murmur of pity and of horror ran from one to another. The ice continued to pile itself against the mill, and the dark mass sank more and more. Clinging to the window, the young girl had lost every other sentiment but the desire of life; she called for aid with sobs and clasped hands; but the mill still descended! Its roof had already reached the level of the arches, when a man appeared standing on the parapet. It was Andrew, who, just arrived at Nantes, whither he had come to announce the approach of the ice, had thought of the peril to which the young girl might be exposed in the mill of her aunt, and had reached the bridge at the moment it was about to be engulfed. He comprehended all at the first glance. In two bounds he was above the arch before which the mill was floating. He glided along the edge of the wall, reached one of those large iron rings sealed in the stone, and supporting himself there by one arm, attained the window. As he extended his hand the black edifice oscillated on the waves; he profited by the moment to sieze the young girl. Both remained for an instant suspended over the abyss; but a desperate effort brought Andrew to the ledge with his burden. He had just deposited her there, when a terrific crash resounded at his feet, and an icy shower sprinkled his face; the mill had disappeared beneath the waters. The mariners running thither with ropes, aided the young girl to ascend, and she reached the bridge in a swoon. All researches made to recover her aunt were unavailing; carried away with the wreck of the mill, she remained buried beneath the ice, as well as Francois and Maitre Meru. A single day had thus deprived Entine of all her Nantese family. As soon as she had recovered from the terrible shock she had received, and had assisted, in deep mourning, at the office, celebrated in the parish church, of the deceased, she set out for the Hermitage of St. Vincent, the only asylum which was left her. It was then that Andrew saw her once more. The prejudices of Meru were not shared by the farmer of the hermitage. Knowing that his niece owed her life to the young captain, he received him with cordiality. A great change had taken place in the position of Andrew. The pocket-book bequeathed by the man of the isolated house, had been found at the inn of the Silver Anchor, with the jacket and hat of Maitre Jacques. The young man, who was ignorant of its origin, believed himself to be the inheritor of the secret savings of his father, and this unexpected opulence sufficed to silence all objections. Three months after the events we have just related, he espoused Entine, at St. Vincent; he had not forgotten his expulsion from the marine of the Loire, but he made no attempt to rejoin it, and renounced navigation. The traveler who descends from Angers to Nantes, may now see, between Chantocé and Ingrade, an avenue of trees, and at its extremity surrounded by a garden, a dwelling, whose white façade, hemmed in with vines and Bengal roses, overlooks the Loire; it is the retreat chosen by Andrew; it is there that he lives happily with Entine, on the banks of his beloved river, and in the sound of the waters which recall to him so many remembrances. GEORGE GILFILLAN.* BY CHARLES J. IRVINE. But, as already hinted, our present object is somewhat different. We mean, in brief, to weigh in the critical balance, not the book but the man; not George Gilfillan's "Martyrs, Heroes, and Bards," but George Gilfillan himself. Perhaps on no writer of any note in the present day have opinions so conflicting been formed, as on the subject of this paper. With some, both here and in the old country, the name of George Gilfillan is suggestive of every thing brilliant, earnest, and profound; while with others, whose decision on such matters is equally valuable, the mention of the same name only calls forth derisive laughter, or, at best, a civil sneer. His admirers depict him in glowing colors as an intellectual giant, possessing an inexhaustible store of imaginative wealth, and a facility of commu Ar present it is our intention to discuss neither | and hope-inspiring tone in regard to the Future. the propriety of that important document, known to all readers of Scottish history, by the title of the Solemn League and Covenant, as a mean to an end, nor the proceedings of its framers and supporters, known as the Covenanters. Interesting and instructive both these subjects undoubtedly are, whether we regard them as isolated facts in history, or as calculated to throw light on many questions which are being agitated every day, in every Protestant community; and much yet remains to be done-notwithstanding the attention that has been bestowed on them in recent years -ere it can be said that the problems involved in them have been thoroughly solved, that calm and dispassionate views of the men and the measures of these stirring times have become prevalent, or that the lessons inculcated by their heroic "wrestlings," their sufferings, their nu-nicating his ideas well nigh unrivaled. Accordmerous errors, and occasional crimes, have taken that deep root in the heart of posterity, without which their story has been told in vain. An apology for their struggles in behalf of freedom is not needed in that land whose dwellers boast of their descent from the Pilgrim Fathers. An impartial account, however, of that eventful era requires to be written. It is possible to admire the great-souled Men of the Covenant, without going the extreme length of MacCrie, even as it is possible to admit the military skill and personal courage of Claverhouse, without feeling ourselves called upon to defend, with Professor Ayton, the atrocities that characterized his dragoonades against an inoffensive peasantry. But a document framed on such rigidly unbiassed principles exists not. Nevertheless, in its absence it might not be altogether unprofitable to muse a little while on the great drama which unfolded itself at that period in the land of brown heath and shaggy wood, and on the actors who played their part therein. And for a text-book we could hardly select a better than the spirited volume now before