orbit of the human mind. If, as some have supposed, the comet in its
upward flight is drawn away by the attraction of some other sun,
around which also it bends its course, thus linking another system
with our own, the analogy will be more perfect. For while man is
ever seen rushing with uncontrollable violence toward one or the
other of his opposite extremes, fanaticism and irreligion--at each
of these we find placed an attractive force identical in its nature
and in many of its effects. At each extreme, we find him influenced
by the same prevailing interest--devoting himself to the
accomplishment of the same great object. Happiness is his purpose.
The sources of that, he may be told, are within himself--but his eye
will fix on the external means, and these he will labor to obtain.
Foremost among these, and the equivalent which is to purchase all
the rest, is property. At this all men aim, and their eagerness
seems always proportioned to the excitement, which, from whatever
cause, may for the time prevail. Under such excitement, the many who
want, band themselves together against the few that possess; and the
lawless appetite of the multitude for the property of others calls
itself the spirit of liberty.
In the calm, and, as we would call it, the healthful condition of
the public mind, when every man worships God after his own manner,
and Religion and its duties are left to his conscience and his
Maker, we find each quietly enjoying his own property, and
permitting to others the quiet enjoyment of theirs. Under that state
of things, those modes and forms of liberty which regulate and
secure this enjoyment, are preferred. Peace reigns, the arts
flourish, science extends her discoveries, and man, and the sources
of his enjoyments, are multiplied. But in this condition things
never rest. We have already disclaimed any knowledge of the causes
which forbid this--we only know that such exist. We know that men
are always passing, with fearful rapidity, between the extremes of
fanaticism and irreligion, and that at either extreme, property and
all the governmental machinery provided to guard it, become
insecure. "Down with the Church! Down with the Altar!" is at one
time the cry. "Turn the fat bigots out of their styes, sell the
property of the Church and give the money to the poor!" "Behold our
turn cometh," says the Millenarian. "The kingdoms of this world are
about to become the kingdoms of God and of his Christ. Sell what you
have and give to the poor, and let all things be in common!"
It is now about two hundred years since this latter spirit showed
itself in England with a violence and extravagance which
accomplished the overthrow of all the institutions of that kingdom.
With that we have nothing to do; but we should suppose that the
striking resemblance between the aspect of a certain party in that
country then and now, could hardly escape the English statesman.
Fifty years ago, in France, this eccentric comet, "public
sentiment," was in its opposite node. Making allowance for the
difference in the characters of the two people, the effects were
identical, the apparent causes were the opposites of each other. In
the history of the French Revolution, we find a sort of symptomatic
phenomenon, the memory of which was soon lost in the fearful
exacerbation of the disease. But it should be remembered now, that
in that war against property, the first object of attack was
property in slaves; that in that war on behalf of the alleged right
of man to be discharged from all control of law, the first triumph
achieved was in the emancipation of slaves.
The recent events in the West Indies, and the parallel movement
here, give an awful importance to these thoughts in our minds. They
superinduce a something like despair of success in any attempt that
may be made to resist the attack on all our rights, of which that on
Domestic Slavery (the basis of all our institutions) is but the
precursor. It is a sort of boding that may belong to the family of
superstitions. All vague and undefined fears, from causes the nature
of which we know not, the operations of which we cannot stay, are of
that character. Such apprehensions are alarming in proportion to our
estimate of the value of the interest endangered; and are excited by
every thing which enhances that estimate. Such apprehensions have
been awakened in our minds by the books before us. To Mr. Paulding,
as a Northern man, we tender our grateful thanks for the faithful
picture he has drawn of slavery as it appeared to him in his visit
to the South, and as {338} exhibited in the information he has
carefully derived from those most capable of giving it. His work is
executed in the very happiest manner of an author in whom America
has the greatest reason to rejoice, and will not fail to enhance his
reputation immeasurably as a writer of pure and vigorous English, as
a clear thinker, as a patriot, and as a man. The other publication,
which we take to be from a Southern pen, is more calculated to
excite our indignation against the calumnies which have been put
forth against us, and the wrongs meditated by those who come to us
in the names of our common Redeemer and common country--seeking our
destruction under the mask of Christian Charity and Brotherly Love.
This too is executed with much ability, and may be read with
pleasure as well as profit. While we take great pleasure in
recommending these works to our readers, we beg leave to add a few
words of our own. We are the more desirous to do this, because there
is a view of the subject most deeply interesting to us, which we do
not think has ever been presented, by any writer, in as high relief
as it deserves. We speak of the moral influences flowing from the
relation of master and slave, and the moral feelings engendered and
cultivated by it. A correspondent of Mr. Paulding's justly speaks of
this relation as one partaking of the patriarchal character, and
much resembling that of clanship. This is certainly so. But to say
this, is to give a very inadequate idea of it, unless we take into
consideration the peculiar character (I may say the peculiar nature)
of the negro. Let us reason upon it as we may, there is certainly a
power, in causes inscrutable to us, which works essential changes in
the different races of animals. In their physical constitution this
is obvious to the senses. The color of the negro no man can deny,
and therefore, it was but the other day, that they who will believe
nothing they cannot account for, made this manifest fact an
authority for denying the truth of holy writ. Then comes the
opposite extreme--they are, like ourselves, the sons of Adam, and
must therefore, have like passions and wants and feelings and
tempers in all respects. This, we deny, and appeal to the knowledge
of all who know. But their authority will be disputed, and their
testimony falsified, unless we can devise something to show how a
difference might and should have been brought about. Our theory is a
short one. It was the will of God it should be so. But the
means--how was this effected? We will give the answer to any one who
will develop the causes which might and should have blackened the
negro's skin and crisped his hair into wool. Until that is done, we
shall take leave to speak, as of things _in esse_, of a degree of
loyal devotion on the part of the slave to which the white man's
heart is a stranger, and of the master's reciprocal feeling of
parental attachment to his humble dependant, equally
incomprehensible to him who drives a bargain with the cook who
prepares his food, the servant who waits at his table, and the nurse
who doses over his sick bed. That these sentiments in the breast of
the negro and his master, are stronger than they would be under like
circumstances between individuals of the white race, we believe.
That they belong to the class of feelings "by which the heart is
made better," we know. How come they? They have their rise in the
relation between the infant and the nurse. They are cultivated
between him and his foster brother. They are cherished by the
parents of both. They are fostered by the habit of affording
protection and favors to the younger offspring of the same nurse.
They grow by the habitual use of the word "my," used as the language
of affectionate appropriation, long before any idea of value mixes
with it. It is a term of endearment. That is an easy transition by
which he who is taught to call the little negro "his," in this sense
and _because he loves him_, shall love him _because he is his_. The
idea is not new, that our habits and affections are reciprocally
cause and effect of each other.
But the great teacher in this school of feeling is sickness. In this
school we have witnessed scenes at which even the hard heart of a
thorough bred philanthropist would melt. But here, we shall be told,
it is not humanity, but interest that prompts. Be it so. Our
business is not with the cause but the effect. But is it interest,
which, with assiduous care, prolongs the life of the aged and
decrepid negro, who has been, for years, a burthen? Is it interest
which labors to rear the crippled or deformed urchin, who can never
be any thing but a burthen--which carefully feeds the feeble lamp of
life that, without any appearance of neglect, might be permitted to
expire? Is not the feeling more akin to that parental στοργη, which,
in defiance of reason, is most careful of the life which is, all the
time, felt to be a curse to the possessor. Are such cases rare? They
are as rare as the occasions; but let the occasion occur, and you
will see the case. How else is the longevity of the negro
proverbial? A negro who does no work for thirty years! (and we know
such examples) is it interest which has lengthened out his
existence?
Let the philanthropist think as he may--by the negro himself, his
master's care of him in sickness is not imputed to interested
feelings. We know an instance of a negress who was invited by a
benevolent lady in Philadelphia to leave her mistress. The lady
promised to secrete her for a while, and then to pay her good wages.
The poor creature felt the temptation and was about to yield. "You
are mighty good, madam," said she "and I am a thousand times obliged
to you. And if I am sick, or any thing, I am sure you will take care
of me, and nurse me, like my good mistress used to do, and bring me
something warm and good to comfort me, and tie up my head and fix my
pillow." She spoke in the simplicity of her heart, and the tempter
had not the heart to deceive her. "No," said she "all _that_ will
come out of your wages--for you will have money enough to hire a
nurse." The tears had already swelled into the warm hearted
creature's eyes, at her own recital of her mistress's kindness. They
now gushed forth in a flood, and running to her lady who was a
lodger in the house, she threw herself on her knees, confessed her
fault, was pardoned, and was happy.
But it is not by the bedside of the sick negro that the feeling we
speak of is chiefly engendered. They who would view it in its causes
and effects must see him by the sick bed of his master--must see
_her_ by the sick bed of her _mistress_. We have seen these things.
We have seen the dying infant in the lap of its nurse, and have
stood with the same nurse by the bed side of her own dying child.
Did mighty nature assert her empire, and wring from the mother's
heart more and bitterer tears than she had shed over her foster
babe? None that {339} the eye of man could distinguish. And he who
sees the heart--did he see dissimulation giving energy to the
choking sobs that _seemed_ to be rendered more vehement by her
attempts to repress them? _Philanthropy_ may think so if it pleases.
A good lady was on her death bed. Her illness was long and
protracted, but hopeless from the first. A servant, (by no means a
favorite with her, being high tempered and ungovernable) was
advanced in pregnancy, and in bad health. Yet she could not be kept
out of the house. She was permitted to stay about her mistress
during the day, but sent to bed at an early hour every night. Her
reluctance to obey was obvious, and her master found that she evaded
his order, whenever she could escape his eye. He once found her in
the house late at night, and kindly reproving her, sent her home. An
hour after, suddenly going out of the sick room, he stumbled over
her in the dark. She was crouched down at the door, listening for
the groans of the sufferer. She was again ordered home, and turned
to go. Suddenly she stopped, and bursting into tears, said, "Master
it aint no use for me to go to bed, Sir. It don't do me no good, I
cannot sleep, Sir."
Such instances prove that in reasoning concerning the moral effect
of slavery, he who regards man as a unit, the same under all
circumstances, leaves out of view an important consideration. The
fact that he is not so, is manifest to every body--but the
application of the fact to this controversy is not made. The author
of "The South Vindicated" quotes at page 228, a passage from
Lamartine, on this very point, though he only uses it to show the
absurdity of any attempt at amalgamation. The passage is so apt to
our purpose that we beg leave to insert it.
