published with a new edition of Martin Faber; in 1838 by Pelayo a Story of the Goth, Richard Hurdis or the Avenger of Blood, a Tale of Alabama, and Carl Werner, with other Tales of the Imagination; in 1839 by The Damsel of Darien, and Southern Passages and Pictures, a collection of poems; in 1840 by Border Beagles, a Tale of Mississippi, and The History of South Carolina; in 1841 by The Kinsmen or the Black Riders of the Congaree, and Confession or the Blind Heart, a Domestic Story; in 1842 by Beauchampe or the Kentucky Tragedy, a Tale of Passion; in 1843 by Donna Florida, a Tale,* (in four cantos ;) in 1844 by the Life and Times of Francis Marion; in 1845 by Grouped Thoughts and Scattered Fancies, a collection of sonnets, Helen Halsey or the Swamp State of Conelachita, a Tale of the Borders, Castle Dismal or the Bachelor's Christmas, a Domestic Legend, The Wigwam and the Cabin, a collection of tales, and Views and Reviews of American Literature, History, and Fiction; in 1846 by Count Julian, the Last Days of the Goth, Ayretos, or Songs of the South, second series of The Wigwam and the Cabin, second series of Views and Reviews of American Literature, History and Fiction, and the Life of John Smith, the founder of Virginia. We have here of poetry Lyrical and other Poems, Early Lays, The Vision of Cortez, The Tri-Color, Atalantis, Southern Passages and Pictures, Donna Florida, Grouped Thoughts and Scattered Fancies, and Ayretos,―nine volumes; of the more purely imaginative fiction: The Book of My Lady, Martin Faber, Carl Werner, Castle Dismal, The Wigwam and the Cabin,-eight volumes; of domestic border novels: Guy Rivers, Richard Hurdis, Border Beagles, Beauchampe, Helen Halsey,-nine volumes; of historical romance: The Yemasee, Damsel of Darien, Pelayo, Count Julian, -eight volumes; of revolutionary stories:

* Donna Florida was printed, but not published. It has been misrepresented in the Ephemera of Mr. Willis, in The North American Review, and elsewhere, by writers who evidently had not read it, and were probably deceived by the admission that it was modelled after Don Juan. It was written when the author was very young, and he says in a modest preface that "He fancied with a boyish presumption that he might imitate the grace and exceeding felicity of expression in that unhappy performance, its playfulness, and possibly its wit, without falling into its licentiousness of utterance and malignity of mood." Whatever be its merits as a poem, there is certainly nothing vicious or wicked in it.

| The Partisan, Mellichampe, The Kinsmen,— six volumes; of history and biography: The History of South Carolina, The Life of Marion, The Life of John Smith,-four volumes; of essays and criticism: Views and Reviews, -two volumes: In all nearly fifty volumes, in about twenty years,-besides which, in the same period Mr. Simms has written much for quarterly reviews, monthly magazines, and other periodicals, was for several years editor of The Magnolia, and its successor, The Southern and Western Monthly Magazine, and has published various orations and addresses.

Mr. Simms writes at times with great power. His descriptions of persons and places are often graphic. His characters have marked and generally well-sustained individuality, and some of them, particularly of the Indian and negro races, are eminently original. His novels are interesting, but the interest arises more from situation than from character. Our attention is engrossed by actions, but we feel little sympathy with the actors. He gives us too much of ruffianism. The coarseness and villany of many of his characters has no attraction in works of the imagination. If true to nature, which may be doubted, it is not true to nature as we love to contemplate it, and it serves no good purpose in literature. It may be regarded as the chief fault of Mr. Simms, that he does not discriminate between what is irredeemably base and revolting, and what by the hand of art may be made subservient to the exhibition of beauty, which should be the prime aim of the writer of poetical and romantic fiction. Crime is a cheap element of interest, but like powder or steam it is one of danger as well as of power, to be used carefully, by those familiar with its possible effects, and very rarely by any except for the purposes of contrast and shadow.

Mr. Simms's paintings of southern border scenery are vivid and natural; but he has little repose. He delights in action, whether of men or of the elements, and is most successful in strife, storm, and tumult. It is worth mentioning, that the German author Seatsfield has borrowed very largely from his works, and that whole pages which he has translated almost literally from Guy Rivers, have been praised abroad as superior to any thing done by Americans in describing their own country. The action of his novels is generally rapid, and the style, especially of those in which

the narrative is in the first person, is vehement and passionate. His later style is much better than that with which he commenced, but in all his prose compositions it has marks of haste.

