Text: Various, Imagination Graham's Magazine, February 1841, pp. ???-???

[page 92:]

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

“The Antediluvians, or the World destroyed.” A narrative poem, in ten books. By James McHenry, M D. Author of the “Pleasures of Friendship,” &c. 1 vol. J. B. Lippincott & Co.: Philada.

There are two species of poetry known to mankind; that which the gods love, and that which men abhor. The poetry of the Dr. belongs to the latter class, though he seems lamentably ignorant of this, from the long essay on taste which he has given to the world in the shape of a preface to the work before us, and in which his own peculiar merits and demerits are discussed at sufficient length. He tells us that he has long been tormented with an itching after immortality, and that, being convinced not only that the writing of a poem was the surest passport to it, but that the choice of a subject was the greatest difficulty in the way of such a work, he has spent some years of his life is selecting the present theme. He has also the modesty to acquaint the public that his subject is inferior to Milton's alone, leaving us, by a parity of reasoning, to conclude that Dr. McHenry is next in glory to the heavenly hand. We congratulate the Dr. on his finesse. There is nothing like connecting one's name with that of a genius, for if the world is not deceived by it, you persuade yourself, like Major Longbow, by a constant repetition of your story, of its truth. You become a great man in your own conceit, fancy that the world does injustice to your talents, and go down to posterity, if not as the falcon's mate, at least as

“A tom-tit twittering on an eagle's back.”

Having thus associated himself with Milton, the Dr. proceeds to inform us that, in the Deluge. he at length found a theme “ exalted and extensive enough for the exercise of poetic talents of the highest order,” leaving as, a second time, to infer, what he is too modest except to insinuate, that his own genius is unequalled. He then calls our attention to the plot, asserting that the general “plan and scope” of a poem are second only to its theme — that is, that diction, style, and imagination, in short every requisite of a true poet, are but “flimsy stuff.” The Dr. seems to know his own weak points, and when the “galled jade winces;” but even his elaborated plot is worse than nine men out of ten would construct. We have gleaned little from it except a few facts, which would be strange, were they not ridiculous. There is a description of a harem is this second book, from which [column 2:] we learn that velvets, and embroidery were as much in vogue among the antediluvians as now; an account of a siege in the eighth book, which settles the disputed question, whether Greek fire, melted lead, and catapults, were used then or not; and a detail of a battle in the same book, which gives the divisions and manœuvres of the contending armies, and puts at rest the assertions of military men, who trace our present tactics back no farther than the invention of gunpowder. Besides this, there are two marriages — a rescued maiden — one or more heros [[heroes]], and as many heroines, with an innumerable catalogue of minor incidents, in short, the materials of a half a dozen bad novels, woven into a worse poem.

We are told in the outset that the “versification is not particularly modelled after that of any preceding author,” and that our classic poets afford no style “exactly suitable for this work,” and, consequently, we are but little astonished when we meet with each passages as the following:

“Subservient to the foul, malignant fiends,

The abandoned race of Cain their God forstook,

And to the infernal agents gave their hearts.

Oh! preference worse than foolish, choke insane!

Which drove celestial spirits front their charge

Of guardianship o’er human feebleness,

And left the hapless Cainites in the power

Of hellish tyrants. whom they blindly served,

Lured by the sensual pleasures amply given

In transient, poisonous recompense for guilt.”

Page 14

Or this

“Here reigned the fierce Shalmaxar, giant king.

Sprung from a mixture of infernal strain,

His sire, the power of lewdness, Belial named,

Who, amorous awl earth-born beauty, won

Astoreth, princess of Gal-Cainah's realm,

To his unhallowed love.”

Page 16.

What the meaning of the author is in the line above italicised, we challenge all Christendom to discover. But even no sense at all, is better than mere verbiage, or coarse or improbable metaphor, as thus

“Repose at last, where it is ever found

By weary mortals, in the peaceful grave,

In which his heir, that moralising youth,

The melancholy Lameth, had before

Laid doing the o’erpowering burden qf his woes.”

Page 12.

And again:

“The harnessed-spirits spreading forth their wings.”

Page 11. [page 93:]

And thus:

“Then was the hour of vengeance; then the stern

Hell-generated tyrant felt dismay,

And in his chariot fled — “

Page 262.