The more I have travelled, the more I am convinced _that the races
of men form the great secret of history and manners_. Man is not so
capable of education as philosophers imagine. The influence of
governments and laws has less power, radically, than is supposed,
over the manners and instincts of any people, while the primitive
constitution and the blood of the race have always their influence,
and manifest themselves, thousands of years afterwards, in the
physical formations and moral habits of a particular family or
tribe. Human nature flows in rivers and streams into the vast ocean
of humanity; but its waters mingle but slowly, sometimes never; and
it emerges again, like the Rhone from the Lake of Geneva, with its
own taste and color. Here is indeed an abyss of thought and
meditation, and at the same time a grand secret for legislators. As
long as they keep the spirit of the race in view they succeed; but
they fail when they strive against this natural predisposition:
nature is stronger than they are. This sentiment is not that of the
philosophers of the present time, but it is evident to the
traveller; and there is more philosophy to be found in a caravan
journey of a hundred leagues, than in ten years' reading and
meditation.
There is much truth here, though certainly not what passes for truth
with those who study human nature wholly in the closet, and in
reforming the world address themselves exclusively to the faults of
_others_, and the evils of which they know the least, and which
least concern themselves.
We hope the day has gone by when we are to be judged by the
testimony of false, interested, and malignant accusers alone. We
repeat that we are thankful to Mr. Paulding for having stepped
forward in our defence. Our assailants arc numerous, and it is
indispensable that we should meet the assault with vigor and
activity. Nothing is wanting but manly discussion to convince our
own people at least, that in continuing to command the services of
their slaves, they violate no law divine or human, and that in the
faithful discharge of their reciprocal obligations lies their true
duty. Let these be performed, and we believe (with our esteemed
correspondent Professor Dew) that society in the South will derive
much more of good than of evil from this much abused and
partially-considered institution.
BRUNNENS OF NASSAU.
_Bubbles from the Brunnens of Nassau. By an Old Man. New York:
Harper and Brothers._
This "old man" is the present Governor of Canada, and a very amusing
"old man" is he. A review of his work, which appeared a year ago in
the North American, first incited us to read it, a pleasure which
necessity has compelled us to forego until the present time--there
not having been an American edition put to press until now, and the
splendid hot-pressed, calf-bound, gilt-edged edition from
Albemarle-street being too costly for very general circulation here.
The "bubbles" are blown into being by a gentleman who represents
himself as having been sentenced, in the cold evening of his life,
to drink the mineral waters of Nassau; and who, upon arriving at the
springs, found that, in order to effect the cure designed by his
physicians, the mind was to be relaxed as the body was being
strengthened. The result of this regimen was the production of "The
Bubbles," or hasty sketches of whatever chanced for the moment to
please either the eyes or the mind of the patient. He anticipates
the critic's verdict as to his book--that it is empty, light, vain,
hollow and superficial: "but then," says he, "it is the nature of
'bubbles' to be so."
He describes his voyage from the Custom House Stairs in the Thames,
by steamboat to Rotterdam, and thence his journey to the Nassau
springs of _Langen-Schwalbach_, _Schlangen-bad_, _Nieder-selters_,
and _Wiesbaden_. Here he spends a season, bathing and drinking the
waters of those celebrated springs, and describing such incidents as
occurred to relieve the monotony of his somewhat idle life, in a
most agreeable and _taking_ way. To call this work facetious, as
that term is commonly used, were not perhaps to give so accurate an
idea of its style as might be conveyed by the adjective whimsical.
Without subjecting the "old man" to the imputation of _copyism_, one
may describe the manner as being an agreeable mixture of _Charles
Lamb's_ and _Washington Irving's_. The same covert conceit, the same
hidden humor, the same piquant allusion, which, while you read,
place the author bodily before you, a quiet old gentleman fond of
his ease, but fonder of his joke--not a broad, forced, loud,
vacant-minded joke, but a quiet, pungent, sly, laughter-moving
conceit, which, at first stirring the finest membranes of your
_pericardium_, at length sets you out into a broad roar of laughter,
honest fellow as you are, and which you must be, indeed, a very
savage, if you can avoid.
Our bubble-blower observes everything within the sphere of his
vision, and even makes a most amusing chapter out of "The
schwein-general," or pig-drover of Schlangen-bad, which we wish we
had space for entire. As it is, we give some reflections upon "the
pig," {340} as being perfectly characteristic of the author's
peculiar style.
There exists perhaps in creation no animal which has less justice
and more injustice done to him by man than the pig. Gifted with
every faculty of supplying himself, and of providing even against
the approaching storm, which no creature is better capable of
foretelling than a pig, we begin by putting an iron ring through the
cartilage of his nose, and having thus barbarously deprived him of
the power of searching for, and analyzing his food, we generally
condemn him for the rest of his life to solitary confinement in a
sty.
While his faculties are still his own, only observe how, with a bark
or snort, he starts if you approach him, and mark what shrewd
intelligence there is in his bright, twinkling little eye; but with
pigs, as with mankind, idleness is the root of all evil. The poor
animal, finding that he has absolutely nothing to do--having no
enjoyment--nothing to look forward to but the pail which feeds him,
naturally most eagerly, or as we accuse him, most greedily, greets
its arrival. Having no natural business or diversion--nothing to
occupy his brain--the whole powers of his system are directed to the
digestion of a superabundance of food. To encourage this, nature
assists him with sleep, which lulling his better faculties, leads
his stomach to become the ruling power of his system--a tyrant that
can bear no one's presence but his own. The poor pig, thus treated,
gorges himself--sleeps--eats again--sleeps--wakens in a
fright--screams--struggles against the blue apron--screams fainter
and fainter--turns up the whites of his little eyes--and--dies!
It is probably from abhorring this picture, that I know of nothing
which is more distressing to me than to witness an indolent man
eating his own home-fed pork.
There is something so horribly similar between the life of the human
being and that of his victim--their notions on all subjects are so
unnaturally contracted--there is such a melancholy resemblance
between the strutting residence in the village, and the stalking
confinement in the sty--between the sound of the dinner-bell and the
rattling of the pail--between snoring in an armchair and grunting in
clean straw--that, when I contrast the "pig's countenance" in the
dish with that of his lord and master, who, with outstretched
elbows, sits leaning over it, I own I always feel it is so hard the
one should have killed the other.--In short there is a sort of "Tu
quoque, BRUTE!" moral in the picture, which to my mind is most
painfully distressing.
The author thus speaks in relation to the mineral water of
Wiesbaden.
In describing the taste of the mineral water of Wiesbaden, were I to
say, that while drinking it, one hears in one's ears the cackling of
hens, and that one sees feathers flying before one's eyes, I should
certainly grossly exaggerate; but when I declare that it exactly
resembles very hot chicken-broth, I only say what Dr. Granville
said, and what in fact everybody says, and must say, respecting it;
and certainly I do wonder why the common people should be at the
inconvenience of making bad soup, when they can get much better from
nature's great stock pot--the Koch-brunnen of Wiesbaden. At all
periods of the year, summer or winter, the temperature of this broth
remains the same, and when one reflects that it has been bubbling
out of the ground, and boiling over in the same state, certainly
from the time of the Romans, and probably from the time of the
flood, it is really astonishing to think what a most wonderful
apparatus there must exist below, what an inexhaustible stock of
provisions to ensure such an everlasting supply of broth, always
formed of exactly the same degree, and always served up at exactly
the same heat.
One would think that some of the particles in the recipe would be
exhausted; in short, to speak metaphorically, that the chickens
would at last be boiled to rags, or that the fire would go out for
want of coals; but the oftener one reflects on these sort of
subjects, the oftener is the old-fashioned observation repeated,
that let a man go where he will, Omnipotence is never from his view.
It is good they say for the stomach--good for the skin--good for
ladies of all possible ages--for all sorts and conditions of men.
For a headache, drink, the inn-keepers exclaim, at the Koch-brunnen.
For gout in the heels, soak the body, the doctors say, in the
chicken-broth!--in short, the valetudinarian, reclining in his
carriage, has scarcely entered the town, say what he will of
himself, the inhabitants all seem to agree in repeating--"_Bene bene
respondere, dignus est intrare nostro docto corpore!_"
There was something to my mind so very novel in bathing in broth,
that I resolved to try the experiment, particularly as it was the
only means I had of following the crowd. Accordingly, retiring to my
room, in a minute or two I also, in my slippers and black
dressing-gown was to be seen, staff in hand, mournfully walking down
the long passage, as slowly and as gravely as if I had been in such
a profession all my life. An infirm elderly lady was just before
me--some lighter-sounding footsteps were behind me--but without
raising our eyes from the ground, we all moved on, just as if we had
been corpses gliding or migrating from one church yard to another.
The door was now closed, and my dressing-gown being carefully hung
upon a peg, (a situation I much envied it,) I proceeded,
considerably against my inclination, to introduce myself to my new
acquaintance, whose face, or surface, was certainly very revolting;
for a white, thick, dirty, greasy scum, exactly resembling what
would be on broth, covered the top of the bath. But all this, they
say is exactly as it should be; and indeed, German bathers at
Wiesbaden actually insist on its appearance, as it proves, they
argue, that the bath has not been used by any one else. In most
places in ordering a warm bath, it is necessary to wait till the
water be heated, but at Wiesbaden, the springs are so exceedingly
hot, that the baths are obliged to be filled over night, in order to
be cool enough in the morning; and the dirty scum I have mentioned
is the required proof that the water has, during that time, been
undisturbed.
Resolving not to be bullied by the ugly face of my antagonist, I
entered my bath, and in a few seconds I lay horizontally, calmly
soaking, like my neighbors.
Here is a characteristic _crayoning_:
As soon as breakfast was over, I generally enjoyed the luxury of
idling about the town: and, in passing the shop of a blacksmith, who
lived opposite to the Goldene Kette, the manner in which he tackled
and shod a vicious horse amused me. On the outside wall of the house
two rings were firmly fixed, to one of which the head of the patient
was lashed close to the ground; the hind foot, to be shod, stretched
out to the utmost extent of the leg, was then secured to the other
ring about five feet high, by a cord which passed through a cloven
hitch, fixed to the root of the poor creature's tail.
