We have placed the whole of the letter of our correspondent in
Shepherdstown, (_See Letters from Correspondents_,) before our readers,
and we do it the more readily, as it contains some gentle thrusts at
ourselves, which we receive in very good part.
We take leave also to offer one or two words of explanation. The writer
is totally mistaken in supposing that in order to obtain admission into
the columns of the "Messenger," it is necessary that its contributors
should be personally known to the Publisher, or his Editorial
Auxiliaries, or that the contributors themselves should be individually
known to fame. The great design of the Messenger, from its commencement
to the present moment, has been much misconceived, if such an inference
has been deemed in the slightest degree warrantable. Its principal aim
has been, to foster and encourage native genius--no matter how obscure
or humble, and without inquiring whether the writer be a friend and
acquaintance, or a stranger. Its columns are open to the fair claims of
him who inhabits the lowly cottage, as well as of the proud tenant of a
wealthier mansion. That some articles have met with a kind reception
which did not deserve it, is extremely probable; and it is not less
probable, that some have been excluded, or hitherto suspended, for lack
of proper discrimination in our council of criticism. We will endeavor
to make amends however, by sharpening our optics a little in future;
and, if we cannot please all, we will strive to give offence to none.
Our correspondent we think, however, is a little harsh in his
criticisms. It is easy to select particular words or passages from any
production, and by showing partial defects, involve the whole in
ridicule or censure.
"A perfect judge will read each work of wit,
With the same spirit that its author writ;
Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find
Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind."
We make this quotation from Pope, for the special benefit of our
Shepherdstown friend. Does he see no beauty, no merit, no poetry, in
the "Song of the Seasons?" We grant there are defects, and we
endeavored gently to point them out; but we still contend that the
writer (we have reason to believe him a very young man,) is endowed
with talents of no mean order. Who has written more quaintly and
obscurely than Ben Johnson or Cowley; or to come nearer to our own
time, than Wordsworth or Coleridge? And yet who will deny to either of
these bards the possession of genius. The remarks of our correspondent
upon "The Passage of the Beresina," are, we think, also couched in too
much severity. He seems to think there can be no good poetry without
exact metrical arrangement and harmony; but there are numerous examples
to the contrary. We do not say indeed that all his observations are
unjust, but some at least strike us as hypercritical. We take pleasure
in concurring with him however, in the high praise which he bestows
upon the two little poems which appeared in the last number, to wit:
"Beauty without Loveliness," and the lines to "Ianthe."
We hope that no one whose eye may light upon the fourth number of the
_Tripoline Sketches_, will forego the pleasure of reading it. The
energy and enterprise of our brave countryman, General Eaton, were
worthy to be recorded by such a pen. Note: We have to call the reader's
attention to a typographical transposition of _two_ words in the fourth
number of the "_Sketches_." In the first column of page 261, eleven
lines from bottom, instead of "_Mourad, joined the Turks, others sided
with the French_," read "Mourad, joined the French, others sided with
the Turks."
Impartial justice would have required the insertion of the answer to a
_Note to Blackstone's Commentaries_, even if it had not been demanded
by higher considerations. The author has won many a trophy on the field
of logic and eloquence; and even an adversary who should contend that
his weapons were pointless, would not deny that they were highly
polished, and dexterously wielded.
We are mistaken if the "_Romance of Real Life_" be not highly
commended.
We particularly invite the reader's attention to the fourth number of
the "_Letters from New England, by a Virginian_." It is replete with
interesting facts and reflections, presented in the writer's peculiarly
happy and forcible style.
The "_Extracts from my Mexican Journal_," are from a gentleman every
way qualified from his opportunities for accurate observation, to
present vivid pictures of the city of Montezuma and its environs. We
hope he will feel no reluctance to furnish us with further glances at
his journal.
Mr. Garnett's _Address before the Institute of Education at Hampden
Sidney College_, never before published, needs no commendation from us.
His ability as a writer, and his ardent zeal in the cause of education,
are well known to the public. To the graver portion of our readers,
especially such as have thought deeply upon the necessity of wise and
extended systems of instruction, and their intimate connexion with the
preservation of sound morals and rational liberty, this paper will be
particularly acceptable.
The "_Contrast_," by a lady, whose pen has heretofore charmed our
readers, will be read with interest. It is a touching illustration of
the consequences which await the love of pleasure and a life of
imprudence, as well as of the solid benefits which attend a contrary
course.
The second number of "_Hints to Students of Geology_," is a learned
epitome of the various theories with which geologists have puzzled
themselves and mankind. That absurd views have been entertained
concerning this science, does no more detract from its
importance,--than that because of the vain and visionary speculations
which were once indulged respecting astronomy, the now certain truths
of that sublime branch of knowledge should be discredited.
The "_Letters from a Sister_," which have reached their seventh in the
present number, increase in attraction. They will amply repay the
reader.
We cannot say that we coincide in every particular with the able and
eloquent author of the Review of the Orations of Messrs. Adams and
Everett on the death of La Fayette. Some of his criticisms are
undoubtedly just, but some perhaps have more _piquancy_ than the
subject deserved. We cannot concur in the sentiment that the fame of La
Fayette, or even of Washington, has placed either of those great men
superior to eulogy. The most sublime events and the most heroic actions
have generally found some poet or historian of sufficient
qualifications to record them with dignity and effect. Even the most
exalted truths which have ever dawned upon mankind,--the facts and
doctrines of revelation,--have lost none of their grandeur in the
simple narratives of plain and unlettered men. We somewhat fear too
that a few of the passages in the review may be supposed rather too
_political_ for a literary journal. We hope however that in this
respect our apprehensions are unfounded.
To the same vigorous pen however, we award all the praise which is due
for the judicious and discriminating notice of Mrs. Jameson's Book,
which appears in the present number.
We can fearlessly recommend the _poetry_ in this number,--if not
faultless, as at least superior to the carpings of illiberal and
puerile criticism. There are some little great men in the world, who
have the vanity to conceive that their taste and judgment (if they have
any) is the standard for all mankind--and if all do not exactly conform
to it, they snap and bark like the curs which infest our streets, and
annoy the by-ways. True criticism is the sentence of a liberal and
enlightened judgment, which delights as much in approving what is
worthy of praise, as in condemning what deserves censure. By such an
arbiter, and by such alone, let the specimens of native genius which we
now present to our readers be tried. Reluctant as we are to
discriminate, we cannot forbear to express the hope that the author of
"_Truth and Falsehood_," and another piece in the present
number,--will, from time to time, unfold his "Port Folio" for our
special use--and that he will delight others with some of those dulcet
strains with which he has beguiled his own toilsome and victorious
march in the severer paths of science.
The lines commencing "Oh! give me that oblivious draught," are
beautiful.