  “The Emigrant, or Reflections,” &c. Mr. Hammond, in the notice which he was so kind as to take of this Poem, suggested the alteration of the title from “Reflections” to “Reveries.” In retaining the first title, I do not do so because I think it best, but merely because it was the first title, and the one under which the extracts were given. It seems to the author, if he may dare to hazard the remark, that the stanza in which he has attempted to write, has advantages over even the Spenserean stanzas. He understands the latter to be that in which the Fairy Queen, from whose author it takes its name––Beattie’s Minstrel, Thompson’s Castle of Indolence, Byron’s Childe Harold, &c. &c., are written. The following is a stanza of it, from Childe Harold:
Here, the reader will perceive that, in a stanza of nine lines, there is a necessity for the second, the fourth, the fifth, and the seventh lines to rhyme together; and that the sixth, eighth and ninth lines must, also, rhyme together. To make the stanza correct, with these complicated embarrassments of rhyme, must not only cause great trouble, sometimes, to the easiest versifier, but to succeed in doing so, critically, he must often sacrifice a happy expression, a striking phrase, or a beautiful line. “Words are things,” says Mirabeau; and, to the poet, they are things of potency. They are at once tools and materials in his headwork. Any one who has read Childe Harold, must have observed that even the Lord of Poets, with all his powers of language, was often thus hampered, and that, for the sake of preserving the force of an expression, or a striking word, he used what are no rhymes at all, if Monk Lewis’ remark to Scott, “that a bad rhyme is no rhyme,” be true. Whereas, by making the stanza of but eight lines and having the first four lines to rhyme alternately, and the last four immediately, and by having the concluding line an Alexandrine, as in the Spenserean stanzas, the difficulty, arising from the necessity of having so many similar rhymes, would be obviated, and the poet would have much greater facilities in expressing himself well, without impairing the dignity or strength of what might still be called, from its many resemblances, the Spenserean stanzas; at the same time, the monotony would be avoided, of which criticism has complained so much in the works of Pope and Goldsmith. Very few readers of poetry, in the first poems which they open, are fond of those, no matter how great their merits, which are written in the Spenserean stanzas. They have to acquire a taste for it. They delight in simpler styles: this is one reason of Scott’s great popularity with many persons who seldom read any other poet, except perhaps, Burns. And even to those who have a natural taste for poetry, but who have not much cultivated it, the Spenserean stanza seems complicated, and, I will even venture to say, at first untunable; and it is not at the first perusal that they perceive the beauties of those poems which are written in this style. These remarks are hazarded very hastily. It would be much more difficult for the author to build the complicated verse of the Spenserean stanza, than this which he has attempted; and, therefore, perhaps, very rashly, he concludes that it would be more difficult for others; and, moreover, we easily persuade ourselves that what is most easily done it is best to do.
In a late work entitled “Sketches of Western Adventure,” a most interesting account is given of Boone, whose passion for a sylvan life was intense. Like Leather-stocking, it would seem that he always got lost in the clearing, and that only in the forest he knew his way and felt free and unincumbered. Then, like McGregor, “standing on his native heath,” he feared no difficulties or dangers. Byron, in his Don Juan, calls him “The man of Ross run wild,” and says, that he “killed nothing but a bear or buck,” but not so; he had many deadly encounters with the Indians, and was repeatedly taken prisoner by them; but he effected his escapes with great tact. The author of “Sketches of Western Adventure,” speaking of him, alone in the wilderness, says, “The wild and solitary grandeur of the country around him, where not Mr. John A. McClung is the author of the above mentioned work. This gentleman is also the author of a novel, entitled “Camden,” which has not received half the notice it deserved. Mr. Flint has now in the press a life of Boone, which will soon be published. I am indebted to him for the following graphic note, concerning Boone: “This extraordinary man, whose birth is said to have been in Maryland, in Virginia, and in North Carolina, was in fact born in neither; but in Pennsylvania, in Buck’s County, about twenty miles from Philadelphia. When he was three years old, his father removed to a water of the Schuylkill, not far from Reading. When he was thirteen years old, his father removed thence to the South
The reader is referred to “Sketches of Western Adventure,” page 309, for a most interesting account of the escape of two small boys from the Indians.
Kentucky was called the “dark and bloody ground” by the Indians, in consequence of many of the fiercest contests having occurred there; it was the common hunting ground of many of the tribes, and here they frequently met in their excursions, scarcely ever without bloodshed. At my request, I was kindly furnished with the annexed note by Judge Hall, on the subject of Indian mounds, which should have been inserted under the passage which alludes to them; but the reference at the proper place being accidentally omitted, it is given here. Judge Hall will readily imagine why the author has omitted some passages of the note, which to himself were not the least pleasing. This gentleman has lately become a citizen of Cincinnati, where those, who knew him formerly but by his high reputation, now feel how much courtesy and kindness increase its charm. Judge Hall is of opinion that most of the mounds are natural; speaking of them he says: “There are few objects so well calculated to strike the poetic imagination as these mounds, standing alone in the wilderness. The belief that they are the workmanship of human hands, awakens curiosity and leads to a long train of reflections. For if men have thrown up these singular elevations, we feel inquisitive to know by whom, and for what purpose, they were erected. They are large and numerous; and they bear every mark of great antiquity. Indeed, I am of opinion, that they are as old as the hills. Judge Hall further says, “satisfied I am that if ever any rational hypothesis, in relation to these interesting remains of past ages, shall be invented, we shall owe it to the inspiration of the poet, and not to the researches of the philosopher.” It is very certain that no one can confront the traveller who may be speculating upon these mounds, as Edie Ochiltree did the Antiquary, with “I mind the bigging o’ it.”
