff lifting loftily his head,
Without one bough decayed or dead,
Though many a howling storm had tried
In dust to hurl his honors down —
Asunder rend his arms of pride,
And scatter to the winds his crown.”
Nature's, features, in calm or storm, are faithfully transcribed. Old Christopher North, who has a keen eye for the, wild and picturesque, would feel refreshed by a tramp with Mr. Hos-mer's Indians through the “Pleasant Valley.” Graphic are his delineations of the wooded hill, sequestered glen, willowed stream, and gray, old forest, with its living things, from the bird perching in its green halls, to the panther cowering in its depths. Let us turn, by way of illustration, to the picture he draws of the silvery Conesus. What repose — what Eden-like innocence invests it! What a striking, touching contrast, between its pure and slumbering waters and the “man of evil” on its shore!
“Made restless by his dampened bed,
A waking warrior raised his head;
Then, rising slowly to his feet,
Looked on the lake's unruffled sheet;
Bright dimple on earth's chequered face,
A radiant pearl in emerald vase,
And mirror meet for Naiad fair
To look on when she plaits her hair!
It lay a type of holy rest,
And primal freshness wrapped its breast;
Its surface, smooth as polished steel,
Ploughed never by the wandering keel —
Wind, water-fowl and falling shower
Its playmates since creation's hour.
So picturesque, so calm a view,
Beneath June skies of cloudless’ blue,
By tranquil charm might well have curbed
The tumult of a soul disturbed;
And yet that lonely warrior stood,
With folded arms, in murky mood;
Nervous at times, and scared he seemed,
As if of evil he had dreamed;
In sleep some drear forewarning heard,
Dark curse, or death-denouncing word;
And ill his eye of savage glare
Comported with a scene so fair.”
The verse often shifts from a slow to a wilder movement. When the rush and tumult of a forest fight are described, the measure is rapid and in keeping with the crowded imagery; but it changes to a subdued and measured flow when a wail rises for the slain, or — to use his own harmonious lines —
“Succeeding to the sounds of fray,
Heard are the winds and leaves at play.”
Mr. Hosmer not only copies with fidelity and success Nature's exterior imagery, but he often sweetly interprets her internal language. Mark the following:
“The blue-lipped wave stole up the beach,
Its red, polluted sand to bleach;
Breathing a low and whispered moan,
A sad, mysterious undertone,
As if it bore a heart and sighed
For those who in that strife had died.”
The proof-sheet should have been subjected to close scrutiny. I observe, scattered through the work, many verbal errors that disfigure its pages, such as “conveys” for “coveys” — “Aduntdack” for “Adirondack” — “brow” for “bow” — “once” for “one,” &c.
We have perused the work, to use a French phrase; tout d’une haleine, and, though with sentiments of delight, not with unvarying approbation. Mr. Hosmer has defects of style that time will correct. His choice of words is not always felicitous, but his deviations, at times, from the standard of pure taste, are nobly redeemed by a scorn of tawdry ornament, and “puling, classical affectation.” Too much praise cannot be awarded to a writer who drinks at inspiring springs in his own country — who gathers into the treasure-house of his fancy her legends of the past, and out of pure home material builds up a literary monument,
“To long outlast his wasting form —
To stand when round his grave the storm:
Hath howled uncounted years.”
A LADY OF WESTERN NEW YORK.
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Notes:
This review was specifically rejected as being by Poe by W. D. Hull, which is reasonable enough given the fact that the article is signed by “A Lady of Western New York.”
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[S:0 - NYEM, 1844] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Criticism - Literary (Willis ?, 1844)