unformed, we cannot fail to view, with peculiar interest, every new production of American talent. It is most important that our first efforts in letters should be successful, for if the root of our reputation be solidly fixed, the after growth will not fail to be vigorous and flourishing. Much is undoubtedly expected from the known genius of the biographer of Patrick Henry, fired and devoted as it must naturally be by the dignity of his subject, and the eventful period which his narrative is to describe. But these advantages will scarcely compensate for the want of proper materials. Although if his subject were as extended and various as his own powers, there can be little doubt that his book would baffle the critical acumen of British Reviewers. This view of the subject, by the by, serves to increase our regret that the genius of our author should be restricted by the essential narrowness of his subject. England, always devoted to what is her own, and always jealous of every thing foreign, furnishes those rigid tribunals of criticism before which all authors are compelled to stand, without the power of excepting to their jurisdiction. If it rests with these to apportion literary merit, our pretensions must be very strong, or our rewards will be very small. I would not be understood in these remarks, as deprecating the severity of any set of Reviewers in favour of the author of the Life of Patrick Henry. His character as an eloquent writer, is already too well established to be shaken by the weak and wavering breeze of malignant criticism. But I think it fair that those who have formed their anticipations of the work, not from the copiousness or interest of the materials, but from the high character of the author for genius and taste, should be admonished of the injustice of expecting too much. An author gains nothing by these anticipated praises; they are too apt to go beyond the measure of his powers, how great soever those powers may be. We have already from the author in question, more than one unequivocal proof of literary ability. But we hope that he may not find, in the over wrought anticipations of a partial public, reason to complain, like Gaudentio di Lucca, that it is demanded of his genius to create the material as well as to fashion it with beauty and taste, to weave a web of imperial purple out of shreds and patches. Patrick Henry's life was nothing until he became a public character, and even after that, it consisted of little more than the various forms of a splendid and powerful eloquence. The transition from one great speech to another, can afford, at best, but little of that copious variety so necessary to give interest to narrative. The danger is that all these things will not be considered by those who may read and criticise the work. The biographer will be expected to amuse and instruct the public, and the American public will be brought with difficulty to believe that the life of their eloquent countryman Patrick Henry, afforded materials for nothing beyond a lean and meagre memoir. Fidelity is the first duty of the historian. He is at liberty to embellish, but he must not invent. Like the painter, he must adapt his portrait to the measure of his tablet; if it will not admit of a full size, he must be satisfied with a miniature. In either case the features must be faithfully preserved in just proportion and expression, although the artist may display his taste in the selection of attitude, or in the beauty of colouring. If this fidelity be not observed, the picture may please as a sport of fancy, but it will lose the precious merit of truth. Our author's canvas is small indeed; his picture, to be faithful, must certainly be splendid, but it has little variety. A biographical memoir ought to be adapted to various tastes. The grave man will read it for instruction, the frivolous for amusement, and the critic according to his disposi-. tion, either to detect faults, or to display its beauties. The first will require fidelity in the narrative, the second variety in the incidents, and the third, a watchful attention to the rules of good writing. Although I doubt not the last of these classes will be gratified with Mr. Wirt's Life of Patrick Henry, yet it will hardly be possible to please both of the former. If indeed the incidents of that life had been as numerous and various as they were splendid, we might justly expect a memoir secondary in excellence to none which has ever appeared. But the exuberant fancy for which the biographer is so conspicuous would appear like tawdry finery upon the homely web of history; and I apprehend his excursive genius will bend, with reluctant submission, to the drudgery of commonplace detail. If he confines himself within the strict limits of his subject, his narrative can hardly fail to want animation; and if he should give full scope to his genius in figure and embellishment, he will be in danger of the censure which Johnson passed upon Doctor Sprat, of having written a funeral eulogy instead of a history. No man indeed, deserved more than Henry, laudari a laudato viro; as he was himself the first of orators, none but an orator of the first class should attempt to pourtray his character. This part of the work, at least, we may venture to anticipate with confidence will be done by the hand of a master. Yet, impatient as we are for this interesting work, it is much to be hoped that the author will not submit it to the public with imprudent haste. This he certainly will not do, unless his own modest judgment should be overruled by the importunities of others. If he allows himself time to give to his performance the true stamp of his genius, he may safely rest upon it both his own literary character and that of his country. |