The hind foot was consequently very much higher than the head;
indeed, it was so exalted, and pulled so heavily at the tail, that
the animal seemed to be quite anxious to keep his other feet on
_terra firma_. With one hoof in the heavens, it did not suit him to
kick; with his nose pointing to the infernal regions, he could not
conveniently rear, and as the devil himself was apparently pulling
at his tail, the horse at last gave up the point, and quietly
submitted to be shod.
* * * * *
Mr. Fay wishes us to believe that the sale of a book is the proper
test of its merit. To save time and trouble we _will_ believe it,
and are prepared to acknowledge, as a consequence of the theory,
that the novel of Norman Leslie is not at all comparable to the
Memoirs of Davy Crockett, or the popular lyric of Jim Crow.
{341} SUPPLEMENT.
At the solicitation of our correspondents, we again publish some few
of the _Notices of the Messenger_, which have lately appeared in the
papers of the day. The supplement now printed contains probably
about one fifth of the flattering evidences of public favor which
have reached us, from all quarters, within a few weeks. Those
selected are a fair sample of the general character of the whole.
From the Charlottesville Advocate.
_The Southern Literary Messenger_.--We have been favored by Mr.
White, the proprietor, with the March No. of this periodical. The
delay in the publication has been occasioned by the desire of Mr.
White to insert Prof. Dew's Address. However desirable a regular and
punctual issue may be, we are disposed to excuse the delay on the
present occasion, for the reason assigned.
As the Messenger has now passed through the difficulties attendant
on new enterprises, is on a permanent footing, and has vindicated
its claims to rank among the first of American Periodicals, we
commenced the perusal of the present number, predetermined to
censure whenever we could get the slightest pretext. We have read it
calmly and with a "critic's eye," and though it is not faultless,
for with two exceptions the poetry is below mediocrity, we have been
so delighted with most of the articles, as not to have the heart to
censure. We candidly regard it the best single number of any
American periodical we have ever seen. Mr. Dew's Address and Mr.
Stanton's Essay on Manual Labor Schools, are articles of enduring
and inestimable worth.
We subjoin the following notice of the contents from the Richmond
Compiler, with which we in the main concur.
From the Richmond Compiler.
We have already announced the appearance of the Literary Messenger
for March 1836. We always read the work with pleasure, and have
frequently awarded to it the high praise it so well deserves. In the
present instance, we are forcible struck with a sort of merit so
rare in publications of the kind, that, to a certain class of
readers, our praise may sound like censure.
We hazard nothing in saying, that in the pages before us, there is
more substantial matter, more information, more food for the mind,
and more provocative to thought, than we have ever seen in any
periodical of a miscellaneous character. A chapter from Lionel
Granby--a _jeu d'esprit_ from Mr. Poe--some of the reviews--and a
page or two of description--together with a very few metrical
lines--make the sum total of light reading.
We would not be understood to mean that the rest is heavy. Far from
it. But we want some word to distinguish that which ought to be read
and studied, from that which may be read for amusement only. He who
shall read the rest of the number, must be very careless or very
dull, if he is not edified and instructed. We will add, that his
taste must be bad, if he is not tempted to receive the instruction
here offered by the graces of style, the originality of thought, and
the felicity of illustration, with which the gravest of these
articles abounds.
This remark applies in all its force to Professor Dew's Address,
which all who cherish a well-balanced love, at once for the
Sovereignty and the Union of these States, will read with delight.
Those who have yet to acquire this sentiment, will read it with
profit. If there be any man who doubts the peculiar advantages,
moral, intellectual and pecuniary of a system of federative harmony,
contradistinguished from consolidation on the one hand, and disunion
on the other, let him read, and doubt no more.
A subject of less vivid interest has been treated in a style at once
amusing and instructive, by the author of the Essay on the Classics.
No one can read that essay, without feeling that there must be
something to refine and sublime the mind of man in the studies in
which the writer is so obviously a proficient. Are these the
thoughts? are these the images and illustrations? is this the
language, with which the study of the classics makes a man familiar?
Then it is true, as the poet has said:
"Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes
Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros."
"_Mutatis mutandis_," we would award the same general praise to an
Essay on Education, and to the addresses from Judge Tucker of the
Court of Appeals, and Mr. Maxwell of Norfolk. As to the continuation
of the Sketches of African History, it is enough to say that it is a
continuation worthy of what has gone before.
The reviews are, as usual, piquant and lively, and in that style
which will teach writers to value the praise and dread the censures
of the critic. Among the articles reviewed, we are pleased at the
appearance of Dr. Hawk's historical work. We are delighted, too, to
find him, though not a Virginian, coming to the rescue of Virginia,
from the misjudged or disingenuous praises of men who knew not how
to appreciate the character of our ancestors. No. _It is a new thing
with Virginians to lean to the side of power._ Those who have taught
her that lesson, have found her an unapt scholar. The spirit of
Virginia tends _upwards_, and we have all seen
"With what compulsion, and laborious flight,"
she has sunk to her present degraded condition.
To think of our fathers, as they stood 180 years ago, yielding with
undisguised reluctance to inevitable necessity; and, in the very act
of _submission_ to the _power_ of the usurper, denying his _right_,
and protesting that they owed him no _obedience_! And we, the
sons--what are we?
"'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace
Each step from glory to disgrace:
Enough!--No foreign foe could quell
Her soul, 'till from itself it fell;
And self-abasement paved the way
To villain bonds and despot sway."
From the Baltimore Patriot.
_The Southern Literary Messenger_, for March, is just out: late in
the day, it is true, but not any the less acceptable on that
account. We have just risen from a faithful perusal of its contents,
which are of uncommon richness and value. Its merits are solid, not
superficial: and therein it is more worthy of the support of the
lovers of literature, than any other literary Magazine published in
our country. We mean what we say, disdainful of the imputation of
being thought capable of a puff. It is a repository of works "to
keep," and not of the trash which "perisheth in the using." Still it
has variety. It combines the _utile et dulce_ in a most attractive
and pleasing degree, and there is no lack of that "change" of which
the poet says the "mind of desultory man" is "studious."
We will give the readers of the Patriot a bird's eye view of the
contents of the number we have just laid down, in illustration and
corroboration of what we have said in relation to its merits.
_Sketches of Tripoli, No. XI._--One may gather a very good idea of
the present condition of the Barbary States, from a perusal of these
graphic papers. We know no others extant so attractive and so
satisfactory. They are written in a pure and refined style, and form
a very valuable and interesting history.
"_The Classics_" is the title of one of the most splendid articles
we have ever perused in any shape. This one paper would be cheaply
purchased by the scholar, at the subscription fee for the volume. It
is a defence of the Classics and a classical education, against the
modern innovations of the romantic school. The writer makes out his
case most ably and convincingly,--showing himself to be well fitted
for the task he assumed, by the devotedness with which he has
worshipped at the pure shrine to which he would win his readers. We
wish we were sure that we had said enough to draw a general
attention to this admirable article.
{342} _A Loan to the Messenger_, including _Life_, a Brief History,
in three parts, with a sequel, by CUTTER, is not only "exceedingly
neat," but surpassingly beautiful. It is a rare instance of the
union of tender sentiment and epigrammatic point. For example--
A purpose, and a prayer;
The stars are in the sky--
He wonders how e'en Hope should dare
To let him aim so high!
Still Hope allures and flatters
And Doubt just makes him bold:
And so, with passion all in tatters,
The trembling tale is told!
_Readings with my Pencil_, No. III, a most excellent article--full
of poetical thoughts and, generally speaking, profound ones. We
agree with J. F. O. cordially, in his opinion of _Burns_, in the
case "_Burns vs. Moore_." Yet there are not many who will so agree
with him. _Reading No. 12_, is more regardful of words than things.
Dr. Johnson was right, we think, in saying that "the suspicion of
Swift's irreligion proceeded, in a great measure, from his dread of
hypocrisy," and J. F. O. is wrong in therefore concluding that
"Swift, according to Johnson, was afraid of being thought a
hypocrite and so actually became one." But of this J. F. O. was well
aware--he could not think, however of sacrificing the antithesis.
Let him examine the word _hypocrisy_ and ascertain its _popular_
meaning, for thereby hangs the tale. A man who feigns a character
which he does not possess, is not necessarily a hypocrite. The
_popular_ acceptation of hypocrisy requires that being vicious, he
shall feign virtue. This the very intelligent author of _Readings
with My Pencil_ will not fail to perceive at once. These readings
are far better than nine-tenths of the _fudge_ of _Lacon_--or the
purer _fudge_ of _Rochefoucault_.
_Halley's Comet_.--After Miss Draper's stanzas thus entitled, the
poet of "Prince Edward" should not have sent his to the Messenger.
We cannot call this poetry or philosophy,--it was not intended
obviously as burlesque.
Art thou the ship of heaven, laden with light,
From the eternal glory sent,
To feed the glowing suns, that might
In ceaseless radiance but for thee be spent?
_Epimanes_.--This is one of Poe's queerities. He takes the reader
back in supposition to the city of Antioch, in the year of the world
3830, and in that peculiar style, which after all must be called
_Poe-tical_, because it is just that and nothing else, he feigns the
enactment of a real scene of the times before your eyes. The actors
"come like shadows, so depart,"--but yet assume a most vivid reality
while they stay. We hope this powerful pen will be again similarly
employed.
"_To Helen_" is a pretty little gem, and from the same mine. It
shall glisten in the Patriot ere long.
In the _Poetry of Burns_, by JAMES F. OTIS, we see much of the fine
lyrical feeling which distinguishes the "_Readings with My Pencil_."
The subject, to be sure, is _au peu passe_--but we can hardly have
too much of BURNS. Mr. OTIS seems fully to understand and appreciate
him.
"_Change_"--pretty verses, but not poetry. The four last lines
should always be at least _as good_ as the rest. One judges of the
flavor of a fruit by the taste it _leaves_ in the mouth. Apply this
hint to these verses.
The next paper is an Address delivered before the Literary Institute
at Hampden Sidney College by Mr. STANTON, upon the importance of
"_Manual Labor Schools_," as connected with literary institutions.
It is an admirable production; and one of that class of papers which
go to make the "Messenger" what we have already designated it, the
only Literary Magazine now set up in this country deserving the
name.
An interesting description of a Natural Bridge in South America,
that the writer thinks more sublime than that in Virginia (which we
can hardly credit)--some dozen lines about Washington, good only for
filling in the spare nook they occupy, and an epigram without point,
next follow, and these are succeeded by another South American
sketch, describing a waterfall, of great beauty.