The allusion, here, is to Blennerhasset’s Island, which is beautifully situated in the Ohio. The romantic story of its former inhabitants makes it a spot of great interest to the Emigrant, who, in descending the river, never fails to request that it may be pointed out to him; and it is often the topic of conversation and conjecture to him and his companions for hours after they have passed it. The author is indebted to Morgan Neville, Esq., for the following account of the Island and its unfortunate owner. Mr. Neville’s admirable tale of Mike Fink, and his other sketches, have created in the public an appetite for more, which they have long hoped he would be induced to gratify, with longer and more frequent productions; or, at least, that he would collect what he has written into a volume. “Blennerhasset’s Island.––How many recollections of mingled pleasure and pain, does the name of this once beautiful spot, call to mind! In descending the Ohio, I never come in sight of the Island, without sensations almost too powerful to bear; and I linger on the deck of the boat, until the point below snatches it from view. The first impressions were made on me in early youth, and time cannot efface them; on the contrary, the long vista through which I look back to this western Herman Blennerhasset and his accomplished wife have sat for many a picture; but, after all, Fancy, alone, guided the pencil, and the originals have never been truly sketched. The reality of their history possesses sufficient interest, without the aid of fiction, to enlist the sympathies of the most romantic. Born to fortune, and nobly connected, Blennerhasset stood in the front rank of Irish society. Educated for the bar, he distinguished himself on many occasions, and he was the assistant counsel, with Curran, in the celebrated trial of Hamilton Rowan. But his disposition was restless, his mind visionary, and, doubtless, he felt sincerely for the degraded state of his country. Notwithstanding his close relationship to the aristocracy of Ireland, and the glaring unfitness of his character for scenes of daring and of danger, he connected himself with the leading yeomen of that day, and became the intimate associate and co-adjutor of Arthur O’Conner. He continued to labor in the cause of Liberty, until the eyes of Government were turned upon him; the result is a matter of public history: O’Conner was arrested, and Blennerhasset escaped. He had the good fortune, however, to secure a considerable portion of his property, and, accompanied by his accomplished wife, an English lady, he arrived in New York He was, however, a visionary; he knew nothing of human nature, nothing of the practical business of life. With considerable literary acquirements, and much pretensions to science, he gave himself up to all the reveries and schemes of modern philosophy; with Southey, Godwin, and the whole class, he was continually dreaming about the perfectibility of human nature, and believed that innocence was alone to be found in that portion of humanity, which approached the nearest to the state of nature. With these notions, which he succeeded, in some measure, in imparting to his young and interesting partner, he declined establishing himself in any of our Atlantic cities, then the only places in the Union offering attractions to a foreigner of taste and fortune, and turned his attention, to the magnificent solitudes of the West. He purchased a portion of the Island in Virginia, near the mouth of the Little Kenhawa, which has been consecrated by his misfortunes, and executed those embellishments which have since become the theme of many a fanciful speech and tale. Considering himself a second Capac, he set about acquiring an influence over the rude inhabitants of the Virginia shores, which might enable him to test the efficiency of his favorite system. But his exertions were abortive,
During this state of feeling, Colonel Burr presented himself, armed with all the fascinations of manners and address, which so eminently distinguished him. He soon became the ruler of the destiny of the Island pair, and unfolded to them, with resistless eloquence, his magnificent project of the conquest of Mexico, gilding his own ambition under the plausible motive of relieving enslaved millions from the thraldom of Spanish tyranny. The idea of becoming prominent members of a court that would rival the ancient splendor of Montezuma, and the modern glory of Napoleon, absorbed every other feeling. The remains of this once large fortune were embarked in the scheme, and ruin and misery were the consequence. What he felt and saw as but a misdemeanor, was distorted, by political rancor, into treason; and, although one of the most enlightened juries that were ever empanelled, pronounced an acquittal, Blennerhasset was left destitute of means, and blasted in reputation. He attempted to retrieve his affairs as a cotton planter, but was unsuccessful; he afterwards removed to Montreal, to resume his profession. Within a few years he has returned to England, the outlawry against him having been removed; and those who feel an interest in the history of this persecuted family, may be gratified to know that their decline of life will not be devoid of comfort. They reside near Bath, in England, with a sister of Blennerhasset, the relict of the late admiral De Courcy. The evening of life promises to close free from those clouds that so long lowered over them.
See Mr. Wirt’s character of Colonel Burr, in his great speech against him. It was scarcely necessary to refer to this speech, as it is in the mouth of every school boy.
These lines were written in the excitement which prevailed during the session of the last Congress, when the Nullifiers were fulminating their doctrines of disunion and prophesying the downfall of the Republic, when he, who has not yet lost all his original brightness, was acting a part which Milton has described. This may account for what now may be deemed harshness.
I have both rhyme and reason for remembering my young friends of Baltimore. More frank, fearless, and generous spirits, it has not been my lot to meet: social companions, firm friends, and with highly cultivated minds, they possess an esprit du corps which gives such qualities their strongest attractions. They have made Baltimore to me the “city of the soul.”
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