THE CAVALIERS OF VIRGINIA.*

THERE has never, perhaps, been any period in the history of American literatures, os trongly indicative of the general growth of taste, throughout the wide limits of the United States, and of the gradual formation of a strong native school, as the era which has, we believe, commenced within the brief space of the last three years. Previous to that time, there were indeed some two or three great names, existing rather as exceptions, than confirmations, to the general rule. We are not about to quote a long list of persons-we are not about to proclaim the present to be the Augustan age of America, nor is it our intention to blazon forth, as admirable and finished writers, those who may have published works exhibiting certainly powerful indications of talent, but crude, unfinished, and immature. Such a course has, we are fully aware, been often-too often-adopted by those whodesirous of creating to themselves some particular influence, by pandering to the self-conceit of individuals, or of gaining general popularity by ministering to national, or, if we may dignify it by so high a name, patriotic vanity-have equally overlooked their own dignity, and the true literary interests of a growing community; but to such a course we will never condescend. We believe that the evils resulting from it are of a two-fold character-firstly, as being subversive of all true standards of taste and criticism among ourselves, and, secondly, as tending to bring the character of our national literature into general discredit among foreign readers. And it is natural that such should be the results of the course to which we have alluded. For what can a man of talent among ourselves, who, after toiling for years along the difficult and unrewarded paths of literary ambition, has at last arrived at the true summit of distinction-who has been proclaimed, and justly proclaimed, one of the luminaries of the day-what can a man, in such a situation as this, be supposed to think, be supposed to feel, when he sees the name of some miserable quack-who, fattening on the labors of others, has acquired a sort of bastard reputation by puffing and favor-placed on the same eminence with his own-when he beholds some paragraph-compiler held aloft to the world, as the equal, or perhaps the superior, in the opinion of the American public, of himself, an acknowledged star, and of the first magnitude-what can he feel but bitterness, and contempt, and loathing-what can he say but that "My labors have been vain-and vain will be the labors of all those, who shall come after me!" Again, what must be the opinion of the European critic, the man of judgment, and of talent, perhaps himself an

The Cavaliers of Virginia, or the Recluse of James-town; an Historical Romance of the Old Dominion. By the author of the Kentuckian in New York. In two vols. 12mo. Published by Harper and Brothers, 82 Cliff Street, 1835.

author of no secondary fame-what must be his opinion, when by chance his eye falls upon the wretched namby-pamby of some poetaster, whose name he has seen extolled to the seventh heavens, as of one of the shining lights of American genius-what can be his opinion, but that America must be indeed destitute of talent, if the writer of such stuff as this, be deemed worthy of a niche in the great national temple of the muses. Nor is this, which we have supposed, an imaginary or improbable case; we have seen some score of paragraphs copied from paper to paper, and perhaps transferred to the columns of the English press-to condemn in toto the judgment and even the common sense of our people-extolling some young author, some pamphlet-maker, some tenth-rate novelist, in terms of the most extravagant adulation; and perhaps instituting a direct comparison between his crude attempt and the finished efforts of the truly great writers, whom, we will maintain it, our country does produce in a ratio perfectly gigantic to the little encouragement that is extendedwhatever we may say of the charge-to intellect and originality. What then is the consequence of all this?-It is simply as follows: that our truly distinguished writers are all content to rest upon the laurels they have won, not in the land of their birth, but in climates which have fostered their talents, and rejoiced to place their works among those of their own noblest scions. Here is the answer to the question so often asked in the columns of our dailies-What is Halleck about?-Why is the muse of Bryant voiceless?-What frost has chilled the stream of Irving's pure and classic style? These authors are, of course, disgusted—as who would not be disgusted at finding their labors thrown to the wind-" the idle wind which they respect not."-Would Byron have given a Childe Harold to posterity, had the poetry of Amos Cottle been extolled as highly as his own?-Would the laurels of Scott have waved as greenly as they do, had the minauderies of Allan Cunningham been classed with Old Mortality or Ivanhoe?-Would the Anacreon of Ireland have poured forth his unrivalled melodies, if "I'd be a butterfly" had shared the public approbation with "Oft in the stilly night"?-But what does it avail to multiply examples? As well might we expect to see military excellence at its zenith in a country where the men, who should return from the red field

relictâ non bene parmulâ,

were admitted to equal honors with the thunderbolts of war, as to see literature flourish in a community, whose critics go upon the true scriptural principle of making the first last, and the last first; a principle, which-how admirable so ever it may be in morals-and we are far from quarrelling with it in this light-is surely by no means calculated to promote that keen encounter of the wits, from the concussion of which alone the brightest sparks of genius can be elicited. It was not, therefore, with a view to quoting a long list of writers, and proclaiming, as far as in our power lay, what we believe to be a direct falsehood, that there is no discrimination here between mediocrity and excellence, that we have called public attention to the present moment, as to an epoch in the history of American

literature. But it was with the intention of pointing out the fact, that there are at present a considerable number of writers, of many different orders, in the scale of merit, now laboring for the entertainment of their fellow-countrymen, with a zeal which proves that the employment must be affording them some compensation for their toil and time; and further, that where one native publication was given to the world three years ago, ten are now widely disseminated through the states of the Union. That this change has been brought about mainly by the instrumentality of a single house in this city, we are proud to believe. That the Messrs. Harpers are, by their liberality towards young writers of their own country, and by their publication of whatever works they may consider worthy of attention without regard to names or persons, bringing about a revolution in our literature, we are bold to assert. And this is as it should be. Put the man of letters in America on the same footing with his brother in England-draw public attention to his works in the same degree as to those of his rival-and we shall do. We want no puffing-far from it! Those who possess talent need it not—are not raised by it-nor would be if they could-those who can be elevated by it, deserve not to be elevated; and their elevation, which is in truth of no permanent advantage to themselves, is injuring alike the reputation of the good writer, and degrading the tone of that public opinion, which should be the impartial and uninfluenced judge of the merits or demerits, as much of every literary, as of every political, candidate.