We cannot say much in favor of the "_Song of Lee's Legion_," nor
will we say much against it. We wish the poetry of the Messenger
were of a higher order. At present it does not hold equality with
the prose department, by any means.
"_Lionel Granby_" is written with much spirit, and the present (the
eleventh) chapter is one of the best. We will review this whole
story, at length, when completed. We think it equal to any of the
novellettes which it has now become so fashionable to publish in
this form: although that form, so full of interruptions as it is,
prevents that enjoyment in perusal which would be derived from the
possession of the work entire.
"_The Patriarch's Inheritance_."--Rich language, fine conception,
smooth versification. "T. H. S." improves.
_Americanisms:_ Captions.--We are too apt to bark before we are
bitten; and there was no especial need that "H." should growl at
BULWER, because he had made a very good terse word to express
_greedy_, from the Latin _avidus_, merely by way of vindicating our
people from old charges of a similar character.
Stanzas _To Randolph of Roanoke_, written soon after his death. We
cannot say that Hesperus has done enough in this effusion to induce
us to alter our verdict upon the poetry of the Messenger. As the
stanzas appear to be a matter of feeling with the author, we will
not enter into a discussion of the sentiments they contain. We would
advise him to try another kind of theme.
_Address_, by the Hon. HENRY ST. GEORGE TUCKER, before the Virginia
Historical and Philosophical Society--a most admirable paper. It was
delivered upon the distinguished author's taking the seat vacated by
the late Chief Justice MARSHALL, as President of the above named
Society; and is, mostly, a beautiful eulogy upon his illustrious
predecessor. It is just such a production as our knowledge of the
author would have led us to anticipate from him--alike creditable to
his head, stored with the lore of ages, and to his heart, full of
the kindest and most benevolent feelings.
Mr. MAXWELL'S Speech, before the Virginia Historical and
Philosophical Society, at its late annual meeting, another eloquent
eulogy upon the lamented MARSHALL. Virginia seems to be taking the
most serene delight in wreathing garlands around his tomb, and this
is one of the most verdant, and promises to be one of the most
enduring. It is short, but breathes eloquently forth a spirit which
will impress it upon the minds and memories of hearers and readers.
It is a high compliment to the MESSENGER, and a pregnant proof of
the estimation into which that journal has worthily grown that it is
made the medium of conveying such productions to posterity.
But the most valuable paper in the number is an Address on the
influence of the Federative Republican System of Government upon
Literature, and the Development of Character, by Professor Dew. We
have never perused a more able literary essay than this address. The
author traverses the whole field of literature, and draws from the
stores of antiquity lessons for the improvement of his own
countrymen in literature, art, and politics. We commend it to the
perusal of every American.
Then follow "_Critical Notices_." These are written by POE. They are
few and clever. The sledge-hammer and scimetar are laid aside, and
not one poor devil of an author is touched, except one "Mahmoud,"
who is let off with a box on the ear for plagiarism. The review of
"Georgia Scenes" has determined us to buy the book. The extracts are
irresistible.
The merit of this number consists in its solidity. The same amount
of reading, of a similar character, can certainly no where and in no
other form be furnished the reader on the same terms. It is our duty
no less than our interest to sustain 'the Messenger.'
{343} From the Norfolk Herald.
_Southern Literary Messenger_.--No. 4, Vol. 2, of this Journal is
just issued, and contains 16 pages of matter over and above its
usual quantity--that is, it contains 80 closely printed pages in
place of 64, its promised amount. A very slight inspection will
convince any one at all conversant in these matters that the present
number of the Messenger embraces as much reading matter (if not
considerably more) than four ordinary volumes, such for example, as
the volumes of Paul Ulric or Norman Leslie. Of the value of the
matter, or rather of its value in comparison with such ephemera as
these just mentioned, it is of course unnecessary to say much.
Popular opinion has placed the Messenger in a very enviable position
as regards the Literature of the South. We have no hesitation in
saying that it has elevated it immeasurably. To use the words of a
Northern contemporary "it has done more within the last six months
to refine the literary standard in this country than has been
accomplished before in the space of ten years."
The number before us commences with No. XI. (continued) of the
_Tripolitan Sketches_. We can add nothing to the public voice in
favor of this series of papers. They are excellent--and the one for
this month is equal to any in point of interest.
_The Classics_ is a most admirable paper--indeed one of the most
forcible, and strange to say, one of the most original defences of
Ancient Literature we have ever perused. We do not, however,
altogether like the sneers at Bulwer in the beginning of the
article. They should have been omitted, for they are not only
unjust, but they make against the opinions advanced. Bulwer is not
only a ripe scholar, but an advocate of classical acquirement.
_A Loan to the Messenger_, is beautiful--very beautiful--witness the
following--
Sonnets and serenades,
Sighs, glances, tears, and vows,
Gifts, tokens, souvenirs, parades,
And courtesies and bows.
A purpose, and a prayer:
The stars are in the sky--
He wonders how e'en hope should dare
To let him aim so high!
Still Hope allures and flatters,
And Doubt just makes him bold:
And so, with passion all in tatters,
The trembling tale is told!
_Readings with My Pencil, No. 2._ is a fine article in the manner of
Colton. A true sentiment well expressed is contained in the
concluding words: "I am one of those who are best when most
afflicted. While the weight hangs heavily, I keep time and measure,
like a clock; but remove it, and all the springs and wheels move
irregularly, and I am but a mere useless thing."
_Halley's Comet_----so, so.
_Epimanes_. By Edgar A. Poe--an historical tale in which, by
imaginary incidents, the character of Antiochus Epiphanes is vividly
depicted. It differs essentially from all the other tales of Mr.
Poe. Indeed no two of his articles bear more than a family
resemblance to one another. They all differ widely in matter, and
still more widely in manner. _Epimanes_ will convince all who read
it that Mr. P. is capable of even higher and better things.
_To Helen_--by the same author--a sonnet full of quiet grace--we
quote it in full.
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That, gently, o'er a perfum'd sea,
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the beauty of fair Greece
And the grandeur of old Rome.
Lo! in that little window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand;
The folded scroll within thy hand--
Ah! Psyche from the regions which
Are Holy land!
_On the Poetry of Burns. By James F. Otis_--a good essay on a
threadbare subject--one, too, but very lately handled in the
Messenger by Larry Lyle.
_Change_--has some fine thoughts, for example,
----My little playmate crew
Have slept to wake no more
Till Change itself shall cease to be,
And one successive scene
Of steadfastness immutable
Remain where Change hath been.
_Manual Labor Schools--By the Rev. E. F. Stanton_ is an essay which,
while we disagree with it in some of its results, will serve to
convince any one of the absolute importance of exercise to men of
sedentary habits or occupations.
_Song of Lee's Legion_--very spirited verses.
_Natural Bridge of Pandi_, and _Fall of Tequendama_ are both
acceptable articles.
_Lines on the Statue of Washington in the Capitol_, although a
little rugged in conclusion, are terse and forcible, and embody many
eloquent sentiments. We recognize one of our most distinguished
men--a fellow-townsman too--in the nerve and vigor of these verses.
The _Epigram_ below them is not worth much.
_The Patriarch's Inheritance_--majestic and powerful.
_Americanisms_--a very good article, and very true.
_To Randolph of Roanoke_. These lines have some fine points and the
versification is good--but we do not like them upon the whole.
_Judge Tucker's Address_, and _Mr. Maxwell's Speech_ before the
Virginia Historical and Philosophical society, we read with much
interest. Things of this nature are apt to be common place unless
the speakers are men of more than ordinary _tact_. There is no
deficiency, however, in the present instance. Mr. Maxwell's speech,
especially, is exceedingly well adapted to produce effect in
delivery--more particularly in such delivery as Mr. Maxwell's.
The _Address of Professor Dew_ is, beyond doubt, an article of great
ability, and must excite strong attention, wherever it is read. It
occupies full 20 pages--which, perhaps, could not have been better
occupied. He has fully proved that a Republic such as ours, is the
fairest field in the world for the growth and florescence of
Literature.
The _Critical Notices_ maintain their lofty reputation--but as they
will assuredly be read by all parties, and as we have already
exceeded our limits, we forbear to enter into detail. The Messenger
is no longer a query, it has earned a proud name. It demands
encouragement and _will have it_.
From the Cincinnati Mirror.
_The Southern Literary Messenger for February_, is before us. It is
made up, as usual, of a very interesting miscellany of original
articles. This magazine is rapidly winning a high estimate for the
literature of the South. Its pages contain as good articles as any
other Monthly in the country. Its correspondents are numerous and
able, and its editor wields the gray goose quill like one who knows
what he is about, and who has a right to. Commend us to the literary
notices of this Magazine for genius, spice and spirit. Those which
are commendatory, are supported by the real merit of the books
themselves; but woe seize on the luckless wights who feel the savage
skill with which the editor uses his tomahawk and scalping knife.
The fact is, the Messenger is not given to the mincing of
matter--what it has to say is said fearlessly.
From the Boston Galaxy.
_Smarting under Criticism_.--Fay can't bear criticism. The Southern
Literary Messenger cut him up sharply--and Fay has
retorted--evincing that the sting rankles. A pity.
{344} From the Natchez Christian Herald.
_The Southern Literary Messenger_.--This elegantly printed Magazine
is issued monthly from the classic press of T. W. White, Esq.
Richmond, Va., and has, during the year elapsed since its
commencement, won a commanding share of public approbation and
attention. It is truly a high-minded and liberal specimen of
southern literature, on which is deeply engraved the impressions of
Southern character and feeling. We admire the periodical more on
that account. It has a glow of enthusiasm, offering to the public,
if not the very best, yet the best productions it can command, with
a sort of chivalrous hospitality which cannot but remind one of the
gentlemanly southron at his fireside.
Among the contributions of original articles for this magazine we
cannot but notice the able historical papers entitled "Sketches of
the history and present condition of Tripoli, with some account of
the other Barbary states." These finely written papers have appeared
in ten consecutive numbers of the Literary Messenger, and, together
with "Extracts from my Mexican Journal," and "Extracts from an
unpublished abridgement of the History of Virginia," furnish a
valuable mass of the most useful information. The poetic writers for
the Messenger, as a whole, are not the favorites of the Muses, and
will no doubt be summoned to give an account of the cruel manner in
which they have distorted the pure English in giving utterance to
the spasmodic emotions of the _fytte_ which they may have imagined
was upon them like an inspiration.
There is one department which we admire--the editorial criticisms.
