The annals of the world afford us so many instances of this kind of reformation, that we do not despair of again seeing the day, when a book of adventures will be considered the better for having a story to tell; when exciting the curiosity by narra ing a series of properly continued and connected incidents, and interesting the sympathy by a detail of perils and misfortunes overtaking a favourite and deserving character, from which, at last he is relieved by unexpected but probable means, will be acknowledged as useful at least, if not absolutely necessary, to the formation of a good novel. When this reformation takes place. such books will no longer be misnamed. A series of mere sketches, with scarce a connexion between them, will no longer be called a tale: but sketch-books will be sketchbooks, and novels will be novels, the former devoted to descriptions, and the latter to narrating adventures, according to the true lexicographical meaning of the words. But it may be asked, to what misnamed novels do we allude? Who are the writers of works of this description, whose contents falsify their titles No reader of the new school of romances, we should think, need ask these questions. But to such as will ask them, we reply, that we allude to the Galts, the Hoggs, the Lee Gibbons, the Neals, and we regret to say, our justly admired Cooper, and the still more justly admired leader of this school, the Great Unknown. We wish not to assert that all the works of these novelists are deficient in plots. We know to the contrary; and if we were to assert it, the Spy of Cooper, Guy Mannering, and a few others of the Unknown, would rise in testimony against us. But we fear not to say that the great majority of the works of these writers, are of the storyless kind, and are, therefore, misnamed when they are called novels. That the public have done wrong in patronizing some that are even of this storyless kind, we are not so fastidious as to suppose; a few of them are interesting as sketches of nature and manners, and will fairly enough compensate for the time spent in their perusal. This applies, indeed. but to few of them. The general mass, we would consider to be incumbrances in any judiciously selected library. Indeed we cannot. at this moment, think of any of VOL. I.-No. III. 26 the mere sketch-drawing novels, that, we believe, will receive much favour from posterity, except those of the Great Unknown, and Mr. Cooper's last performance, the Pilot. We regret that this last mentioned work, which is the best series of marine sketches, we have ever read, should be defective in any particular, especially in one which we conceive so essential to a good novel as that of a well constructed and eventful story. The Pioneers is equally destitute of an interesting story; and as it has but few of the redeeming qualities of the Pilot, we must confess that its perusal lowered the author extremely in our estimation as a novelist. The Spy had greatly exalted our ideas of him, and we expected perhaps too much from the Pioneers. However this may be, when the latter work appeared, we felt extremely disappointed. Six hundred pages of dry, minute description, given in a slovenly, unwieldy, and frequently ungrammatical style, was too great a trial on our patience, when we expected an animated and busy tale, abounding with action and passion, as well as with bold and vigorous representations of scenes and characters. We met with two or three good scenes in this work, but we really thought it unkind in Mr. Cooper, to drag us through two ponderous volumes of lifeless description in order to find them. However his Pilot, story less as it is, has reconciled him to us, and we not only forgive him, but we rejoice that he is so likely to receive from the world all that increase of literary reputation to which such a work so justly entitles him. The Pilot, it is true, like every other human production has faults. Of these, as well as its beauties, we intend to take an \ early occasion to express our opinion more in detail; and we hope we shall do so, as our duty to the public requires, without permitting either partiality or prejudice towards the author to influence our remarks. In the mean time we must say, that much as we now admire the Pilot, we should have admired it still more, had its plot been more worthy of praise. We hope that in his next novel, Mr. Cooper will join to his admirable manner of describing scenes and characters, a story which will possess all the advantage of unity of plot and variety of incident. By so doing he may rely on it, that, justly popular as he now is, he will become still more so-he will interest more readers and satisfy more critics than he now does, for he will produce what the author of Waverly has produced only in the instance of Guy Mannering-a novel almost perfect. FOR THE AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Annals of the Late War. "Methinks I hear the sound of times long past BURNING OF WASHINGTON........A FRAGMENT. That day I'll ne'er forget!... The Raid of Reidswire. with a spirit that had much out-grown The number of his years..........MAID'S TRAGEDY.- Beaumont and Fletcher. 