us, with its fluent narrative, its graphic sketches, its generous eulogy of the mighty ones of the Past, its forcible enunciation of the duties of the Present, and its hopeful, The Martyrs, Heroes, and Bards of the Scottish Covenant. By George Gilfillan. New York: D. Appleton & Co. i ing to them, "thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," are alike his. But on the other hand, his depreciators manifest great cordiality in protesting against such a finding, on the ground that it is entirely unsupported by evidence; and do not scruple to pronounce him a man of the very flimsiest mental capacity; his so-called flights of imagination, simply bombastic ranting, and his much-lauded style no other than an atrocious outrage on the purity of old Mother English. That there should exist among intelligent people two so contradictory opinions of one man, would, of itself, form quite a satisfactory reason for attempting to find out his actual standing in the literary world, even if the fact of their existence did not go to prove that there must be some peculiarities in such a man, deserving, nay demanding, an impartial investigation. In all likelihood, the result of an examination so conducted would be, that on both extreme sides was to be found a mixture of truth and error, and that the middle course, as usual, led to the soundest conclusion of the three. The reader will not fail to remember that time was when partisan feeling ran as high, and higher, in regard to one who, as it were but yesterday, went down to the grave, "with all his blushing honors thick upon him;" when Wordsworth and his poetry were the occasion of many a clash of argument and jar of words, Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swords; a controversy that has long ago subsided into the prevalent belief that the Bard of the Lakes, though not the very greatest poet that England has produced, is a very great poet indeed, but that assuredly his delectable ballad concerning Betty Foy, and others of a similar stamp, have not contributed to the upbuilding of his fame. Whether a verdict conceived in a similar spirit may or may not be passed by succeeding generations on George Gilfillan, it is not our province to inquire. Enough, if we endeavor to find out what he is capable of doing by a reference to what he has already done. Before proceeding to indicate the most prominent points, of a favorable nature, in Mr. Gilfillan's character as a literary man, there are certain aspects, less favorable, in which we must view him if we would not exclude one main part of the evidence in our proposed examination. Among the most notable of these we may specify, first, his average style. This is a subject which has called forth more friendly remonstrances and more hostile remark than any other of his defects, real or supposed-we might safely say, than them all put together. It would be an amusing, were it not a really painful occupation, to follow his eccentric career, whenever he chooses to abandon himself, in this matter, to the impulses of his own sweet will. The amount of grandiloquent verbiage (Scotticé, blethers) which he proves himself capable of committing to paper, and, worse still, to the press, at such moments when the afflatus is on him, is unutterably great. Talibus ex adyto dictis, Cumaa Sibylla, Mr. Gilfillan has hitherto seen fit to treat with indifference all expostulation on his overfondness for that high-sounding mode of address with which the name of King Cambyses is so intimately associated, but he should bear in mind that this may be attributable less to manly firmness than to downright obstinacy. Toward this, his most vulnerable side, his enemies have directed their fiercest and most frequent onsets, but in so far as symptoms of a change to better are concerned, their artillery seems to have been expended in vain. But, as saith the proverb of the ancients: "faithful are the wounds of a friend." Will not Mr. Gilfillan at the oft reiterated solicitations of his most ardent well-wishers, endeavor to amend an error which, he may depend upon it, has proved, and will prove, a serious hindrance to his progress in climbing the Hill of Fame? The purity of that taste is, indeed, more than questionable, which could wink at such extravagancies of diction (not to speak of sentiment) as those wherewith Mr. Gilfillan is too frequently chargeable. Where, for example, could we hope to find better specimens of the very worst taste, than in the following random selections? Some of them we humbly confess our inability to understand or explain. Ralph Waldo Emerson, we are told, could not be confined in his range of thought by the pulpit; "he preferred rather to stray to and fro along the crooked serpent of eternity!" The marriage between Shelley and his future wife, Mary Godwin, "had been determined long before, while yet the souls were waiting in the great antenatal antichamber!" (when or where was that?) "They met at last like two drops of water-like two flames of fire-like two beautiful clouds which have crossed the moon, the sky and all its stars, to hold their midnight assignation over a favorite and lonely river!" Byron's "name has been frequently but injudiciously coupled with that of Shelley. This has arisen principally from their accidental position. They found themselves together one stormy night in the streets, having both been thrust out by the strong arm from their homes. kissing the serving maids, the other had been trying to rouse the family, but in so awkward a fashion that, in his haste, he had put out all the lustres, and nearly blown up the establishment. In that cold, desolate, moonless night they chanced to meet; they entered into conversation; they even tried by drawing near each other to administer a little kindly warmth and encouragement. Men seeing them imperfectly in the lamp-light classed them together as two dissolute and disorderly blackguards, and, alas! when the morning came, that might have accurately discriminated them, both were found lying dead in the streets." Verily, in reference to this passage, Mr. Gilfillan might with all propriety adopt honest John