But we must bring a still heavier charge against the Dr., that of a total want of originality. The whole plan and conception of the Antediluvians is copied, but “loago intervallo,” after Paradise Lost. Had Milton never written poetry, Dr. McHenry would never have published bombast. Yet the one is only the shadow of the other's shade. This imitation is perceptible, mot only in various attempts to copy the versification, but oftentimes in more glaring and less defensible plagiariama. Would it, for instance, be believed that the second book of the Antediluvians, begins with a passage so nearly resembling the opening of the second book in Paradise Lost, as to make, as Dogberry has it, “flat burglary?” Thus:

“High on a throne of royal state, which far

Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,

Or where the gorgeous east, with richest hand,

Showers on her kings barbaric, pearls and gold,

Satan exalted sat.”

Paradise Lost, Book II.

“In royal robes, magnificently bright,

On his imperial throne of burnished gold,

And polished ivory, which sparkling shone,

With gems innumerable, of various hues,

That shed a blaze of streaming radiance round

The gorgeous hall, the haughty monarch sat.”

Antediluvians, page 29.

And so on diluting the idea of Milton into a dozen more lines, and chewing, at once, the grandeur of the model, and the feebleness of the imitation. Yet Dr. McHenry calls himself a poet, and pretends to the divine afflatus. But again:

“Such scenes of cruelty and blood,

Exhibited before appalled Heaven,

To make the angels weep, to look on earth!”

Antediluvians, page 202.

“But man, frail man,

Drest in a little brief authority,

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,

As make the angels weep.

Shakspeare.

We might multiply such instances; — but enough. Has the Dr. forgotten the celebrated verse of Virgil?

“Hoe ego versiculos foci, tulit alter honores.”

The Dr. appears fond of the use of epithets, especially such ones as “infernal, fiendish, hellish,” and other coarse adjectives. We do not object to the use of the two former, provided they appear sparingly and in place, but really the work before us is seasoned rather highly with rich epithets for our taste. The Dr. [[,]] however, appears to be of the Tompsonian school in literature, and not only spices strongly, but mashes away right and left at the accredited school. We advise him, once for all, to give up poetry, which he disgraces, for physic, which he may adorn. God sever intended him for an immortal fame. We are satisfied that, if he should be arraigned for writing poetry, no sane jury would ever convict him; and if, as most likely, he should plead guilty at once, it would be as quickly disallowed, on that rule of law, which forbids the judges to decide against the plain evidemee of their senses.

———

“The Dream, and other Poems.” By the Hon. Mrs. Norton. Carey and Hart, Philadelphia: 1841.

Hemans, Baillie, Landon, and loveliest of all, Norton! — what a glorious constellation for one language. France with her gaiety: Italy with her splendid genius: even Greece with her passionate enthusiasm, cannot rival such a galaxy. And this glory too, belongs wholly to the present century, for though the harp of England has often been struck by female hands, it has hertofore only given forth a rare and fitful cadence, instead of the rich, deep, prolonged harmony which now rolls nem its chords.

Mrs. Norton is unquestionably, — since the death of Mrs. Hemans, the queen of English song. In many respects she resembles that gifted poetess: in some she is strikingly dissimilar. The same pathos, the same sweetness, the same fancy characterise both ; but in all that distinguishes the practised author, rather than the poetess, Mrs. Hemans has the advantage of her successor. Thus, the one is sometimes faulty in the rythm the other never. Mrs. Norton will now and then be betrayed into a carelessness of diction; Mrs. Hemans was rarely, if ever, guilty of such solecisms. Such expressions, for instance, as the “harboring” land, the “guiding” hand, the “pausing” heart, the “haunting” shade, and others of like character, taken at random from the volume before us, though not strictly improper, yet, as they are plainly expletive, and weaken, instead of strengthening a sentence, are never to be found in the poems of Mrs. Hemans, or of’ any one “learned in the craft.”

