with subterranean fires, half a century ago, while the nations above were asleep. He did much, though it was by accident; as we have said before, and will continue to say; for, if he had known the value of that mine, which he blundered upon, while searching for base plebeian earth, (a little cash,) would he have gone away, and left others to work it? or would he have staid away so long? or would he have gone back to it now, with such a doubtful air, and such a sad misgiving of the heart? The example of Mr. Cooper-or the discoveries rather, which were made by the "Spy,' in that unvisited region of story, in the new world-its warlike history-were not lost upon others. Many have grown wiser by reason thereof: some with, and a multitude without, courage, nerve, and vigour. Several are at work now; and, we are told of one, the very latchet of whose shoe, when he treads the soil of North America, over the great pathway of rebellion, Cooper were not worthy to loose. In truth, it were downright sacrilege for Mr. Cooper to meddle with such unwieldy, prodigious machinery. He cannot move it; or, if he should-if he were to succeed-if he were to put a portion of it in play, by some lucky touch, while he was patiently feeling about among the foundations of a world, (as if he had found his way into a toy-shop, at blindman's buff, while the owner was asleep,) the noise would frighten him out of his wits, we do believe. Yet Mr. Cooper is now there. He has "rushed in, where angels fear to tread;" gone barefooted, perhaps; or slip-shod; set off, without preparation, to visit a place where the spirit of revolution broke loose, fifty years ago, tearing his way, from shore to shore, and from sea to sea, like an earthquake; a place, to which Goliah himself could not go, without wading up to his middle in hot ashes, and lifting a passage for himself, through a world of rubbish-overthrown pillars, and imperial wreck; a place to which no dwarf will ever penetrate-ever-ever-though he wear sandals of brass, or go, with brazen panoply complete; or seek for immortality, after the fashion of those, who leap into the fire, when there is no other way to obtain it. Of the characters which are brought forth in this "Legend of thirteen provinces," a word or two; and but a word or two. The chief, Job Pray, is a changeling, a sort of idiot, (a very bad copy, too,) a fool, who talks better by half, than the people of sense about him; and is always applied to, by the hero, whenever he lacks either advice or information, political or religious. "Old Nab is pretty well. The story has no sort of interest, although it concerns a period which has no parallel in history; the breaking out of the revolutionary war at Boston, Massachusetts Bay, where a few grave men got up a rebellion, very much as if it were a matter of serious duty; a period of terrible interest, if it were talked about in a worthy fashion. The females are, as heretofore, with Mr. Cooper, nice, tidy, pretty-behaved women, who hold up their heads, keep their elbows back-run about in a stately way, and talk very much like a book; never going out, or coming in, but "flying," or "gliding," or disappearing, or vanishing-" furtively." The Battle of Lexington, though, is well done. So is that of Bunker Hill-properly Breed's Hill. Parts of two or three scenes, which have little or no business where they are; with five or six incidents rather out of keeping (like that of the shadowy arms, overspreading the church roof,) are very good-even capital. Three or four of the revolutionary characters are touched off pretty well-not very sharply, to be sure, but so, as to be known.-The tavern-keeper at Boston, while he is taking security for his furniture is very good, very. Washington (who is come to be the butt of almost every whippersnapper now), luckily for Mr. Cooper, does not appear at all in this book, though a trumpet is blown several times, to put us on our good behaviour. But why the mischief are we so repeatedly warned of his approach, and prepared for it, as in that passage, where the hero is on his way to Cambridgeleaving his bride on her wedding night-who, on earth, can tell us wherefore? Sir William Howe, Sir Henry Clinton, Burgoyne, Earl Percy, and a few others on the royal side, are sketched-awkwardly enough; but we value the sketches, bad as they are, because we know that Mr. Cooper is indebted for them to the good people of Massachusetts, where the war broke out; and Charles Lee, though out of place, and rather out of drawing, is well done-pretty well done, we should say. (See BLACKWOOD's for a sketch of Lee, Jan. 1825, p. 68.) "Polworth" is a character made as nine characters out of ten are lately made. He says the same thing, over and over again. Why not paste a label on his forehead, or write a phrase on his back-that were about as well; if, to do a foolish thing fifty times over, be enough to constitute a character. "Ralph" is nobody. He is an after-thought, we guess; a sort of interlineation; a bit