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 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.