The proof of what we have advanced lies before us. Early last spring the Harpers published a novel entitled the "Kentuckian in New York," possessing, in truth, no very great claims to popular favor, but the work of a new author. This work received little or no approbation from the censors of the public taste, though decidedly superior to at least one novel which we could name, that, having fallen still-born from the New York press, and having been republished and praised in London, became suddenly, in the eyes of our daily and weekly critics, a splendid work of genius. But mark the result; "The Kentuckian" sold-better or worse -the author discovered his own powers, went to work again, and has produced the "Cavaliers of Virginia "—a romance-which, though perhaps somewhat wanting in power and the vivida vis, is decidedly entitled to respect, whether considered as a work of entertaining fiction in itself, or as an earnest of what the author may effect hereafter. The subject is strictly historical, and in this respect is managed with so much ability, that it is no easy matter, to distinguish where the truth ends, and where the fiction commences. Nor is the subject merely historical-but valuable, as tending to make popular the true history of times which have been heretofore entirely misrepresented by the writer, and misunderstood by the reader. It has been generally understood that our southern colonies, as of aristocratic descent, were also of aristocratic prejudice; that they clung to the falling dynasty of the Stuarts from a bare love of arbitrary principles; that Cromwell was to them a terror, Berkeley an idol, and Bacon a rebel. Dr. Carruthers, seeing the fallacy of this, has taken the best means of correcting it. More readers draw their ideas of history from historical

novels, than from grave dissertations; and, if the former be authentic where they profess to be so, and at the same time sufficiently interesting to become popular, they will spread the truth over wider limits than the most elaborate quarto. In both these respects Dr. Carruthers has been exceedingly successful; as a history, the Cavaliers of Virginia, though a novel, is more worthy of credit, than many a work of the most grave pretensions; as an entertaining fiction, it possesses considerable interest; and as a description of manners, dress, and society, may be considered correct and spirited. The principal defects are a want of distinct and strong individuality in the characters, some faults of style, and the occasional introduction of unnecessary and therefore cumbersome episodesas for instance the defeated insurrection of the Puritans in the first volume; but in his next work we have no doubt, that the number of these will be very materially diminished, as they arise evidently from want of practice in writing, more than from want of intellect or imagination.

The story we shall not disclose beyond stating that the historical action is the march of Bacon, as general of the popular assembly in opposition to the governor, against the Indians—his victory-return-capture and condemnation by the stern old royalist-his escape and subsequent triumph. There is of course a love story mingled like a golden thread with the darker tissue of wars and rebellions; but this is too intricate for us, in our present limits, to unravel. We shall prefer quoting two passages-the first a scene in the devastated village of the Indians, between the hero and a native damsel, who, having been almost domesticated among the whites, has taken the blanket-that, we believe, is the correct phraseand betaken herself to the wigwams, of which she is the hereditary queen:

With slow and melancholy steps our hero approached the late busy and animated scene. The beasts of prey were sending up their savage but plaintive notes in horrible unison with his own feelings. The cool evening breeze fanned the dying embers, and occasionally loaded the atmosphere with brilliant showers of sparks and flakes of fire. As these rolled over his person, and fell dead upon his garments, he folded his arms, and contemplated the ruins of the wigwam in which he had found protection.

"There," said he, "was perhaps the birth-place of a hundred monarchs of these forests. Until civilized man intruded upon these dominions, they were in their own, and nature's way, joyous, prosperous, and happy. They have resided amidst the shades of these venerable trees, perhaps since time began! The very waters of the stream bubbling joyously over yonder pebbles, have borrowed their name. Where are they all now? The last male youth of their kingly line was slain by these hands, and the last habitations of his race fired and plundered by soldiers owing obedience to my commands. The plough and the harrow will soon break down alike their hearth-stones, and the scene of their council fires. Yea, and the very monuments of their dead must be levelled to meet the ever craving demands of civilized existence. But pshaw! is this the preparation to steel a soldier's heart, and fire it with military ardor and enthusiasm? Let me rather ponder upon my own sufferings on this spot. Let me remember the groans of dying old men, women, and children, which rent the air twelve hours since. And above all, let me bear in mind the despairing shrieks of her, who was more than a mother to me-of her who clothed, and fed, and protected me in infancy. Where is she now?" "She is alive and well!" answered a feeble and plaintive voice from the wild flowers and shrubbery which grew upon an earthen monument erected to the savage dead.

"Who is it that speaks ?"

"One that had better have slept with those who sleep beneath!” "Wyanokee?"