of running accompaniment of mystery and surprise-like the "Spy" himself, without meaning or probability. What business had Ralph with a map, at night, in a deserted house? Answer: because George Washington, the only hero that Mr. Cooper ever undertook before, had a map in his part (which map was very well received) in a similar situation-at night-on the top of a mountain. But why had George Washington a map there? Answer: because Mr. Cooper was a midshipman of the United States navy; and because all the great men that he had ever seen-suitably occupied in a time of great peril, had always a chart before them. Ralph, therefore, in the deserted house-at night; and George Washington, therefore, at night, on the top of a high mountain, are-bless your heart-only two captains in the United States navy, on a lee shore. The great fault of Mr. Cooper; or a great fault with him, is this. He wants courage to describe that which he sees; to record that, as it is that, which he has power enough to see, as it is. The people of his book, with two or three exceptions, talk too well; too much alike, wherever he wishes to make them appear well bred. He is afraid of his dignity, perhaps; afraid if he make an idiot behave like an idiot, or talk like one, that he himself,-he Mr. Cooper, may be thought one; afraid, if he put bad grammar into the mouths of people, who, as every body knows, talk nothing else, in real life, that he himself may be charged with bad grammar. We are sorry for this. It is a great error; but one which we hope to see done away with on every side, before long-every where-by every body. Truth, whatever people may say, truth is not vulgarity; nor is untruth refinement. A few years ago, it was the fashion for Greeks to show off on the boards of our theatre, in the garb of Englishmen; or, at any rate, in the common tragedy garb of the house: Kemble appeared, and we have now remarkable truth, in dress. A few years ago it was the fashion for heroes to spout, or declaim; it is now the fashion to talk there. A few years ago, it was the fashion to dress the great men of this empire, whenever they were painted or sculptured, in the absurd habiliments of a Roman-absurd, we say, when adopted for such a purpose by such a people as the British. West appeared-Benjamin West; and you meet with historical paintings at every step now; noble pictures, and superb statuary, in the garb of truth. Let a Kemble, or a Kean, or a West appear in the world of literature, and we shall see men talk on paper as they talk every where else. 3. MEMOIRS OF CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN.*-We never heard of this work, till a few days ago. But, having read it, we begin to believe, that we spoke, the other day, somewhat more sharply than we should, of American apathy, concerning the genius of Brown. This Mr. Dunlop, we suspect, was the author of a life, of George Frederick Cooke, in America; a very decent affair (the book, we mean); with two or three comedies-or plays-or serious farces-or something else, of which we have but a very imperfect recollection; yet, such as we have, is in their favour. Brown's Life was written-we rather guess-for Mr. Colburn's library; wherefore the nice little puff, some years ago, in the New Monthly. Bating the criticism of Mr. D., which is bad enough, and takes up a good share of the book; bating another part of it— which we regard as a capital specimen of sober, serious, chrononhotonthology-with a tedious good-for-nothing essay or two-and a few letters not worth reading-the book is a pretty good sort of a book that is-of the whole 337 pages octavo, about eighty or a hundred-small duodecimo-would be worth reading,-and yet, we are not sorry for having waded over the whole. It has been of great use, to ourself; it has enabled us to correct several errors, of time or fact, or both, into which we have been led of late, while MEMOIRS OF CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. By William Dunlop. Colburn, 1822. 1 vol. 8vo. VOL. VII. No. 41.-Museum. 3 K inquiring about poor Brown. By this LIFE, we perceive that he was born Jan. 17, 1771; that he died (we know not where, by the book; but we suppose, in Philadelphia)-Feb. 22, 1810; that he was, therefore, 39, at his death; that he was educated for the bar (like most of the chief writers, and all the chief statesmen of North America)-that, beside the books, which we enumerated, (see vol. XVI. p. 421,) he was the author of two political pamphlets, of great value; many papers, which we forget, with pleasure; a system of geography (incomplete)-was editor of the AMERICAN REGISTER, (a work of real worth,) five volumes of which were completed under his own eye; that he was in Philadelphia, during the yellow fever of ninety-three; but that his attack happened at New York, in 1798; that his novels were written, at New York, where he established a Magazine or two; that he wrote with remarkable rapidity; that several of his stories were under way, all at the same time; that CARWIN was the first, written; ALCUIN (a fragment) the first, published: that his tales appeared in the following order-Wieland, Ormond, Arthur Mervyn, Edgar Huntly, Clara Howard (published here first, under the title of Philip Stanley), Jane Talbot (published here, in 1804); that he was not married, till after the novels were written, so that his wife could not have helped him in them, however she might have assisted, in the Magazines, Pamphlets, or Register; and that his children were boys -twins. 