Part 18

It will be perceived that we are again favored with a piece from the pen of Mr. Wilde; and we seize this opportunity of expressing the great pleasure we feel in transferring to our pages (under the head of "Variety") the letter of that gentleman, in which he assumes explicitly the sole authorship of those beautiful lines, which have been alike claimed for an ancient Greek bard and a modern Irish poet. The enemies of Mr. Wilde's literary reputation will now recant their unmerited charge of plagiarism, and one of the most exquisite poems which the genius of our country has produced will remain the undisputed property of its owner.

The author of "_A Song of the Seasons_," who assumes the quaint cognomen of "Zarry Zyle," (we wish he had chosen some other,) is unquestionably a youth of talent, and acute perception of all those minute, lovely and delicate objects, both in the natural and moral world, which can only be discerned by minds of superior mould. We beg leave however to suggest for consideration, whether he does not take too much pains to appear obscure--whether he does not too studiously delight in dressing up his thoughts in that mysterious and eccentric form of expression, which has detracted so much from the usefulness and popularity of men of genius. But for this fault, Coleridge, we doubt not would have ranked among the greatest bards of the present age. As it is, his reputation is only seen through the dim shadows of twilight--it does not blaze with the splendor of open day. Simplicity, unaffected simplicity, is the great rule in composition, as it is in the manners and conduct of life; and he who departs from it, does so at the hazard of not securing the just reward of his merits.

VIRGINIA HISTORICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY.

The Anniversary Meeting of this Society was held on the 3d and 4th Feb. 1835, in the Hall of the House of Delegates. The first evening was exclusively devoted to the transaction of business. On the second evening a learned, elaborate and elegant address was delivered by Professor Tucker of the University, to a numerous auditory, and was listened to with great attention. Mr. Maxwell of Norfolk presented to the Society the identical pistol with which Captain John Smith killed the Turk Grualgo, at the siege of Regal; and in his peculiarly happy manner, dilated upon the singular good fortune and heroic qualities of that extraordinary man. We shall speak of this valuable relic of antiquity, and of the traditional history upon which the fact of its identity rests, more particularly, in the February number. It is with great pleasure that we announce to our patrons that the Proprietor of the "Messenger" is authorised, by a resolution of the Society, to insert from time to time in his paper, under the direction of the standing committee, such portions of the manuscripts, &c. belonging to the Society, as the committee may select for publication. In our next number we hope to avail ourselves of this privilege--and it shall be our endeavor to urge the claims of the Society to the general attention and earnest regard of the public.

This form of our _January_ number not having gone to press until _February_, has enabled us to pen the above.

EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF CORRESPONDENTS.

I send you these lines[1] without the writer's name. It is one of many instances in proof of what I have long believed, that selections might be made from the unpublished writings of Virginians, composing a volume of which any country might be proud. The writer of the above throws off such scraps at idle times, without effort, and without pretension. With so much of the inspiration of poetry, he has nothing of its madness, and will never consent to be known to the world as an author.

[Footnote 1: "Beauty without Loveliness." See article above.]

So it is in other branches of literature. A man who has sense enough to write a good book, very often has too much sense to publish it. In countries where the division of labor has made literature a separate trade, necessity often overrules the judgment of the writer, forcing him to publish against his will--_se invito_ as well as _invita Minerva_. No such necessity exists here, and hence, among us, few publish, but those who should be perpetually injoined the use of pen and ink. Thank God, the literary reputation of Virginia has never suffered much by such scribblers. We have a few such, but their writings were too bad to do much harm; they never crossed the State line.

Might you not take a hint from this consideration? The merit of your publication will give a wide circulation to all that it contains. Are you not then bound to be chary in your selections, and not lend your wings to bear to distant lands the weak twitterings or the tuneless chatter of the Pie and Sparrow kinds? The nightingale does not pour her note until their noise is stilled. Print only for poets, and poets will write for you. This is the true solution of the difficulty you have so strongly stated in your last number.

It is not in Virginia alone, that the writings which are permitted to see the light afford an inadequate idea of the literary resources of the country. It is not fair to judge of the poetical talents of our northern neighbors by the labored dulness of a Barlow; or by the writings of a certain literary cabal, which is trying to push its members into notice by mutual puffing and quotation. Halleck is not one of the firm; and Halleck is a true poet. But his writings first came out anonymously; and it is the blaze of his genius which has betrayed him to the public eye. The darkness in which it shrouds itself, distinguishes it from all that shines only by reflected light. Men hunt for diamonds in the night.

Even in England, where the trade of literature embraces writers of a very high order, I am not sure that the very best minds are devoted to it. Some of the finest poetry in the language was found among the manuscripts of Judge Blackstone. Nobody knew that Charles Fox wrote poetry until after his death. But he did, and such as no writer need have blushed to own.