Racy, pungent, and reasonable, the editor writes as one disposed to
test the true elements of authorship, and to weigh pretentions with
achievements in the opposite scale. He has gently, yet with almost
too daring a hand, taken apart the poetical attire of two or three
ladies, whose writings have long been ranked among the better
specimens of American poetry. He almost dares to hint that Mrs.
Sigourney has, by forcing her short scraps of poetry into half the
newspapers in the land, gained a wider fame than many a better poet
who may have spent a life in maturing and polishing one poem which
appears to the world, as poems should, in a dignified volume. He
also makes the same charge of the "_frequency_ of her appeals to the
attention of the public" against Miss Gould, and institutes the
following comparison between the productions of the two authors:
'The faults which we have already pointed out, and some others which
we will point out hereafter, are but dust in the balance, when
weighed against her (Mrs. Sigourney's) very many and distinguished
excellences. Among those high qualities which give her beyond doubt,
a title to the sacred name of poet, are an acute sensibility to
natural loveliness--a quick and perfectly just conception of the
moral and physical sublime--a calm and unostentatious vigor of
thought--a mingled delicacy and strength of expression--and above
all, a mind nobly and exquisitely attuned to all the gentle
charities and lofty pieties of life.
'We have already pointed out the prevailing characteristics of Mrs.
Sigourney. In Miss Gould, we recognize, first, a disposition, like
that of Wordsworth, to seek beauty where it is not usually
sought--in the _homeliness_ (if we may be permitted the word,) and
in the most familiar realities of existence--secondly _abandon_ of
manner--thirdly a phraseology sparkling with antithesis, yet,
strange to say, perfectly simple and unaffected.
'Without Mrs. Sigourney's high reach of thought, Miss Gould
surpasses her rival in the mere vehicle of thought--expression.
"Words, words, words," are the true secret of her strength. _Words_
are her kingdom--and in the realm of language she rules with equal
despotism and _nonchalance_. Yet we do not mean to deny her
abilities of a higher order than any which a mere _logomachy_ can
imply. Her powers of imagination are great, and she has a faculty of
inestimable worth, when considered in relation to effect--the
faculty of holding ordinary ideas in so novel, and sometimes in so
fantastic a light, as to give them all the appearance, and much of
the value of originality. Miss Gould will, of course, be the
favorite with the multitude--Mrs. Sigourney with the few.'
American prose writers and novelists are led under this keen
critic's knife, as sheep to the slaughter. In the name of literature
we thank Mr. White for his criticisms, that must purify the
literary, as lightning does the natural atmosphere.
The Southern Literary Messenger is published on the first day of
every month, containing 64 pages in each number, printed on good
paper with a beautiful type. The terms are only _five dollars a
year_, to be paid in advance.
From the Raleigh Star.
_Southern Literary Messenger_.--"We have received the first number
of the 2d volume of this valuable periodical. This work has justly
acquired a reputation superior to that of any similar publication in
the country, on account both of its elegant typographical execution,
and the rich, valuable, and highly entertaining matter (mostly
original) it contains. In the neatness and beauty of its
typographical appearance, the number before us surpasses any of its
predecessors; and its contents fully sustain its high literary
character. We have no room at present for a particular notice of the
articles. We hope that every Southron, who feels an interest in that
sort of _internal improvement_ in the South, which respects the
mind, will patronize this work."
From the Columbia (Geo.) Times.
_Southern Literary Messenger_.--We have received, some time since,
and wished to have given an earlier notice to, this really excellent
journal; at whose copiousness, variety and goodness of matter, we
were surprized. In literary execution, we think it fully equal to
any Journal of its class, in all the North; and in quantity of
matter, it far exceeds, we believe, any of them. It is also on a
full equality with them, as to its typography.
We are struck, in the _Messenger_, with this good point: the extent
of literary intelligence which it affords, by an unusual number of
critical notices of new publications, is exceedingly well judged.
Its criticisms, too, are in a sounder and more discriminating taste,
than that which infects the Magazines of the North, turning them all
into the mere vehicles of puffery for each man's little set of
associates in scribbling--and partners in literary iniquity. The
Messenger has also this feature, almost indispensable for a
successful Magazine, its Editorial articles are decidedly the best
that it contains. They seem to be almost uniformly good.
We had intended to give some extracts from the Messenger: but the
claims of more pressing matters compel us to postpone them. It is
published in Richmond (Va.) by Thomas W. White, contains 64 large
pages, in double columns, with small type; and is published monthly,
at $5 per annum.
From the National Gazette.
The number of the Southern Literary Messenger for March, has just
made its appearance, having been delayed in order to insert an
excellent address delivered by Professor Dew, of William and Mary
College, upon the influence of the federative republican system of
government upon literature and the developement of character. There
are various articles which may be read with equal pleasure and
profit. A short one upon "Americanisms" alludes to the word _avid_,
employed by Bulwer in his last production, the hero of which is said
to have been avid of personal power: and, the writer thinks it is
the coinage of the novelist, as he says he can find no authority for
it even in the latest dictionaries, nor in any author of repute. It
does not, however, proceed from Mr. Bulwer's mint. As far as we are
aware, Sir Egerton Brydges--who though not a first rate, is no mean
member of the scribbling confraternity--is the {345} first who has
employed it. His Autobiography, published a few years ago, and which
by the way, ought to have been re-published here as one of the most
interesting and singular works of the time, contains it often enough
to prove some feeling towards it in the author's breast akin to that
of paternal affection.
As the review of the book which appeared in the Edinburgh Quarterly,
was attributed to Bulwer, it is very probable that he fell in love
with it when engaged in the task of criticism--a moment when, it
ought to be inferred he was particularly alive to the correctness or
incorrectness of any intrusion upon the premises of the King's
English. The word is unquestionably a good and expressive one, and
has quite as much inherent right to be incorporated with our
language as any other Latin excrescence. It is only "Hebrew roots,"
we are informed by high authority, that "flourish most in barren
ground." No imputation, therefore, rests upon the soil from which
this sprang. Upon the subject of coining words, as upon so many
others, old Flaccus has spoken best:
Licuit, semperque licebit,
Signatum presente notâ procudere nomen.
From the North Carolina Standard.
_The Southern Literary Messenger_.--We have received the March No.
of this valuable monthly. It is as rich in matter, and its pieces
are as varied and interesting as any previous number; and we have
before said, that but few periodicals in the Union, and none _South_
of the Potomac, are superior to it.
From the Washington Sun.
_Southern Literary Messenger_.--We have received the _Southern
Literary Messenger_ for February. Its contents are rich, varied and
interesting. The critiques are particularly good, and evidence a
mind feelingly alive to the literary reputation of our country. The
collection of autographs will be examined with much interest. We can
safely recommend this periodical to the patronage of the public.
From the Tuscaloosa Flag of the Union.
_Southern Literary Messenger_.--We have received the last number of
this beautiful and valuable Magazine, and take great pleasure in
expressing the delight with which we have perused its contents. It
is certainly the best Magazine now published in the Union, and is an
honor to Southern literature and talent. The present number like its
predecessors, is replete with 'pearls, and gems, and flowers,' and
fully sustains the elevated character of the work. The Critical
Notices are peculiarly meritorious and sensible. The Messenger is
now under the editorial guidance of Edgar A. Poe, a gentleman highly
distinguished for his literary taste and talent.
From the Fincastle Democrat.
_Southern Literary Messenger_.--We have been furnished, by the
worthy publisher, with the February number of this "best of American
periodicals," as it is said to be by a distinguished Northern
contemporary. This number is pronounced, in all of the many notices
which we have seen, to be the best of the fifteen that have been
published; of this we are not competent to decide, not having been
favored with the previous numbers; but, be it as it may, we
cheerfully coincide in the annexed sentiment of the editor of the
Pennsylvanian:--"If it is not well supported by our brethren of the
South, no faith is to be placed in their sectional feeling; _it is
vox et præterea nihil_."
From the U. S. Gazette.
The Southern Literary Messenger for March, full of good matter, is
at hand--delayed with a view of giving the whole of Professor Dew's
address. We miss the racy and condemnatory criticism that
distinguishes the work, and which has been favorable to the
production of good books. We who publish no volumes, look with
complacency upon severe criticism.
From the Richmond Compiler.
The writer of the following judicious article, has performed a task
for which he is entitled to our thanks. A want of time and a lack of
the proper talent for criticism, have prevented us from giving our
opinion at length upon the last number of the Messenger; and this
sketch saves us the labor. We accord with most of the writer's
positions, and are pleased with the good sense, moderation and
delicacy with which he has discharged the office of censor.
Criticism, to be useful, must be just and impartial. This is both.
"_The Southern Literary Messenger_."--Virginia has cause of
exultation that her chief literary periodical bearing the above
title, has already attained a respectable rank in the United States,
and has won "golden opinions" from some of the highest dignitaries
in the empire of criticism. Whilst I do not think that the February
number which has just appeared, is superior to all its predecessors,
yet it may be considered a fair specimen of the general ability with
which the work is conducted. Its contents are copious--various in
their style and character, and, in candor be it spoken, of very
unequal merit. Whilst some articles are highly interesting--the
readers of the Messenger would have lost but little, if others had
been omitted. This remark is not made in the spirit of fault
finding; the Messenger has always _enough_ in its pages to admire,
without coveting an indiscriminate and unqualified praise of all
which it contains.