The shorter stories of Mr. Simms are his best works. They have unity, completeness, and strength, and though not written with elegance, are comparatively free from redundancies and weighty offences against taste. The collection entitled The Wigwam and the Cabin, is deeply interesting, and on many accounts must be regarded as a valuable contribution to our literature. Of his reviews I think less favourably, not agreeing with what is peculiar in his principles as a critic; but they are elaborate and have uniformly an air of independence and integrity.

By his skill in analysis, his knowledge of the movements of character and the secret springs of action, his sympathy with what is true and honourable, his acquaintance with history and letters, and his broad field of observation, with a certain philosophical tone of judging of men and measures by other than local and temporary standards, and the unwearied industry by which in various departments he is constantly exhibiting these resources, Mr. Simms is entitled to a large share of public attention.

Mr. Simms is a planter, and resides at Midway in South Carolina. He has been several years a prominent member of the legislature, and in December, 1846, was defeated by but one vote as a candidate for the office of lieutenant-governor of the state.

GRAYLING:

OR, "MURDER WILL OUT."

FROM THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN.

CHAPTER I.

THE world has become monstrous matter-of-fact in latter days. We can no longer get a ghost story, either for love or money. The materialists have it all their own way; and even the little urchin, eight years old, instead of deferring with decent reverence to the opinions of his grandmamına, now stands up stoutly for his own. He believes in every ology" but pneumatology. "Faust" and the "Old Woman of Berkeley" move his derision only, and he would laugh incredulously, if he dared, at the Witch of Endor. The whole armoury of modern reasoning is on his side; and, however he may admit at seasons that belief can scarcely be counted a matter of will, he yet puts his veto on all sorts of credulity. That coldblooded demon called Science has taken the place of all the other demons. He has certainly cast out innumerable devils, however he may still spare the principal. Whether we are the better for his intervention is another question. There is reason to apprehend that in disturbing our human faith in shadows, we have lost some of those wholesome moral restraints which might have kept many of us virtuous, where the laws could not.

The effect, however, is much the more seriously evil in all that concerns the romantic. Our story tellers are so resolute to deal in the real, the actual only, that they venture on no subjects the details of which are not equally vulgar and susceptible of proof. With this end in view, indeed, they too commonly choose their subjects among convicted felons, in order that they may avail themselves of the evidence which led to their conviction; and, to

Nos. IV. and XII. of Wiley & Putnam's Library of American Books.

prove more conclusively their devoted adherence to nature and the truth, they depict the former not only in her condition of nakedness, but long before she has found out the springs of running water. It is to be feared that some of the coarseness of modern taste arises from the too great lack of that veneration which belonged to, and elevated to dignity, even the errors of preceding ages. A love of the marvellous belongs, it appears to me, to all those who love and cultivate either of the fine arts. I very much doubt whether the poet, the painter, the sculptor, or the romancer, ever yet lived, who had not some strong bias-a leaning, at least, to a belief in the wonders of the invisible world. Certainly, the higher orders of poets and painters, those who create and invent, must have a strong taint of the superstitious in their composition. But this is digressive, and leads us from our purpose.

It is so long since we have been suffered to see or hear of a ghost, that a visitation at this time may have the effect of novelty, and I propose to narrate a story which I heard more than once in my boyhood, from the lips of an aged relative, who succeeded, at the time, in making me believe every word of it; perhaps, for the simple reason that she convinced me she believed every word of it herself. My grandmother was an old lady who had been a resident of the seat of most frequent war in Carolina during the Revolution. She had fortunately survived the numberless atrocities which she was yet compelled to witness; and, a keen observer, with a strong memory, she had in store a thousand legends of that stirring period, which served to beguile me from sleep many and many a long winter night. The story which I propose to tell was one of these; and when I say that she not only devoutly believed it herself, but that it was believed by sundry of her contempora ries, who were themselves privy to such of the

circumstances as could be known to third parties, the gravity with which I repeat the legend will not be considered very astonishing.

The revolutionary war had but a little while been concluded. The British had left the country; but peace did not imply repose. The community was still in that state of ferment which was natural enough to passions, not yet at rest, which had been brought into exercise and action during the protracted seven years' struggle through which the nation had just passed. The state was overrun by idlers, adventurers, profligates, and criminals. Disbanded soldiers, half-starved and reckless, occupied the highways,-outlaws, emerging from their hiding-places, skulked about the settlements with an equal sentiment of hate and fear in their hearts;-patriots were clamouring for justice upon the tories, and sometimes anticipating its course by judgments of their own; while the tories, those against whom the proofs were too strong for denial or evasion, buckled on their armour for a renewal of the struggle. Such being the condition of the country, it may easily be supposed that life and property lacked many of their necessary securities. Men generally travelled with weapons, which were displayed on the smallest provocation: and few who could provide themselves with an escort ventured to travel any distance without one.