Among the caprices of the "_genus irritabile vatum_," is that of hiding their talents. Some, from sheer spleen, will not write. John Randolph used to say that he would go to his grave "guiltless of rhyme." Yet _he talked poetry_ from morning till night.

As I am out a purveyor for your journal, and not a contributor, I am bound to see that they, from whose writings I pilfer, come by no wrong. I must therefore enter a complaint on behalf of the friend whose letter I sent you, describing a scene on the Mississippi. His "clumps" of trees your compositor has cut down to "stumps." Can you wonder that your neighbor (_contemporary_ I believe is the word in fashion,) thought his letter but "_so so_?" He was no more bound to suppose that this was a misprint, than to reflect that a traveller, writing from the wilds of Missouri to a friend, might innocently make an unimportant mistake in quoting from a book that perhaps never crossed the Mississippi. But though he has to bear the brunt of the censure, it should in justice fall on you or me. The thing was well enough as a letter. The fault was in publishing it. But I shall attempt no defence. I thought it but "so so-ish" when I sent it to you, and therefore I said so. It was a plain unvarnished description, which had enabled me to see very distinctly what was well worth seeing, and I wished others to see it too. Had the composition been of a different character--had the painter thrust _himself_ between the spectator and his picture, or so glossed it over that every object was lost in undistinguished glare, I should have given it to the public eye by other means. I should certainly not have defaced with it your modest pages. It surely would not be hard to fix on some periodical in which any sort of tinsel would be welcome, and find itself in congenial company. Such is the proper receptacle for all the trumpery wares of frothy declamation, incongruous metaphor, false eloquence and flippant wit, which make up what is commonly called fine writing. There, in the gay confusion of glass bead and gewgaw, any bauble, however worthless, finds its place, escaping censure by escaping notice.

To take more shame to myself, I acknowledge that the misquotation struck me as I copied the letter. But the turn of the passage did not admit of its correction; and I did not think it worth while to append a note to tell what every body knows, and no one needs to know.

But I shall do better in future. While you continue to publish what I send you, I shall continue to cater for you. In doing this, I shall henceforth cross the t's and dot the i's in my copies, although this should have been omitted in the original. "I am wae to think" indeed, as Burns says, what small critics would do for want of such mistakes. A link in nature's chain (the last and lowest indeed) would be lost. The _auceps syllabarum_ "the word catcher that lives on syllables" would be starved out. The race would be extinct for want of food. The king of these insects bears among naturalists the formidable name of the _dragon fly_. The boys call him the _musquito hawk_. He shall have no more food from me. Your friend,

X. Y.

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FROM EASTERN VIRGINIA.

... I yesterday sent you some lines composed "Lang Syne," and written from memory.... Do not print these things, I beseech you, unless you like them. At the hazard of rapping my own knuckles, I shall quarrel with you if you publish much trash. You may lose a subscriber by rejecting it; but you will gain ten by every number you issue in which every article is good. Horace tells us that neither gods nor men can endure middling poetry. And what shall be said of that which is not even middling? Let us take an example. Byron's name is sacred to the muses. No man whose lips are not touched with the fire of inspiration should be allowed to use it. Yet we have him shown up, and words put into his mouth in many a piece, the writers of which cannot even count their _feet_.

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FROM NORTH CAROLINA.

"I was much delighted with the third number of the Messenger. It was really a fountain of pleasure to me, and I shall never forget the feelings which I experienced on reading the story entitled '_My Classmates_.' I must believe that there cannot be any thing than the most flattering hopes and prospects of your success in your truly laudable--your truly patriotic undertaking. The people of Virginia, if none others, will support its cause. They cannot--no, they will not--they have too much love for the honor of Virginia, to let the '_Messenger_' of science and literature suffer for the want of their most liberal patronage. But you are not laboring for Virginia alone: it is for the south--the _whole_ south; and might I not add, for the whole country? For who doubts but that the Messenger is destined to call into active exertion the genius of the south? And who would deny but the south has genius which would do honor to the _whole_ country in any walk? I shall never believe but that the land which produced a Henry, a Washington, a Marshall, a Madison and Monroe, can also under favorable auspices, produce a Cooper, Irving, Paulding, or _any man_. '_Go ahead_,' as David Crockett says, '_since you are right_.' I send you a subscriber."

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FROM A DISTINGUISHED NORTHERN LADY.

"We are highly pleased with the Messenger. Its execution in the _mechanical department_, is peculiarly neat; I see no periodical, that in this point, will compare with it. And its contents are so diversified, that there must be something adapted to almost every taste--that is--every taste that has its foundation in correct principles."

TO CORRESPONDENTS, CONTRIBUTORS, &C.

We have on hand a variety of articles in prose and verse, which we shall dispose of as soon as possible. Some of these favors are of decided, and some of equivocal merit. Others are so illegibly written, that it passes our skill to decipher them.