The very first article in the February number, on the importance of
_Selection in Reading_, though short, contains much matter for grave
reflection. The writer states, and states truly, that if a man has
forty years to employ in reading, and reads fifty pages a day, he
will only be able in that period of time, to accomplish about
_sixteen hundred_ volumes of 500 pages each. Highly favored as such
a man would be, beyond the mass of his fellow creatures, how
insignificant the number of volumes read by him, compared with the
millions which fill the libraries of the world, and the thousands
and tens of thousand that continually drop from the press. How
vastly important is it, therefore, to be well directed in the choice
of books!--and I may add, how great is the responsibility of those
whose province it is so to direct; to whom the task has been
confided of selecting our literary food, and of separating what is
healthful and nutritious from what is poisonous and hurtful. A well
established magazine, or periodical, undoubtedly exercises great
influence on the literary taste, as well as the literary morality of
the circle of its readers. Hence good taste, good feeling--just
discrimination and high rectitude, are essential qualities in the
conduction of such a work. That Mr. Poe, the reputed editor of the
Messenger, is a gentleman of brilliant genius and endowments, is a
truth which I believe, will not be controverted by a large majority
of its readers. For one, however, I confess, that there are
occasionally manifested some errors of judgment--or faults in
taste--or whatever they may be called, which I should be glad to see
corrected. I do not think, for example, that such an article as "the
Duc De L'Omelette," in the number under consideration, ought to have
appeared. That kind of writing, I know, may plead high precedents in
its favor; but that it is calculated to produce effects permanently
injurious to sound morals, I think will not be doubted by those who
reflect seriously upon the subject. Mr. Poe is too fond of the
wild--unnatural and horrible! Why will he not permit his fine genius
to soar into purer, brighter, and happier regions? Why will he not
disenthral himself from the spells of German enchantment and
supernatural imagery? There is room enough for the exercise of the
highest powers, upon the multiform relations of human life, without
descending into the dark mysterious and unutterable creations of
licentious fancy. When Mr. Poe passes from the region of shadows,
into the plain practical dissecting room of criticism, he manifests
great dexterity and power. He exposes the imbecility and rottenness
of our _ad captandum_ popular literature, with the hand of a master.
The public I believe was much delighted with the admirable scalping
of "Norman Leslie," in the December number, and likewise of Mr.
Simms' "Partisan," in the number for January; and it will be no less
pleased at the caustic severity with which the puerile abortion of
"Paul Ulric" is exposed in the present number.--These miserable
attempts at fiction, will bring all fictitious writing into utter
disrepute, unless indeed the stern rebukes which shall come from our
chairs of criticism, shall rectify the public taste, and preserve
the purity of public feeling.
It would be tedious to pronounce upon the merits and demerits of the
several articles in the number under review. Dr. Greenhow's
continuation of the Tripolitan Sketches is worthy of his calm and
philosophical pen. The re-appearance of "Nugator" in the pages of
the Messenger--after a long interval of silence--will be hailed by
its readers with great pleasure; his "Castellanus" is excellent. The
article on "Liberian Literature," will attract much attention. It
presents a very vivid picture of the wonderful progress which that
colony has made in most of the arts, and in many of the refinements
of life. Lionel Granby--the sketch of the lamented Cushing,--and the
sketches of Lake Superior, have each their peculiar merits, and will
be read with interest; of the _Critical Notices_, the sarcastic
power of the review of Paul Ulric, has been already spoken of. The
Review of "Rienzi," too, the last novel of Bulwer, is written in Mr.
Poe's best style,--but I must be permitted to dissent _toto cælo_
from his opinion, that the author of that work is unsurpassed as a
novelist by any writer living or dead.--There is no disputing about
tastes, but according to my poor judgment, a single work might be
selected from among the voluminous labors of Walter Scott, worth all
that Bulwer has ever written, or ever will write--and this I {346}
believe will be the impartial verdict of posterity, at least so long
as unaffected simplicity and the true moral sublime, are preferred
to the gaudy and meretricious coloring which perverted genius throws
around its creations. The Eulogy on the great and good Marshall, is
an elaborate and elegant performance. It is a powerful, yet familiar
sketch of the principal features in the life and character of that
incomparable man. The notices of Emilia Harrington; Lieutenant
Slidell's work, the _American in England_; _Conti_; the _Noble Deeds
of Women_; of _Roget's Physiology_, (one of the Bridgewater
Treatises) and of Mathew Carey's _Auto-Biography_--are all very
spirited articles, and are greatly superior to papers of the same
description in the very best monthly periodicals of our country. The
last article "Autography" is not exactly to my taste, though there
are doubtless many who would find in it food for merriment. The
writer of "Readings with My Pencil, No. 1,"--contests the generally
received maxim of Horace, that poets are born such; in other words,
he denies that there is an "original, inherent organization" of the
mind which leads to the "high Heaven of invention," or which,
according to the phrenologists, confers the faculty of "ideality."
It would require too much space to prove that Horace was right, and
that his assailant is altogether wrong. Mr. J. F. O. is greatly
behind the philosophy of the age. It is too late in the day to prove
that Shakespeare and Byron were created exactly equal with the
common mass of mankind, and that _circumstances_ made them superior.
Circumstances may excite and _develope_ mental power, but cannot
create it. Napoleon, although not born Emperor of the French, was
originally endowed with that great capacity which fitted him to
tread the paths of military glory and to cut out his way to supreme
power. Ordinary mortals could not have achieved what he did, with
circumstances equally favorable, or with an education far superior.
It is gratifying to learn that the "Messenger" is still extending
the circle of its readers. The wonder is,--supposing that we have
some love of country left on this side of the Potomac,--that its
patronage is not overflowing. It is the only respectable periodical,
I believe, south of that river; and with due encouragement, it might
not only become a potent reformer of literary taste, but the vehicle
of grave and solid instruction upon subjects deeply interesting to
the southern country. That with all our never-ending professions of
patriotism, however, there exists a vast deal more of selfishness
than public spirit, even in our sunny clime, is a lamentable
truth,--nor for one, am I sufficiently sanguine to unite with the
editor of the Messenger, in the answer which he gives to his own
interrogatory in the following eloquent passage, extracted from the
Review of "Conti;"--"How long shall mind succumb to the grossest
materiality? How long shall the veriest vermin of the earth who
crawl around the altar of Mammon be more esteemed of men, than they,
the gifted ministers to those exalted emotions which link us with
the mysteries of Heaven? To our own query we may venture a reply.
Not long--not long will such rank injustice be committed, or
permitted. A spirit is already abroad at war with it. And in every
billow of the unceasing sea of change--and in every breath, however
gentle, of the wide atmosphere of revolution encircling us, is that
spirit steadily, yet irresistibly at work." Alas! for this sea of
change and this atmosphere of revolution which are fast surrounding
us! For my part, I fear that all other distinctions but _wealth_ and
_power_ are about to be annihilated. What do we behold indeed in
society, but one universal struggle to acquire both? Moral and
intellectual worth are but lightly esteemed in comparison with the
possession of that sordid dross, which every brainless upstart or
every corrupt adventurer may acquire.
Though the Muses occupy a small space in the present number of the
Messenger, their claims are not to be disregarded. Miss Draper's
"Lay of Ruin," and Mr. Flint's "Living Alone" have both decided
merit. The "Ballad" is written by one who can evidently write much
better, if he chooses; and there is a deep poetical inspiration
about Mr. Poe's "Valley Nis," which would be more attractive if his
verses were smoother, and his subject matter less obscure and
unintelligible. Mr. Poe will not consent to abide with ordinary
mortals.
Upon the whole, the last number of the Messenger is one of decided
merit.
X. Y. Z.
From the Richmond Compiler.
_The Southern Literary Messenger_. Our critical correspondent of the
22d, is not borne out, in some of his remarks, by public opinion. We
allude to his observations on the _Duc de L'Omelette_, and Mr. Poe's
_Autography_. These articles are eliciting the highest praise from
the highest quarters. Of the Duc de L'Omelette, the Baltimore
American, (a paper of the first authority and hitherto opposed to
Mr. P.) says: "The Duc de L'Omelette, by Edgar A. Poe, is one of
those light, spirited, fantastic inventions, of which we have had
specimens before in the Messenger, betokening a fertility of
imagination, and power of execution, that would, under a sustained
effort, produce creations of an enduring character." The Petersburg
Constellation copies the entire "_Autography_," with high
commendations, and of the Duc de L'Omelette, says, "of the lighter
contributions, of the diamonds which sparkle beside the more sombre
gems, commend us, thou spirit of eccentricity! to our favorite,
Edgar A. Poe's '_Duc de L'Omelette_,' the best thing of the kind we
ever have, or ever expect to read." These opinions seem to be
universal. In justice to Mr. Poe, and as an offsett to the remarks
of our correspondent, we extract the following notice of the
February number from the National Intelligencer.
From the National Intelligencer.
_The Southern Literary Messenger_. The February No. of this
beautiful and interesting periodical has reached us, and it gives us
pleasure to learn that it will be distributed to a greater number of
subscribers than any previous one has been. This is creditable to
the taste of the people, to the industry of the proprietor, the
talents of its editor and contributors, and particularly to the
South, to whom Mr. White especially looks for the support of his
enterprise. The following notice of the contents of the present
number is from a friend of literary taste and discrimination:
The present number is uncommonly rich. It opens with some valuable
hints upon the necessity of selection in reading, a capital
discourse of a column and a half upon the startling text, "if you
have forty years to employ in reading, and can read fifty pages a
day, you will be able in those forty years to accomplish only about
_sixteen hundred volumes_, of 500 pages each." This consideration,
ably put by the editor, is an antidote, one would think, to
"smattering." The next is No. X. of a very interesting series of
Historical sketches of Barbary States. This number brings the
history of Algiers down to the close of Charles Xth's reign. Taken
together, these papers are very valuable, and will form a useful
reference hereafter. It is such papers as these that make a
periodical worth keeping. The next prose article is amusing. It is a
translation from the French, and gives a most humorous account of "a
Cousin of the Married," a man who acquired that quaint _sobriquet_
by attending all weddings, where there was a large company assembled
and making himself useful by proposing sentiments, reciting
_epithalamia_, and singing songs appropriate to those happy
occasions, until he was discovered by an aristocratic groom, and
compelled to vacate the premises. The paper contains a similar
narrative of "a Cousin of the Dead," who, having been advised to
ride for his health, and being too poor, used to go to all funerals
as a mourner, and thus obtained the medicine prescribed by his
physician, with no other cost than a few crocodile tears. Then comes
one of that eccentric writer, _Edgar A. Poe's_, characteristic
productions, "_The Duc de L'Omelette_," which is one of the best
things of the kind we have ever read. _Mr. Poe_ has great powers,
and every line _tells_ in all he writes. He is no spinner-out of
long yarns, but chooses his subject, whimsically, perhaps, yet
originally, and treats it in a manner peculiarly his own. "Rustic
Courtship in New England" has not the verisimilitude which is
necessary to entitle it to the only praise that such sketches
usually obtain; unless they were well done, it were always better
that Yankee stories be not done at all. We hate to be over-critical,
but would recommend to the "_Octogenarian_" to take the veritable
_Jack Downing_ or _John Beedle_, as his models, before he writes
again. Those inimitable writers have well-nigh, if not quite,
exhausted the subject of New England Courtship, and (we speak "as
one having authority, and not as the scribes," by which we mean the
critics) the writer before us has done but very indifferently what
they have done so well, as to gain universal applause. "Palæstine"
is a useful article, containing geographical, topographical, and
other statistical facts in the history of that interesting county,
well put together, and valuable as a reference.