There was, about this time, said my grandmother, and while such was the condition of the country, a family of the name of Grayling, that lived somewhere upon the skirts of "Ninety-six" district. Old Grayling, the head of the family, was dead. He was killed in Buford's massacre. His wife was a fine woman, not so very old, who had an only son named James, and a little girl, only five years of age, named Lucy. James was but fourteen when his father was killed, and that event made a man of him. He went out with his rifle in company with Joel Sparkman, who was his mother's brother, and joined himself to Pickens's Brigade. Here he made as good a soldier as the best. He had no sort of fear. He was always the first to go forward; and his rifle was always good for his enemy's button at a long hundred yards. He was in several fights both with the British and tories; and just before the war was ended he had a famous brush with the Cherokees, when Pickens took their country from them. But though he had no fear, and never knew when to stop killing while the fight was going on, he was the most bashful of boys that I ever knew; and so kind-hearted that it was almost impossible to believe all we heard of his fierce doings when he was in battle. But they were nevertheless quite true for all his bashfulness.

Well, when the war was over, Joel Sparkman, who lived with his sister, Grayling, persuaded her that it would be better to move down into the low country. I don't know what reason he had for it, or what they proposed to do there. They had very little property, but Sparkman was a knowing man, who could turn his hand to a hundred things; and as he was a bachelor, and loved his sister and

her children just as if they had been his own, it was natural that she should go with him wherever he wished. James, too, who was restless by nature-and the taste he had enjoyed of the wars had made him more so-he was full of it; and so, one sunny morning in April, their wagon started for the city. The wagon was only a small one, with two horses, scarcely larger than those that are employed to carry chickens and fruit to the market from the Wassamaws and thereabouts. It was driven by a negro fellow named Clytus, and carried Mrs. Grayling and Lucy. James and his uncle loved the saddle too well to shut themselves up in such a vehicle; and both of them were mounted on fine horses which they had won from the enemy. The saddle that James rode on, -and he was very proud of it,—was one that he had taken at the battle of Cowpens from one of Tarleton's own dragoons, after he had tumbled the owner. The roads at that season were excessively bad, for the rains of March had been frequent and heavy, the track was very much cut up, and the red clay gullies of the hills of "Ninety-six" were so washed that it required all shoulders, twenty times a day, to get the wagon-wheels out of the bog. This made them travel very slowly,-perhaps, not more than fifteen miles a day. Another cause for slow travelling was, the necessity of great caution, and a constant look-out for enemies both up and down the road. James and his uncle took it by turns to ride a-head, precisely as they did when scouting in war, but one of them always kept along with the wagon. They had gone on this way for two days, and saw nothing to trouble and alarm them. There were few persons on the high-road, and these seemed to the full as shy of them as they probably were of strangers. But just as they were about to camp, the evening of the second day, while they were splitting lightwood, and getting out the kettles and the fryingpan, a person rode up and joined them without much ceremony. He was a short, thick-set man, somewhere between forty and fifty: had on very coarse and common garments, though he rode a fine black horse of remarkable strength and vigour. He was very civil of speech, though he had but little to say, and that little showed him to be a person without much education and with no refinement. He begged permission to make one of the encampment, and his manner was very respectful and even humble; but there was something dark and sullen in his face-his eyes, which were of a light gray colour, were very restless, and his nose turned up sharply, and was very red. His forehead was excessively broad, and his eyebrows thick and shaggy-white hairs being freely mingled with the dark, both in them and upon his head. Mrs. Grayling did not like this man's looks, and whispered her dislike to her son; but James, who felt himself equal to any man, said, promptly

"What of that, mother! we can't turn the stranger off and say 'no;' and if he means any mischief, there's two of us, you know."