But, if Mrs. Norton is less correct than Mrs. Hemans, she is, on the other hand, more nervous, more passionate, and at times more lofty. No one can read “The Dream” without being struck by the truth of the remark, that Mrs. Norton is the Byron of our female poets. There are passages in some of her poems of greater power than any presages of like length in Mrs. Hemans’ writings, though at the same time, there are a far greater number of inferior litres in the poetry of Mrs. Norton, than in that of her gifted sister. In short, the one is the more equal, the other is the more daring. One is the more skilful writer: the other shows glimpses of a bolder genius. There is less prettiness, and not so much sameness in Mrs. Norton as in Mrs. Hemans. The former is not yet, perhaps, the equal of the latter, but she possesses the power to be so, if her rich fancy and deep feeling, now scarcely known to herself, should ever be brought so completely under her control as were the talents of Mrs. Hemans. [page 94:]

If Mrs. Norton had written nothing before, this volume would have established her claim to be the first of living poetesses; but who that is familiar with the world song can forget the many gems — rich, and beautiful, and rare — with which she has spangled beforetime her starry crown? The world has taken more care of her glory than she has herself, and the random pieces she has poured forth so divinely at intervals, and which hitherto she has made no effort to preserve, have found their way into the hearts of all who can be touched by the mournful or the beautiful, until her name is cherished alike in the humble cottage and the princely hall. And now she has come forth in more stately guise, not as a new author among strangers, but as one long tried and known, one endeared to we by old association, one whose melancholy music is, as it were, a part of our very being.

“The Dream” is the longest poem in the rolome before us, but, as it makes no pretension to be considered a story, and has really no plot, we shall not judge it by the ordinary rule of criticism. We shall consider it only as a string of pearls, loosely joined together by the simplest contrivance, the idea of a dream, narrated by a daughter to her mother, — and, judging it in this way, we give it unqualified praise. That its merit is unequal, is, in our eyes, no objection to its beauty, — for have not all poets skimmed the ground as well as soared to heaven? Yes! “The Dream” is unequal, but so is Lallah Rookh, so is Marmion, so are all the tales of Byron, and so — to ascend a step higher — is Comus, or Hamlet, or even the Iliad.

But Mrs. Norton, like her gifted sister, possesses one quality which distinguishes her above all other writers, in this or in any tongue — we mean in giving utterance to, what is emphatically, the poetry of woman. In this they resemble no cotemporary, unless it is Miss Landon. Women have written poetry before, but if it had been shown to a stranger, he could not have told from which sex it sprung. It is not so with the poetry of these two gifted females. Every line betrays the woman — each verse breathes the sender, the melting the peculiar eloquence of the sex.

Scarcely a page, moreover, occurs in the writings of either, which does not bear testimony to woman's suffering and worth. Yes ! while it is the fashion to meet at the purity of woman's heart, and while a pack of literary debtmehem are libelling our mothers end our sisters unopposed, fintin the ranks of that insulted sex have risen up defenders of its innocence, to shame the heartless slanderers to silence. Hear in what eloquent numbers Mrs. Norton vindicates her sex:

“ Warriors and statesmen have their mead of praise,

And what they do or stiffer men record;

But the long sacrifice of woman's days

Passes without a thought — without a word;

And many a holy struggle for the sake

Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfil’d —

For which the anxious mind must watch and wake,

And the strong feelings of the heart be still’d, —

Goes by unheeded as the summer wind,

And leaves no memory and no trace behind!

Yet it may be more lofty courage dwells

In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate, [column 2:]

Than his, whose ardent soul indignant swells,

Warmed by the fight, or cheer’d through high debate:

The soldier dice surrounded ? — could he live

Alone to suffer, and alone to strive?

Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloom

Shows deeper honor than a common tomb!

Who sleep within?

Aye ! who? Not woman, we can answer for it. God bless her who has written thus. The wretches who would rob the sex of their purity of heart, and their uncomplaining endurance of suffering, deserve to die, uncheered by woman's nurture, unwept by woman's tenderness. Such beings are not men: they are scarcely even brutes: they are aliquid monstri, monsters in part. But again

“In many a village churchyard's simple grave,

Where all unmarked the cypress branches: wave;

In many a vault, where Death could only claim

The brief inscription of a woman's name;

Of different ranks, and different degrees,

From daily labor to a life of ease.