We were much entertained with "_Nugator's_" humorous sketches of the
castle-building farmer. No periodical in the country, numbers one
among its contributors more racy than "Nugator." The article on
"Liberian Literature" gives the reader a very flattering idea of the
condition of that colony. The "Biographical Sketch" of _President
Cushing_, of Hampden Sidney College, we read with much pleasure. We
would recommend a series of similar sketches, from the same hand:
nothing can give a periodical of this kind more solid value than
such tributes to departed worth. Sketches of "Lake
Superior"--beautiful! beautiful! We feel inclined to follow the
track so picturesquely described by _Mr. Woolsey_, and make a
pilgrimage to the wild and woody scenery of the Great Lake. This is
a continuous series of letters, and we shall hail the coming numbers
with much pleasure. The last prose _contribution_ in the book is
entitled "Readings with my Pencil," being a series of paraphrases of
different passages, taken at random, from various authors. We like
this plan, and think well of the performance thus far. It is to be
continued.
The poetical department is not so rich as that in former numbers.
_Miss Draper's_ "Lay of Ruin" is irregular in the versification, and
shows the fair writer's forte to be in a different style altogether.
We wish she would give us something more like that gem of the
December number of the Messenger, "Halley's Comet in 1760." _Mr.
Flint's_ "Living Alone," capital; and _Mr. Poe's_ "Valley Nis,"
characteristically wild, yet sweetly soft and smooth in measure as
in mood. The "Lines" on page 166 do no credit to the Messenger; they
should have been dropped into the fire as soon as the first stanza
was read by the editor; and if he had gotten to the eleventh, he
should have sent the MS. to the Museum as a curiosity. Look! The
Bard addresses the Mississippi!
"'Tis not clearness--'tis not brightness
Such as dwell in mountain brooks--
'Tis thy big, big boiling torrent--
'Tis thy wild and angry looks."
This is altogether too bad. _Eliza's_ Stanzas to "Greece" are very
beautiful. She writes from _Maine_, and, with care and cultivation,
will, by and by, do something worthy of the name to which she makes
aspiration. So much for the poetry of the {347} number; which
neither in quantity or quality is equal to the last three or four.
In the "Editorial" department, we recognise the powerful
discrimination of _Mr. Poe_. The dissection of "Paul Ulric," though
well deserved, is perfectly savage. _Morris Mattson, Esq._ will
hardly write again. This article will as surely kill him as one not
half so scalpingly written did poor _Keats_, in the London
Quarterly. The notice of _Lieutenant Slidell's_ "American in
England" we were glad to see. It is a fair offset to the coxcombical
article (probably written by _Norman Leslie Fay_) which lately
appeared in the New York Mirror, in reference to our countryman's
really agreeable work. _Bulwer's_ "Rienzi" is ably reviewed, and in
a style to beget in him who reads it a strong desire to possess
himself immediately of the book itself. There is also an interesting
notice of _Matthew Carey's_ Autobiography, and two or three other
works lately published.
Under this head, there is, in the number before us, the best sketch
of the character and life of _Chief Justice Marshall_ we have as yet
seen. This alone would make a volume of the Messenger valuable
beyond the terms of subscription. It purports to be a Review of
_Story's_, _Binney's_, and _Snowden's_ Eulogies upon that
distinguished jurist, while, in reality, it is a rich and pregnant
Biography of "The Expounder of the Constitution."
The number closes with a most amusing paper containing twenty-five
admirably executed _fac simile_ autographs of some of the most
distinguished of our literati. The _equivoque_ of _Mr. Joseph A. B.
C. D. E. F. G._ &c. _Miller_ is admirably kept up, and the whimsical
character of the pretended letters to which the signatures are
attached is well preserved. Of almost all the autographs we can
speak on our own authority, and are able to pronounce them capital.
Upon the whole, the number before us (entirely original) may be set
down as one of the very best that has yet been issued.
From the Pennsylvanian.
The Southern Literary Messenger, published in Richmond, maintains
its high character. The March number, however, which has just come
to hand, would have been the better had the solid articles been
relieved, as in the previous numbers, by a greater variety of
contributions of a lighter cast. It is comparatively heavy, a fault
which should be carefully avoided in a magazine intended for all
sorts of readers. Sinning in the opposite direction would be much
more excusable.
From the Georgetown Metropolitan.
We have taken time to go through the last number of the Southern
Literary Messenger, and find it, with some slight exceptions, in the
articles of its correspondents, worthy, in every respect, of the
high reputation of the series. The editorial articles are vigorous
and original, as usual, and there are papers not easily to be
surpassed in any periodical. Such a one is that on the Classics,
which is not the saucy and flippant thing we were half afraid to
find it, but an essay of great wisdom, learning, and strength,--and
what we generally see combined with it,--playfulness of mind.
Another such article is the splendid address prepared by Professor
Dew, for delivery before the Historical and Philosophical Society of
Virginia. Its eloquence, vast compass, and subtlety of thought, will
amply and richly repay the attention.
We have time to-day for but a brief notice of the other articles.
Sketches of the Barbary States,--continues the description of the
French conquest, with the same clearness and ability which we have
before frequently commended.
"Epimanes" displays a rich, but extravagant fancy.
"To Helen," is pretty and classic, from the same hand--we will give
it in our next.
"Change" has many lines in it, of sweet, and what we like best, of
thoughtful poetry; we will publish it in our next.
"Manual Labor Schools."--Another "address," but practical and
sensible. We suggest, with deference, to the very able editor of the
Southern Literary Messenger, that the less frequently he admits
articles of this description into his columns, the better. Except in
rare circumstances, such for example as Professor Dew's, we think
they are unfit for a magazine,--the subject of the present one, is,
however, of great importance. "Georgia Scenes" makes a capital
article, and has excited, in our mind, a great curiosity to see the
book.
From the Georgetown Metropolitan.
The Southern Literary Messenger, for the present month, is unusually
rich. The articles evince depth, talent and taste, and there is all
the eastern vigor and maturity of learning, with all the southern
spirit of imagination. It is, in fact, nobly edited and supported,
well worthy of being considered the representative and organ of
Southern talent.
Of the articles in the present number, the general list as may be
seen by looking at the advertisement in another column, is very
attractive, and a perusal will not "unbeseem the promise." We have
not time to go over each as we would wish; but the historical sketch
of Algiers, which is brought down to the embarkation of the French
expedition, will command attention. "A _Lay of Ruin_," by Miss
Draper, has some lines of exquisite poetry, and Edgar A. Poe's
Sketch "The Duc de L'Omelette," is the best thing of the kind we
have seen from him yet. "Living Alone" by Timothy Flint, greatly
interested us. That this patriarch of American literature, in his
green and fresh old age, can write verses so full of the amaranthine
vigor of youth, is a delightful picture. We are sorry we cannot find
room for these pleasant verses. Among other attractions of the
number, we come upon a Drinking Song, by Major Noah, in which the
most agreeable and witty of editors, proves himself one of the most
moral and fascinating of lyrists. It is an anacreontic of the right
stamp, and does its author more credit than all the anti-Van Buren
articles he ever penned.
The Critical Notices are better by far, than those in any other
magazine in the country. Paul Ulric is too small game for the
tremendous demolition he has received--a club of iron has been used
to smash a fly. The article on Judge Marshall is an able and
faithful epitome of that great jurist's character; in fact, the best
which the press has yet given to the public. We agree with all the
other critiques except that of Bulwer's Rienzi. The most
extraordinary article in the book and the one which will excite most
attention, is its tail piece, in which an American edition of
Frazer's celebrated Miller hoax has been played off on the American
Literati with great success--and better than all, an accurate fac
simile of each autograph given along with it.
This article is extremely amusing, and will excite more attention
than probably any thing of the kind yet published in an American
periodical. It is quite new in this part of the world.
We commend this excellent magazine to our readers, as in a high
degree deserving of encouragement, and as one which will reward it.
From the Baltimore American.
The _Southern Literary Messenger_ for February is, we think, the
best of the fifteen numbers that have been published. Most of its
articles, prose and verse, are of good Magazine quality, sprightly
and diversified. The first, on "Selection in Reading," contains in a
brief space a useful lesson in these book-abounding times, when many
people take whatever publishers please to give them, or surrender
their right of selection to the self-complacent and shallow editors
of cheap "Libraries." Of the interesting "Sketches of the History
and present condition of Tripoli, with some account of the other
Barbary States," we have here No. 10, which concludes with the
preparations of the attack on Algiers by the French in 1830. "The
Cousin of the Married" and the "Cousin of the Dead" are two capital
comic pictures from the French. "The Duc de L'Omelette, by Edgar A.
Poe" is one of those light, spirited, fantastic inventions, of which
we have had specimens before in the Messenger, betokening a
fertility of imagination and power of execution, that with
discipline could, under a sustained effort, produce creations of an
enduring character. "Rustic Courtship in New England" is of a class
that should not get higher than the first page of a country
newspaper,--we mean no disrespect to any of our
"cotemporaries,"--for it has no literary capabilities.
The best and also the largest portion of the present number of the
Messenger is the department of critical notices of books. These are
the work of a vigorous, sportive, keen pen, that, whether you
approve the judgments or not it records, takes captive your
attention by the spirit with which it moves. The number ends with
the amusing Miller correspondence, of which we have already spoken.
From the Petersburg Constellation.
