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!