4. JOHN BULL IN AMERICA.-A very clever, saucy, ill-tempered book; with a deal of snappish rough satire in it; much biting truth; and a sort of laboured cross-humour, at which you cannot help laughing, bitter and surly as it is; ungraceful and wicked as it is-wicked, we say; because, of a truth, it is very maliciousangry-spiteful. A very large part of it is a caricature-and a very happy one, too, of the absurd accounts which are given about America, the American habits, language, vices, institutions, &c. &c., by that class of writers, who come under the title-God forgive us of "British travellers in America;" a set of chaps who have done more mischief, and sowed more evil, rancorous thought, between two great proud nations-forty times over, than all the war, in which they have encountered each other. The design of the book is well enough-or might be forgiven, at any rate, in such a case; but the execution is bad-bad, because it is not cheerful enough; bad, because you see the bitterness of private feeling at the bottom of all the sharp truth, which appears. We like the system of decided retaliation. Hard knocks, for us— no "pelting with roses." There is glory in beating a stout man; little or no disgrace, if we are beaten by him. We are willing to give or take-as the case may require an eye for an eye; or a tooth for a tooth-in our way; but we would have all prejudice, and private personal animosity, kept clear off, while a man is pull * JOHN BULL IN AMERICA London. Miller, 1825. 12mo. ing the tooth, or "gouging" the eyes of a whole nation; that isif we made an attack upon a people, because that people, or a part of their understrappers, had wronged our people, or a part of our understrappers, we should be very careful to make it, in such a way, that our indignation would appear to be roused, not for ourselves, but for our country; or, at least, for our countrymen. It should appear so-as a matter of policy, whether it was, or was not, so; for truth itself-the truth of a superior being, would be doubted, if it were known that he had a direct personal view, in promulgating it. Wherefore, we should say that Paulding has overshot his mark. In every page of this volume, which would appear, or should appear, to be the patriotic, generous, brave, praise-worthy undertaking of a good fellow, ripe for mischief, or frolic-or both-in behalf, not of himself, or his own dirty quarrel, but of a great nation, afar off,-in every page or two, at every turn, where you are wholly unprepared for it-wholly there starts up a phrase, or a flourish, which puts you upon asking, why the devil he is for ever going out of the way, for a back-handed slap at the Quarterly Review. Then, of course, the game is up-the murder is out. For, when it is well understood, by the readers of "JOHN BULL IN AMERICA," that it is written by the reputed author of "OLD ENGLAND BY A NEW ENGLAND MAN," which was reviewed, in a very bad way, by the Quarterly; when this truth comes to be understood by them, how much will they care for the rubbing up of John Bull, in America ?-not a fig. 5. THE REFUGEE.*-The greater part of this work is insupportably tedious. It is written, we should suppose, by one, who has a great reputation for grave humour-in some village, of America. And yet, if the writer will-he may, in our opinion, write a much better story than Cooper ever did, or ever can. We had no idea of this when we took up the Refugee; nor when we had ploughed half through it-for ploughing it was, in truth; but such is our deliberate opinion, our fixed belief, now. The author has poetry in him.-Cooper has not. For example: he says, (Refugee, vol. I. 280.) Where the sun first throws his beams on the grassy side of a grassy knoll, diving among the flowers to disenthral a violet,"-&c. Is that poetry, or is it not? His portrait of Washington is admirable, for truth; and so, indeed, are the greater part of his brief sketches. Try him on another tack. "Master Gil," he says-(we quote him here, for his familiar words, not for his poetry)" Master Gil was a healthy urchin of four, as noisy as sin, and as brown as a berry. You might hear him of (on) a clear afternoon, the distance of half a mile, hallooing to the birds, as they winged their way to the mountains, for their evening nap. He was known by every person for ten miles round, as he seldom suffered a well-conditioned nag to pass, THE REFUGEE. New York, 1825. Wilder and Campbell, 2 vols, 12mo: London, 3 vols. 12mo. (Newman?) |