(From the rich wife, who through the every day

Wept in her jewels, grief's unceasing prey,

To the poor soul who tended o’er marsh and moor,

And with her baby begg’d from door to door, — )

Lie hearts which, ere they found that last release,

Had lost all memory of the blessing, “Peace;”

Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied years,

None saw but Him who marks the mourner's tears;

The obscurely noble! who evaded not

The woe which he had ward should be their lot,

But nerved themselves to bear!”

“The Dream,” as a whole, is the finest piece in the volume before us. It abounds with glorious passages, of which we can only give two more exemplee — the one, impassioned, nervous, and stirring as a trumpet — the other sweet, and low, and musical as the rustle of an angel's wing. Few authors can boast such a varied power.

“Heaven give thee poverty, disease, or death,

Each varied ill that mute on human breath,

Rather than bid thee linger out thy life,

In the long toil of such unnatural strife.

To wander through the world unreconciled,

Heart-weary as a spirit-broken child,

And think a mete an hoar of bliss like heaven,

If thou couldst DIE — forgiving and forgiving, —

Or with a feverish hope of anguish born,

(Nerving thy mind to feel indignant scorn

Of all the cruel foes that twist ye stand,

Holding thy heart-strings with a rockiest hand,)

Steal to him presence, now unseen so long.

And claim his mercy who hath dealt the wrong!

Into the aching depths of thy poor heart,

Dive, as it were, even to the roots of pain,

And wrench up thoughts that tear thy soul apart,

And burn like fire through thy bewildered brain.

Clothe them in passionate words of wild appeal.

To teach thy fellow creatures how to feel, —

Pray, weep, exhaust thyself in maddening tears, —

Recall the hopes, the influences of years, —

Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground.

Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing wound. —

Invoke the Heaven that knows thy sorrow's truth,

By all the softening memories of youth —

By every hope that cheered thine early day —

By every tear that washer wrath away —

By every old remembrance long gone by —

By every pang that makes thee yearn to die;

And learn at how deep and stern a blow

Mans hand can strike, and yet no pity show!” [page 95:]

What force! what passion ! Never has Mrs. Hermes written thus, — few indeed have done so except Byron.

We mast pass “The Down” with a single other quotation. It is on the evening hour, and is sweet as a moonlit landscape, or a child's dream of heaven.

“That hour, once sacred to God's presence, still

Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill,

The holiest hour of earth. Then toil doth cease,

Thee Prom the yoke, the oxen find release —

Then man rests, pausing from his many cares,

And the world teens eCirlt audroes sunset prayers!

Then innocent things seek out their natural rest,

The babe sinks slumbering en its mother's breast,

The birds beneath their leafy covering creep,

Yes, even the flowers fold up their bode in sleep;

And angels, floating by on radiant wings,

Hear the low sounds the breeze of evening brings,

Catch the sweet incense as it floats along.

The infant's prayer, the mother's cradle-rang,

And bear the holy gifts to worlds afar,

As things toe sacred for this fallen star.”

There is, in reading these poems, an abiding sense of the desolation that has fallen on the heart of the writes, a desolation which only adds to the mournful made of her lyre, like the approach of death, is fabled, to give music to the swan. We have stedienely avoided, heretofore, touching upon this subject, as we would not, by awakening pity, blind the judgment of the public, but we cannot avoid the remark, that every page of this volume bears evidence that the heart of the authoress, like that of Rachel, will not be comforted. The arrow has entered deep into her soul. Like Mrs. Hemans, unfortunate in her domestic life — for the miscreant who would still believe her guilty is an insult to humanity — she “seeks, as the stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness.” Hers is a hard lot; deserted by the one who has sworn to love her, and maligned by the unfeeling wield, she has net even the conecilanon of weeping with het children, and finding seine relief is their caresses for her broken heart. Hear her once more — we have almost wept as we read — hear her, when gating in the twilight at the pictures of her absent children.

“Where are yet Are ye playing

By the stranger's blazing hearth;

Forgetting, In your gladness,

Your old homes former mirth?

Are ye dancing? Are ye singing?

Are ye full of childish glee?

Or do your light hearts sadden Ark hearer sadden

With the memory of me?

Round whom, oh! gentle darlings,

Do your young arms fondly twine,

Does she press you to her bosom

Who hath taken you from mine?