66 RANDOLPH took the sword, and as with a countenance charged with youthful enthusiasm, he held it in his hand, proving its weight, and measuring its length, he said: (addressing himself to his crippled and aged sire) May this weapon my dear father, which when wielded by your well nerved arm, like Heaven's lightning, brought destruction wherever it struck upon the invaders of our country, fall now as deadly, when drawn by me!" "My dearest Randolph :" cried the anxious and doating mother, her eyes humid with tears, as she beheld the youthful soldier. accoutring himself for battle; "do not, do not, dwell so much upon this subject: every word you speak concerning the war, is like a sharp instrument piercing my heart." "Forgive your thoughtless son, my mother :" returned the youth; "Indeed, if I have wounded thy maternal feelings. it was unintentional;" and with tender solicitude, he drew near his mother, and took her hand in his own. "I believe you, my dear boy I know you wish not to grieve me.' The youth answered not, for his heart was full; but the kiss he imprinted upon the pallid cheek of his mother, was sufficiently descriptive of his internal sensations. me. son. Randolph buckled the sword to his side, and prepared to Be not depart to join the troops levying over the continent. unmindful of your life, my son remember you are our only child- our only hope and joy"-said his father, "Not that I would have you cold and unaspiring, studiously careful of your life but be not rash and precipitate. Youthful soldiers are too anxious to distinguish themselves by some daring feat; heedless of life. and spurning the dictates of prudence, they rush unnecessarily into places of the most imminent danger. Randolph, I once was a soldier no older than yourself, and have not forgotten what hazard my hot blood led me into. Disregard not then the warning voice of grey headed experience-be wary and careful."-" Do, do Randolph, mind your father's admonition. Ch! my son, if we were to be deprived of you, soon. soon would follow our death knell."-" Alarm not yourselves, fondest, dearest parents. God armeth the patriot. Well convinced of that, my beloved, revered father and mother. can you fear for Doubt not that the all-protecting Omnipotent. in whose eye, the world is bounded to a span, will be unmindful of your HE, who putteth down the oppressor, will again return me to your arms.”—“ Did I think differently," said his mother, "thou shouldst not leave me. That the Almighty will shield thee from danger, is all that soothes the parting with thee."- Farewell, my boy," said the father, as the youth uttered the tardy farewell. "be mindful of your life, but not cowardly so, goremember you are a soldier. remember, you are my son.” His mother spoke not: but as her son bent upon her bosom, she pressed him closer to her, then clasping her hands together, raised them up to Heaven, and the devout expression of her look. told that she was calling down the benediction and protection of Heaven upon her offspring. She then gently raised him from off her bosom, gazed on him with that fervent expression of countenance with which we look upon the remains of a dear friend or relative for the last time, and departed into the next chamber. Randolph looked after his mother, as if he had seen for the last time, the protector of his infancy, and fondly strove to catch one-only one more glimpse of her venerated form. "Father! fatber!" said he (as he turned his eyes from the door of the apartment into which she had entered) "God, God bless you farewell: farewell!" and raising his hands and eyes up to Heaven for a moment, he covered his face with his hands, and rushed out of the house. At the Battle of Queenstown-Heights, (his first engagement) he was desperately wounded, but undaunted he fought on, and it was not until endeavouring to protect the lifeless body of the intrepid and much lamented Ensign Morris, from the brutal 99 Indian allies of the English, that his scull was fractured by the tomahawk of one of the Indians. and he was compelled to retire. He was so desperately wounded, that he was conveyed to his parents at Washington. At the time when the marauding English were about to make a descent upon that city, our hero was yet an invalid, and his wounds but partially healed. He heard that the English, unsated by the blood they had spilt, the horrid acts they had perpetrated. and the families they had ruined, were about to attack and burn Washington. "Oh! God, is it possible!" exclaimed the youth, springing from his mat, while a glow of indignation suffused his pale and manly cheek. "Can it be that they still thirst for more blood? Have not their savage propensities been glutted by the burnings of Havre de Grace and Hampton? Do not the shrieks of the innocent victims of their infernal lust, still ring in their ears-the groans and supplications of children and women, the curses of parents still follow them? But why talk I thus-come my sword again to my hand, and oh! God of Justice! nerve me with strength, that I may deal out confusion and just retribution upon the base and lawless spoilers of my country!" "Talk not thus, Randolph,' said his agonized mother. "You do not, you cannot intend what your words purport." "Mother, mother," answered the youth in breathless trepidation, "I mean as my words have expressed, and I am now girding on my sword to join myself with those who rally round the standard of my country, to protect from invasion and desolation this metropolis. Hallowed by the revered, and never to be forgotten name of Washington!-to teach the homocides—the savage recreants the haughty foe, that freemen are never unprepared to expel from their soil, such an insolent invader, who, after having laid waste our shores-sacked our citiesmurdered our countrymen"-"But Randolph, Randolph," interrupted his mother, "Your wounds are yet unhealed, they will break out afresh, you are unable to bear the fatigue of war, nay, you must not, shall not go." "Shell not-shall not," re iterated Randolph: "Mother, revoke your words—I will not disobey you, I will not go, if you bid me stay; but then my obedience will cost me my life. For me to remain at home, while all are doing something to protect their homes, would make me so contemptible and cowardly in my own eyes. that the sense of my dishonour would soon terminate my existence. Has not every one that can lift a sword been called upon, nay, commanded to assemble round the standard of the people of this free country to assist in repelling the sattelites of tyranny? and shall a few paltry unhealed wounds stay me. when fathers, husbands, brothers and children are shedding their hearts blood—shall I |
