SCENE V. (continued 3)

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 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 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," 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.

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.

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.'

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.

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 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 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 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 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.]