"But to Mr. Willis as a writer of prose. And one great source of wonder with us is his uncommon acquaintance with the vocabulary of the language. He moves over the spacious field with the ease and grace of the most accomplished scholar. And then his sentences flow so sweetly on, that you liken them to some limpid rivulet from the hill of the muses flowing around and about the rich landscape before you, and if for a moment concealed from the eye, it is only to burst upon you in all its fullness and beauty. So much for the style of Willis, in its mechanical sense. But there is something beyond this; and which is far more important. It is the life of style. And here is the particular forte of Willis. He reverses the rule of the logician; and instead of advancing from general to particular, he paints the species with the minutest care. The letter which we gave yesterday is a happy specimen of the philosophy of his style. His theme is a voyage on the Hudson in the summer season, when all are thronging northward, and to this miscellaneous multitude he seeks to introduce us. He selects a few individuals, and finishes their portraits with the greatest care and the most consummate skill. But first observe the connection of the trip. Whoever has travelled the Hudson in the summer season, will at once recognize the group of passengers who have arrived 'just thirty seconds too late;' and the striking description of a steamboat 'built for smooth water, long, shallow and graceful, of the exquisite proportions of a pleasure yacht; and painted as brilliantly and fantastically as an Indian shell.' Then we have the Kentuckian to the life, 'sitting on three chairs;' and the Indian, who does not deign to show the slightest curiosity, unless in eyeing the broad chest and sinewy form of the Kentuckian—detecting with characteristic skill the hardy dweller of Kentucky in the unnatural disguise of ruffled shirt and fine broadcloth coat 'cut by a Mississippi tailor'—and the Alabamian, whom the common eye would confound with the Kentuckian, and who is a different species altogether; and next, the southern beauty from the interior of Alabama, 'dressed in singularly bad taste;' graceful as a fawn, but untutored in the mysteries of the dance. In fine, the whole scene is painted before us almost with the distinctness of actual life. We pass over the great excellence of this sketch in other respects; but we are sure that he who reads the letter will long retain its striking passages in his memory.
"It will be asked by that race of cynics who set a wonderful value on the fabrics of their own manufacture, but show no admiration of the noble structures reared by the genius of others,—it will be asked by such, what good can such productions accomplish in the business of life? While we heartily repeat the sentiment first uttered by Dr. Johnson, and afterwards endorsed by Sir Walter Scott, that we hate a cui bono man, we will enter the lists in the cause, and declare that they produce a right and proper effect on the general mind. Now we have shown that the leading excellence of the writings of Willis consisted in minute and exceedingly graphic sketches of the natural world in all its varied aspect of mountain, plain, and river, and that still more varied chart of instruction—Man. His pages then reflect like some beautiful stream, with lights and shades, all the rich and stirring variety of nature. And who will deny that nature hath not a voice and eloquence that rightly speak to the bosoms of men? And herein resteth the power of Willis.
"It may with propriety be inquired, if Willis could not select a more extended field of fame? We believe that he might select a theme of higher bearing, and that he is now preparing the path before him. His present sketches are so many notes from which, in riper years, he will strike a nobler harmony. We know that he has a fine ambition; an ambition that looks far beyond the pages of the New Monthly, or the Mirror,—and which stirreth within him a desire of a great and proper poem, which 'men will not willingly let die,' and which will weave his humble name with the destinies of his country."
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
WASHINGTON AND NAPOLEON.
THE CONTRAST.
——"Urged by a curiosity common to all strangers, Captain Lockerby visited the tomb of Bonaparte. The spot where the tomb stands is only accessible by ticket. It was railed round with green palms, and a sentinel walked round it night and day to prevent approach within the railing."——
| Behold what a contrast is here! Two heroes gone down to decay— The grave of the one, how deserted and drear! While the other is deck'd in its marble array And a sentinel guards it by night and by day. Oh, what was the life of the first, That in death they have left him thus lone?— Was the crown of the Tyrant his thirst? And mounting in blood on the steps of a throne— Had he murdered his thousands to aggrandize one? Of grandeur of soul was there none In that bosom, transform'd to the clod; The end of its government done, To abandon the lictor, the axe, and the rod, When it look'd on its nothingness—thought of its God? But see what a far different scene! The tomb of the valiant and wise! Encompass'd secure by its paling of green, And gleaming in white, as those tropical skies Beam down on the waste where St. Helena lies. Lo! numbers resort to that spot, And beauty bows too at the shrine— Oh virtue! how envied thy lot! The grave cannot darken thy splendor divine Nor sully thy brightness, but adds to its shine. Yet CHRISTIAN!—come nearer and read, For conjecture hath led us astray— Hast thou heard of one, false to his creed? Of a blood loving tyrant—ferocious—whose sway Was supported by rapine, while earth was his prey? 'Tis to him that these honors are paid, And his dust must be guarded—from whom? Are the terrified nations afraid Lest he yet should arise from the curse of his doom, And bursting its cerements, escape from the tomb? Ah no! he lies powerless now! But thousands would bear him afar: To this Juggernaut, long did they bow, And were abjectly crush'd by the wheels of his car, As triumphant he rode through the red fields of war. Is virtue then, nought but a name? Let us turn to the spot we have passed— If guilt can exult in its shame, The good in his grave may be silently cast— Abandoned—unnoticed—the scene but a waste! Yes, yes, thou art dumb with amaze— 'Tis WASHINGTON slumbers below— Was language too weak for HIS praise?— Was the grief so profound, that it baffled all show, Or the feeling too deep for the utt'rance of wo? Let us hope that it was—let us trust That we honor the Friend of Mankind— That the Corsican despot in dust, His merited meed of abhorrence shall find In the progress of truth and the march of the mind. |