We briefly announced a few days ago, the receipt of the February
number of the _Southern Literary Messenger_. It is one of the
richest and raciest numbers of that Journal yet issued from the
Press. The judicious introductory article on the necessity of select
reading; the continuation of the Historical sketches of the Barbary
States; Palæstine; the Biographical notice of the late Professor
Cushing of Hampden Sidney College; the Review of the Eulogies on,
and Reminiscenses of the late Chief Justice Marshall, are among the
solid treasures of the Messenger of this month. Sketches of Lake
Superior in a series of Letters which are "_to be continued_;" the
Cousin of the Married and the Cousin of the Dead, a translation from
the French; Lionel Granby, Chapter 8; the Castle Builder turned
Farmer, and Rustic Courtship in New England, have each their
beauties, excellences and peculiarities. Of the lighter
contributions, of the diamonds which sparkle beside the more sombre
gems, commend us, thou spirit of eccentricity! forever and a day to
our favorite Edgar A. Poe's _Duc de L'Omelette_--the best thing of
the kind we ever have or ever expect to read. The idea of "dying of
an Ortolan;" the waking up in the palace of Pluto; of that
mysterious chain of "blood red metal" hung "_ parmi les nues_," at
the nether extremity of which was attached a "cresset," pouring
forth a light more "intense, still and terrible" than "Persia ever
worshipped, Gheber imagined, or Mussulman dreamed of;" the paintings
and statuary of that mysterious hall, whose solitary uncurtained
window looked upon blazing Tartarus, and whose ceiling was lost in a
mass of "fiery-colored clouds;" the _nonchalance_ of the _Duc_ in
challenging "His Majesty" to a _pass_ with the _points_; his
imperturbable, self-confident assurance during the playing of a game
of _ecarté_; his adroitness in slipping a card while his Infernal
Highness "took wine" (a trick which won the _Duc_ his game by the
by,) and finally his _characteristic_ compliment to the Deity of the
Place of "que s'il n'etait pas de L'Omelette, il n'aurait point
d'objection d'etre le Diable," are conceptions which for peculiar
eccentricity and graphic quaintness, are perfectly inimitable. Of
the criticisms, the most are good; that on Mr. Morris Mattson's
novel of "Paul Ulric," like a former criticism from the same pen on
Fay's "Norman Leslie" is a literal "flaying alive!" a carving up
into "ten thousand atoms!" a complete literary annihilation! If Mr.
Morris {348} Mattson is either courageous or wise, he will turn upon
his merciless assailant as Byron turned upon Jeffrey, and prove that
he can not only do better things, but that he deserves more lenient
usage! Last but not by far the least in interest, is Mr. Joseph A.
Q. Z. Miller's "Autography." We copy the whole article as a literary
treat which we should wrong their tastes did we suppose for a moment
would not be as highly appreciated by each and all of our readers,
as it is by ourself.
From the Baltimore Chronicle.
_The Southern Literary Messenger_. The last number of this
periodical is, perhaps the best that has appeared, and shows that
the favor with which its predecessors have been received has only
added stimulus to the exertions of its enterprising proprietor and
very able Editor. The number consists of 70 pages, all of which are
taken up with original matter. The prose articles are generally of
high merit--but the poetry of the present number is inferior to that
of some of the preceding. The critical notices are written in a
nervous style and with great impartiality and independence. The
Editor seems to have borne in mind the maxim of the greatest of
reviewers--"the judge is condemned when the guilty is acquitted."
The application of this severe rule to all criticism would impart
greater value to just commendation and render the censure of the
press more formidable to brainless pretenders. The public judgment
is constantly deluded and misled by indiscriminate puffing and
unmerited praise. The present Editor of the Messenger is in no
danger of doing violence to his feelings in this respect.
From the Boston Mercantile Journal.
_The Southern Literary Messenger_.--This is a periodical which it is
probably well known to many of our readers, was established a little
more than a year since, in Richmond, Va. It is issued in monthly
numbers of about seventy pages each, and is devoted to every
department of Literature and the Fine Arts. Containing much matter
of a brilliant and superior order, evidently the productions of
accomplished scholars and Belles Lettres writers, with able and
discriminating critical notices of the principal publications on
this side the Atlantic, the Southern Literary Messenger is equal in
interest and excellence to any Monthly Periodical in the country,
and we are glad to learn from the February number that it has
already received extensive and solid patronage.
From the Norfolk Beacon.
_The Southern Literary Messenger_ for February appears in all its
freshness. The sketches of the history of the Barbary States
contained in the present number include the period of the equipment
and departure of the French fleet destined for the attack on
Algiers. The account of the diplomatic movements of England and
France on the subject of the proposed capture is novel and
instructive. The tribute to the memory of Cushing we hail with
pleasure. If it be not a faultless production, it is written in a
right spirit. The review of Paul Ulric is written with great freedom
and unusual severity. The reviewer wields a formidable weapon. The
article on Judge Marshall groups within a small compass much
valuable and interesting intelligence respecting the late Chief
Justice. It is not executed, however in a workmanlike manner. The
ungenerous allusion to Chapman Johnson was wholly gratuitous. There
is also a seasoning of federal politics, not referring to long past
times, that ought to have been spared us. But the article on
Autography is a treat of no common order. We have seen nothing of
the kind before in an American periodical. It must have cost Mr.
White a great deal of labor and expense in its typographical
execution. What has become of the excellent series of essays on the
sexes, ascribed to the pen of a distinguished professor of Wm. &
Mary?
From the Baltimore American.
The publication of the Southern Literary Messenger, for March, was
delayed beyond the usual time, for the purpose of inserting in it an
Address by Professor Dew, of Wm. and Mary College, prepared to be
delivered before the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society.
The first copy sent to us having miscarried, we have been further
disappointed in the receipt of this number, which has just now
reached us. As yet we have read but one article in it, but that is
one of such merit on so interesting a subject, that it were nearly
sufficient alone to give value to the number, without the aid of Mr.
Dew's Address, to which we shall hereafter refer, doubting not to
find it of high excellence, as his reputation leads us to
anticipate.
The article to which we allude is on 'Manual Labor Schools, and
their importance as connected with literary institutions.' The
introduction of manual labor as a regular department of the school
exercises is, we believe, one of the greatest improvements of the
age, in the most important branch of human endeavor--the _culture_
of man. We make no apology for frequently recurring to this subject.
As reasonable would it be to expect apologies from the municipal
authorities for directing their efforts daily, and with unrelaxed
watchfulness, to the keeping pure and healthy the atmosphere of a
city. The culture or education of human beings is a subject of
unsurpassed moment and of never ceasing interest. The principles
upon which this culture is to be conducted, and the modes of
applying them, involve the well being of communities and nations. We
are glad therefore, to perceive, that in our new and promising race
of literary monthlies, education receives a large share of
attention.
The paper before us in the Messenger, prepared by the Rev. Mr.
Stanton, is peculiarly interesting, because it embodies a quantity
of experience of the results produced by manual labor--results,
which though derived from comparatively few sources, the number of
institutions where the system has been introduced being as yet
small--are of the most emphatic and convincing character. They
already suffice to prove that the connexion of manual labor
establishments with literary institutions, is conducive not only in
the highest degree to health, but to morals, and to intellectual
proficiency. Moreover--and this is a point of incalculable
importance--in some of these institutions, a _majority_ of the
students have by their labor diminished their expenses about one
half; a portion of them have defrayed the whole of their expenses,
and a few have more than defrayed them--enjoying at the same time
better health, and making more rapid advances in knowledge than
usual. The distinct testimony of the pupils as well as
superintendents, is adduced to prove the beneficial effects upon
body and mind, of three hours agricultural or mechanical labor every
day. One of these effects is described in the following language.
"This system is calculated to make men hardy, enterprising, and
independent; and to wake up within them a spirit perseveringly to
do, and endure, and dare."
From the New Yorker.
_The Southern Literary Messenger_.--The February No. of this
periodical is before us--rich in typographical beauty as ever, but
scarcely so fortunate as in some former instances in the character
of its original contributions. Such at least is our judgment; and
yet of some twenty articles the greater number will be perused with
decided satisfaction. Of these, No. X. of the "_Sketches of the
History of Tripoli_" and other Barbary States, affords an
interesting account of the series of outrages on the part of the
Algerine Regency which provoked the entire overthrow of that
infamous banditti and the subjugation of the country. [We take
occasion to say here that we trust France will _never_ restore the
Algerine territory to the sway of the barbarian and infidel, but
hold it at the expense, if need be, of a Continental War.]
"_The Cousin of the Married and the Cousin of the Dead_" is a most
striking translation, which we propose to copy.
"_Living Alone_," by Timothy Flint, forms an exception to the usual
character of the poetry of the Messenger, which we do not greatly
affect. Mr. Flint, however, writes to be read--and is rarely
disappointed or disappoints his readers.
There are some amusing pictures of Virginia rural life and domestic
economy in the papers entitled "Lionel Granby" and "Castellanus;"
and the biographical sketch of the late President Cushing, of
Hampden Sidney College, indicates a just State pride properly
directed. The "Sketches of Lake Superior" are alike creditable to
the writer and the Magazine. "Greece" forms the inspiration of some
graceful lines. But the 'great feature' of this No. is an Editorial
critique on Mr. Morris Mattson's novel of "Paul Ulric," which is
tomahawked and scalped after the manner of a Winnebago. If any young
gentleman shall find himself irresistibly impelled to perpetrate a
novel, and all milder remedies prove unavailing, we earnestly advise
him to read this criticism. We are not sufficiently hard hearted to
recommend its perusal to any one else.
The concluding paper will commend itself to the attention of the
rational curious. It embraces the autographs, quaintly introduced
and oddly accompanied, of twenty-four of the most distinguished
literary personages of our country--Mrs. Sigourney, Miss Leslie,
Miss Sedgwick, Messrs. Washington Irving, Fitz Greene Halleck,
Timothy Flint, J. K. Paulding, J. Fenimore Cooper, Robert Walsh,
Edward Everett, J. Q. Adams, Dr. Channing, &c. &c. We note this as
an evidence of the energy no less than the good taste of the
publisher, and as an earnest of his determination to spare no pains
or expense in rendering the work acceptable to its patrons.
From the New York Evening Star.
The Southern Literary Messenger, for March, has been received, and a
particularly good number it is. There is one point in which this
Messenger stands pre-eminent, and that point is candor. If there is
any thing disgusting and sickening, it is the fashion of magazine
and newspaper reviewers of the present day of plastering every thing
which is heralded into existence with a tremendous sound of
trumpets--applaud every thing written by the twenty-fifth relation
distant of a really great writer, or the author of one or two
passable snatches of poetry, or every day sketches.
From the Natchez Courier.
Last but not least, as the friends of a literature, emphatically
_southern_, we welcome the February number of the "Southern Literary
Messenger," a work that stands second to none in the country. Its
criticisms we pronounce to be at once the boldest and most generally
correct of any we meet with. True, it is very severe on many of the
current publications of the day; but we think no unprejudiced man
can say it is a whit too much so. The country is deluged from Maine
to Louisiana, with a mass of _stuff_ "done up" into _books_ that
_require_ the most severe handling. The Messenger _gives it to
them_. It is a work which ought to be in the hand of every literary
_southerner_, in particular. It is published by _T. W. White
Richmond, Va._