The man had no weapons-none, at least, which were then visible; and deported himself in

so humble a manner, that the prejudice which the party had formed against him when he first appeared, if it was not dissipated while he remained, at least failed to gain any increase. He was very quiet, did not mention an unnecessary word, and seldom permitted his eyes to rest upon those of any of the party, the females not excepted. This, perhaps, was the only circumstance, that, in the mind of Mrs. Grayling, tended to confirm the hostile impression which his coming had originally occasioned. In a little while the temporary encampment was put in a state equally social and warlike. The wagon was wheeled a little way into the woods, and off the road; the horses fastened behind it in such a manner that any attempt to steal them would be difficult of success, even were the watch neglectful which was yet to be maintained upon them. Extra guns, concealed in the straw at the bottom of the wagon, were kept well loaded. In the foreground, and between the wagon and the highway, a fire was soon blazing with a wild but cheerful gleam; and the worthy dame, Mrs. Grayling, assisted by the little girl, Lucy, lost no time in setting on the fryingpan, and cutting into slices the haunch of bacon, which they had provided at leaving home. James Grayling patroled the woods, meanwhile, for a mile or two round the encampment, while his uncle, Joel Sparkman, foot to foot with the stranger, seemed-if the absence of all care constitutes the supreme of human felicity-to realize the most perfect conception of mortal happiness. But Joel was very far from being the careless person that he seemed. Like an old soldier, he simply hung out false colours, and concealed his real timidity by an extra show of confidence and courage. He did not relish the stranger from the first, any more than his sister; and having subjected him to a searching examination, such as was considered, in those days of peril and suspicion, by no means inconsistent with becoming courtesy, he came rapidly to the conclusion that he was no better than he should be.

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You are a Scotchman, stranger," said Joel, suddenly drawing up his feet, and bending forward to the other with an eye like that of a hawk stooping over a covey of partridges. It was a wonder that he had not made the discovery before. The broad dialect of the stranger was not to be subdued; but Joel made slow stages and short progress in his mental journeyings. The answer was given with evident hesitation, but it was affirmative. Well, now, it's mighty strange that you should ha' fou't with us and not agin us," responded Joel Sparkman. "There was a precious few of the Scotch, and none that I knows on, saving yourself, perhaps,--that did'nt go dead agin us, and for the tories, through thick and thin. That Cross Creek settlement' was a mighty ugly thorn in the sides of us whigs. It turned out a raal bad stock of varmints. I hope,-I reckon, stranger, you aint from that part."

"No," said the other; "oh no! I'm from over the other quarter. I'm from the Duncan settlement above."

"I've hearn tell of that other settlement, but I never know'd as any of the men fou't with us. What gineral did you fight under? What Carolina gineral?"

"I was at Gum Swamp when General Gates was defeated," was the still hesitating reply of the other.

"Well, I thank God, I warn't there, though I reckon things wouldn't ha' turned out quite so bad, if there had been a leetle sprinkling of Sumter's, or Pickens's, or Marion's men, among them two-legged critters that run that day. They did tell that some of the regiments went off without ever once emptying their rifles. Now, stranger, I hope you warn't among them fellows." "I was not," said the other with something more of promptness.

"I don't blame a chap for dodging a bullet if he can, or being too quick for a bagnet, because, I'm thinking, a live man is always a better man than a dead one, or he can become so; but to run without taking a single crack at the inimy, is downright cowardice. There's no two ways about it, stranger."

This opinion, delivered with considerable emphasis, met with the ready assent of the Scotchman, but Joel Sparkman was not to be diverted, even by his own eloquence, from the object of his inquiry.

“But you ain't said," he continued, “who was your Carolina gineral. Gates was from Virginny, and he stayed a mighty short time when he come. You didn't run far at Camden, I reckon, and you joined the army agin, and come in with Greene. Was that the how?"

To this the stranger assented, though with evident disinclination.

"Then, moutbe, we sometimes went into the same scratch together? I was at Cowpens and Ninety-Six,' and seen sarvice at other odds and eends, where there was more fighting than fun. I reckon you must have been at Ninety-Six,'perhaps at Cowpens, too, if you went with Morgan?"

6

The unwillingness of the stranger to respond to these questions appeared to increase. He admitted, however, that he had been at "NinetySix," though, as Sparkman afterwards remembered, in this case, as in that of the defeat of Gates at Gum Swamp, he had not said on which side he had fought. Joel, as he discovered the reluctance of his guest to answer his questions, and perceived his growing doggedness, forbore to annoy him, but mentally resolved to keep a sharper look-out than ever upon his motions. His examination concluded with an inquiry, which, in the plain-dealing regions of the south and south-west, is not unfrequently put first.

"And what mout be your name, stranger?" "Macnab," was the ready response, Sandy Macnab."

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"Well, Mr. Macnab, I see that my sister's got supper ready for us; so we mout as well fall to upon the hoecake and bacon."

Sparkman rose while speaking, and led the way

to be fou't over agin. Well, I'm raal glad to see you. I am, that's sartin!"