Bunyan's motto, and say: "I have used similitudes!" But again-"The apostle Peter's impetuosity, his forwardness, his outspoken utterance, his mistakes and blunders, his want of tact, his familiarity with his Master, his warm-heartedness, his simplicity of character render him (hear it not thou august keeper of the keys!) the OLIVER GOLDSMITH of the New Testament!" Once more. A painting by an Italian master, representing our Saviour in conversation with the Samaritan woman, was, we are assured, "a picture that might have converted a soul !” One had been kicking up a row and Language such as this, it will be allowed, is objectionable on more grounds than one. Better, we freely admit, the extreme into which Mr. Gilfillan so often runs, of treating the phraseology and facts and doctrines of Scripture as common our opinions in regard to these unfortunate peculiarities, it does not follow that we are insensible to, or indisposed to acknowledge, his great literary merits. His frequent violations of the plainest rules of composition do not render us forgetful of the fact that the violator possesses, notwithstanding, a very uncommon amount of critical skill. Blinded irremediably, as it would seem, to his own faults, or, at all events, reckless of the blight they bring on his own reputation, he has scarcely his equal among critics now alive in the keenness of vision with which he scrutinizes all who stand before him in judgment. In a few cases, it must be admitted, he sinks the impartiality of the judge, and, in defiance of all evidence, and to the manifest injury of his judicial fame, warmly fraternizes in open court with the prisoner at the bar. But such instances are rare; and, as a general rule, his decisions are notable alike for the sharp-sightedness in point of law, and the rigid adherence to justice which they display. It is impossible to read, even very cursorily, the two powerful, however unequal, volumes* that were the means of conferring a more than local celebrity on the hitherto comparatively obscure Dundee clergyman, with property, to which recourse may be had on every occasion, however trivial, than that other extreme which consists in the contemptuous indifference for, or the cold-blooded suppression of all sympathy with, the volume of Inspiration. The former is, perhaps, excusable in one whose professional studies necessarily revolve round that volume; the latter is unpardonable even in the man who refuses to acknowledge its divine origin. But better still, we say, the happy medium which uses as not abusing it; which gives a practical recognition to it as Holy Scripture; and by which the sin of omission and the sin of commission are alike avoided. This medium Mr. Gilfillan has never had the good fortune to hit upon, if, indeed, he has ever taken the trouble to search for it. The London Times, with its unrivaled talent and notorious instability of principle, may be a great mystery, but to term it "almost as great a mystery as the Trinity" seems to our old-fashioned taste a mode of expression which not the interjected salvo "with reverence be it spoken "-can shield from a just charge of profanity. Neither can we hear the Saviour of the world spoken of as "the bashful boy-god" without mingled emotions of anger and astonishment —anger that any man should presume so famili-out being struck with the acuteness manifested arly to epithetize the Incarnate Piety, and astonishment that the offender should be a minister of that Gospel which He became incarnate to proclaim. As to his partiality for such a thorough empiric as Ralph Waldo Emerson, his exaggerated estimate of William Godwin, his idolatry of the gifted but wayward and crack-brained Shelley, and his incessant efforts to exalt such men to the position, and obtain for them the homage due to veritable and awful "HEROES," the less, for his own sake, that is said the better. Nor can we close this record of his foibles and his failings without a reference to his disagreeable and unprofessional habit-one that may be traced directly to his ultra-millenarian views of sneering, whenever a sneer can be decently introduced, at the efforts now being made for bringing into closer union Protestant Christians of every denomination, in anticipation of a fast-coming struggle with Popish and Infidel adversaries, more deadly than the world has ever yet beheld. These oddities (to employ a delicate euphemism) in Mr. Gilfillan's mental conformation, unquestionably exercise a damaging influence on his own reputation with all to whom they are in any degree a novelty. For our own part we must say that familiarity has brought us to regard them less with wonder than sorrow, not unmingled, it must be admitted, with contempt. But while thus candidly and explicitly stating by the author in discriminating between the true and the false, the genuine and the sham, in the character and works of almost every individual of the "various host" of writers composing his gallery. Rhadamanthus himself could hardly be conceived to have meted out more equitable measure to the spectral forms who thronged the Plutonion Hall. A sentiment this which we feel sure will be endorsed by every one who comes to an unprejudiced perusal of the volumes in question.' Let it be understood, then, that while we claim not for George Gilfillan the honor due to the man of massive intellect, of profound thought, or of originality of conception-ranking him thereby, as the advancement of such a claim would imply, among the loftier MAKERS (roinrai) of the agewe do assert his right to the homage attending, wherever found, that eagle-eyed penetration, that vision and faculty divine, wanting which the critic, as well as the bard, is a shorn Samson"weak as other men." To whatever this "discernment of spirits" be owing, whether to his genial warm-heartedness, that delights to welcome with affection and sympathy every, even the smallest, promise of literary merit, or to the strong poetic sensibility that has been so profusely lavished on him by boon Nature, or to any other causes known or unknown, certain it is that A Gallery of Literary Portraits, by Geo. Gilfillan. |