Oh! boys, the twilight hour

Such a heavy time hath grown. —

It recalls with such deep anguish

All I used to call my own, —

That the harshest word that ever

Was spoken to me there,

Would be trivial — would be welcome —

In this depth of my despair!

Yet no! Despair shall sink not.

While life and love remain, —

Tho’ the weary straggle haunt me,

And my prayer be made in vain

The at times my spirit fail me

And the bitter tear-drops fall, [column 2:]

Tho’ my lot be hard and lonely,

Yet I hope — I hope thro’ all”

And then, with what a buret of eloquence, she carrier out the idea!

“By the living smile which greeted

The lonely one of Nain,

When her long last watch was over,

And her hope seemed wild and vain;

By all the tender mercy

God hath shown to human grief,

When fate or man's perverseness

Denied and barr’d relief, —

By the hopeless, woe which taught me

To look to him alone,

From the vain appeals for justice,

And wild efforts of my own, —

By thy light — thou unseen future,

And thy tears — thou bitter put,

I will hope — tho’ all forsake me,

In His mercy to the last!”

TWILIGHT.

But we must close this article. There are litany exquisite shorter pieces in the volume, besides the The Dream and Twilight. The Creole Girl; The Child of Earth; I cannot Love Thee; The Visionary Portrait; The Banner of the Covenanters; Weep not for him that Dieth; and several of the Sonnets may be instanced as among the finest. Let us, in conclusion, commend the poems of Mrs. Norton to our fair countrywomen as those of a mind of a high order. Less egotism, a more ertended scope of feeling, and greater attention to the rules of her art, will place her foremost among the female poets of England.

———

“Bancroft's History of the United States.” Vol. 3.

The first two volumes of this history have now been some years before the public, and criticism has long since given them its fist. The characteristics of Mr. Bancroft are a rigid scrutiny of facts, a general impartiality, and a style, usually nervous, but sometimes savoring of transcendental obscurity. The style of the second volume, however, is an improvement on that of the first, and the volume before us surpasses, in our opinion, either of the former two. There is a philosophy in Bancroft which other historians might well emulate. No man has traced so clearly the causes of the American Revolution. It was the stern, hard, indepedenee of the Pilgrims, handed down to their posterity, and united with the gallant and chivalric freedom of the South, which brought about the greatest revolution of modern times.

The pictures which Mr. Bancroft draws in pursuing the thread of his aereatire,are ohne highly graphic. The early adventures of Soto and others; the colony of Raleigh at Roanoke; the landing of the Pilgrims; the Indian wars of New England, are all described with force if not with beauty. The gradual dissemination [page 96:] of the Democratic principle is also faitkfully depicted; and it is clearly shown that the Puritan., the Swedes, and the Quakers, alike formed pure democracies in their settlements. In short, the history is something more than a mere chronicle : it is a continuous essay on the philosophy of the American Revolution.

The third volume brings the subject down to the period of the old French war, an epoch which may be considered at the threshold of the struggle for independence. Here, for the present, he drops the curtain. A fitter point, for such a pause could not have been chosen. Behind, is the long succession of trials, and dangers, through which the infant colonies had just passed: before is the wild, shadowy future, soon to become vivid with its startling panorama. Such reflection might well fill the mind of the historian with a kind of solemn awe; and it is while such feelings overpower his readers, that he introduces Washington, the future hero of the scene.

The work is beautifully printed, in a style highly creditable to the American press.

We leave Mr. Bancroft with the hope that his historic labors will be pursued with redoubled zeal, satisfied that in him America possesses a philosophic annalist of the highest order. [column 2:]

“Bryant's American Poets.” 1 vol. Harper & Brothers.

This work does credit to the editor, although he has admitted some, and left out others, of our poetical writers, whom we think be ought not se to hare treated. However, a compilation like this can nerve: be made to suit all. The true question is, who can do better?

———

“Travels to the City of the Caliphs.” By Lieutenant Wellsted. 2 vols. Lea & Blanchard.

This is a light, entertaining work. The adventures of the hero (Lieut. Ormsby) are highly pleasing; and he evinces a laudable desire to fall in love, an well for his own as for the convenience of the reader. On the whole, the book is well writen, and quite amusing.