"And I'm very glad to see you, Sparkman," said the other, as he alighted from his steed, and yielded his hand to the cordial grasp of the other.

"Shall we wait for him before we eat?" demanded Macnab, anxiously.

"By no sort o' reason, stranger," answered Sparkman. "He'll watch for us while we're eating, and after that I'll change shoes with him. So fall to, and don't mind what's a coming." Sparkman had just broken the hoecake, when a distant whistle was heard.

"Ha! That's the lad now!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet. "He's on trail. He's got a sight of an inimy's fire, I reckon. "Twon't be onreasonable, friend Macnab, to get our we'pons in readiness;" and, so speaking, Sparkman bid his sister get into the wagon, where the little Lucy had already placed herself, while he threw open the pan of his rifle, and turned the priming over with his finger. Macnab, meanwhile, had taken from his holsters, which he had before been sitting upon, a pair of horseman's pistols, richly mounted with figures in silver. These were large and long, and had evidently seen service. Unlike his companion, his proceedings occasioned no comment. What he did seemed a matter of habit, of which he himself was scarcely conscious. Having looked at his priming, he laid the instruments beside him without a word, and resumed the bit of hoecake which he had just before received from Sparkman. Meanwhile, the signal whistle, supposed to come from James Grayling, was repeated. Silence ensued then for a brief space, which Sparkman employed in perambulating the grounds immediately contiguous. At length, just as he had returned to the fire, the sound of a horse's feet was heard, and a sharp quick halloo from Grayling informed his uncle that all was right. The youth made his appearance a moment after, accompanied by a stranger on horseback; a tall, fine-looking young man, with a keen flashing eye, and a voice whose lively clear tones, as he was heard approaching, sounded cheerily like those of a trumpet after victory. James Grayling kept along on foot beside the new-comer; and his hearty laugh, and free, glib, garrulous tones, betrayed to his uncle, long ere he drew nigh, enough to declare the fact, that he had met unexpectedly with a friend, or, at least, an old acquaintance.

"Why, who have you got there, James?" was the demand of Sparkman, as he dropped the butt of his rifle upon the ground.

แ Why, who do you think, uncle? Who but Major Spencer-our own major?"

You don't say so!-what!-well! Spencer, for sartin! Lord bless you, major, who'd ha' thought to see you in these parts; and

Well, I knows that, major, without you saying it. But you've jest come in the right time. The bacon's frying, and here's the bread;-let's down upon our haunches, in right good airnest, camp fashion, and make the most of what God gives us in the way of blessings. I reckon you don't mean to ride any further to-night, major?"

"No," said the person addressed, “not if you'll let me lay my heels at your fire. But who's in your wagon? My old friend, Mrs. Grayling, I suppose?"

"That's a true word, major," said the lady herself, making her way out of the vehicle with goodhumoured agility, and coming forward with extended hand.

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Really, Mrs. Grayling, I'm very glad to see you." And the stranger, with the blandness of a gentleman and the hearty warmth of an old neighbour, expressed his satisfaction at once more finding himself in the company of an old acquaintance. Their greetings once over, Major Spencer readily joined the group about the fire, while James Grayling-though with some reluctance-disappeared to resume his toils of the scout while the supper proceeded.

"And who have you here?" demanded Spencer, as his eye rested on the dark, hard features of the Scotchman. Sparkman told him all that he himself had learned of the name and character of the stranger, in a brief whisper, and in a moment after formally introduced the parties in this fashion

"Mr. Macnab, Major Spencer. Mr. Macnab says he's true blue, major, and fou't at Camden, when General Gates run so hard to bring the d-d militia back.' He also fou't at Ninety-Six,' and Cowpens-so I reckon we had as good as count him one of us."

Major Spencer scrutinized the Scotchman keenly-a scrutiny which the latter seemed very ill to relish. He put a few questions to him on the subject of the war, and some of the actions in which he allowed himself to have been concerned; but his evident reluctance to unfold himself—a reluctance so unnatural to the brave soldier who has gone through his toils honourably-had the natural effect of discouraging the young officer, whose sense of delicacy had not been materially impaired amid the rude jostlings of military life. But, though he forbore to propose any other questions to Macnab, his eyes continued to survey the features of his sullen countenance with curiosity and a strangely increasing interest. This he subsequently explained to Sparkman, when, at the close of supper, James Grayling came in, and the former assumed the duties of the scout.

"I have seen that Scotchman's face somewhere, Sparkman, and I'm convinced at some interesting