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Here the domestic supply exceeds the foreign one, | ciencies, it cannot fail to be remarked with pride and this is the result of but fifteen years of exer- and wonder, that the domestic is still far superior cise in a department entirely new to the intellect to the foreign supply, showing conclusively the fact and the energies of the nation. This table too, that the intellectual resources of the nation are it may be well to remember, includes only the pub-fully adequate to its wants; and that, with no more lications of the chief marts of literature, Boston, encouragement than is required to put the native New York, Philadelphia and New Haven. The on a simple tooting of equality, in the market, with publications of obscure presses in cities not noto- the foreign author, the latter must have been nearly, riously publishing are scarcely likely to enter into or wholly superseded. Thus we see, that, in alsuch an estimate. But let us give another of Mr. Putnam's tables, giving the American publications for one year only,-that of 1834.

SUBJECTS.

Education

ORIGINAL AMERICAN. REPRINTS.

9

73

Divinity

37

18

*Novels and Tales

19*

95*

History and Biography

16

17

Jurisprudence

20

3

Poetry

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most every department of letters, the works of original American production-Education, Theology, History, Biography, Jurisprudence, &c-exceeds the reprints of foreign in a proportion, not less than three to one; the one exception to this fact, to which we have drawn the attention of the reader by an asterisk (*)—that of novels and tales, or, as we may say, purely original and inventive Literature-being one to which we may be permitted in this place to devote a few moments of consideration. Lest any hasty judgment may conceive the relative deficiency in this class of writings, in the American side of our table, to result from any want of those creative and imaginative resources which are chiefly requisite to the production of all works of fiction, we may suggest some of the peculiar disadvantages and difficulties under which this particular branch of native authorship exists. This disability results from the greater proportion of writers engaged in this species of composition our population, will always tend to the large employment than in any other. While, for example, Great of periodicals, particularly monthly and weekly publica- Britain possesses not more than five living histotions, for the diffusion among the more remote settlements rians, she possesses more than fifty professional of the amount of literary, social and political knowledge writers of fiction, not to speak of hundreds more, which they require. This condition of the country leads who occasionally go aside from other walks, to try, to the publication of a large proportion and greater variety their powers in this department. The American of these works, than, we suspect, is the case in any country, however extensive, of Europe. Not only do most of writer of fiction is consequently exposed to a dethe States possess their literary periodicals, whether quar- gree of competition, to which no other branch of terly, monthly or weekly, but, in some of the States, they are numerous, of all sizes and degrees of power. In addition to these there, are numerous literary newspapers (so called) which furnish that strange melange-a sort of mental olla-podrida, with which our English brethren seem to be particularly disquieted. The taste of these publications is certainly none of the best,-wanting in congruity, and jumbling together, in one mass, the most irreconcilable objects of study and reflection. But they are addressed to a poor people, who have just a sufficient appreciation of Literature to demand the commodity, and who have not yet reached that degree of literary acumen which prompts them to resolve upon quality in preference to quantity. In Europe, the same class of persons want bread rather than literature; and, so far, the fact is not unfavorable to the American. Of our periodicals, if they cannot claim to be fully

literary labor is subjected. Some idea of this competition may be gathered from the vast number of the reprints of European novels and tales (95) reported in one year of our table; and yet these form but a really small number of the works of this class produced annually in Great Britain. The seductions of this species of writing brings hundreds into the field of competition, while the colder and more laborious character of the studies in history, biography and metaphysics, serve always to keep the number of laborers within certain and easily defined limits. Besides, we do not find that the American biographer or historian is at all engaged in competition with the European. The works of biography and history, written by Americans, are

equal to the ablest of the foreign, they at least make such an approach to it as to render some of their articles, (as we have seen,) acceptable as original, to the pages of London and contemporaneous reviews. Our monthly periodicals fords of easy diffusion, tends also to the greater originality we regard as quite equal, and, in some respects, superior to and independence of their tone, modes of thinking and exthe average of British monthlies. That they are more ho- pression. In addition to these, similarly scattered over our nest, as more independent of book publishers and political immense territory, are 1640 newspapers, daily, tri-weekly parties, is beyond either doubt or question. Nor do they or weekly, all of which, in greater or less degree, furnish emanate from a single publishing section, but appear in al- their readers with a certain amount of original and selected most every quarter of our widely extended country;-a varieties, and are, to a certain extent, injurious to the regucircumstance which, besides the advantages which it af-lar business of a professional literature.

most usually devoted to American subjects, subjects them, compelled a hearing in the European courts of which the European student is either totally of art and refinement, as we had already done, unaware, or to which he is, in all probability, wholly through our statesmen and warriors, in the cabiindifferent. Thus, with the exception of Irving's Conquest of Granada, which is semi-historical in character, and Prescott's Ferdinand and Isabella, we do not, at this moment, recall the name of a single American historian who has gone out of America for his subject. It follows from this, that, while the American historian, or biographer, free from competition, is almost sure of a publisher, the American novelist must take his chance, in the same field, with hundreds of others, all of whom, as their works cost nothing to the American publisher are likely to be preferred before him. Unless he has already obtained a local reputation, which renders it inevitable that an eager demand will be found for his writings, he may wait for months, and even years, without provoking the consideration of the publisher; and hundreds of works are written, equal in merit to one third of the European reprints, which, as the authors have not yet acquired the "magic of a name" are offered to the publishers, gratuitously, and in vain. This is a point which shall be resumed hereafter.

nets of European politics. What might have been augured from such a beginning? What a long and glorious future was to be inferred from such a dawn! The calculation rests with every reader. Enough for us to say that, according to all reasonable measures of conjecture, it would seem to be impossible, easily, the circumstances being suffered to remain unchanged-

Enough, we think, has been already said to show the value of American Literature, its sudden rise into importance, the number of its productions, their great variety, and intrinsic value. This value, too, we have endeavored, incidentally, to show, being attached to them, not merely by any excess of national self-esteem, but, in the absolute want of it, and, even against their own will, by our hereditary enemies. We have seen that, while the British continue to sneer at the American intelleet, its resources in fancy and imagination-the arts of general letters, they do so in the teeth of the vital fact that they are consuming-nay, preferring the fruits of American Literature, in almost every department-our works of history and education-our belles-lettres, theology, and jurisprudence. We do not dwell upon the humiliating fact, that they are making these appropriations clandestinely, disfiguring the commodities which they steal, in order to prevent their recognition. It is enough for our purpose, that they make use of the commodity, that they approve of it, applaud it, and frequently prefer it to their own.

Such, then, is the history of American Literature for the twenty years in which it was struggling into existence. Such were its triumphs and achievements in spite of every disadvantage, in spite of the competition with the intellect of the maternal nation-speaking the same language-in possession of the same market, and secure, not only of the market, but of the exclusive faith and confidence of the American people. In that brief period, amidst these disadvantages and disabilities, we prodaced our metaphysicians, our historians, our phiKeophers, our poets, our novelists, and, through

VOL. X-3

"To fix a barrier to the giant's strength
Or curb his swiftness in the forward race."
But the circumstances of his career were not suf-
fered to remain unchanged. His strength has sud-
denly been paralyzed, his swiftness has been curbed,
his limbs are no longer free, his flight is no longer
upward, onward, contending for the goal. He lies
prostrate-his limbs fettered-his strength and
spirit humbled and prostrate in the dust. Ameri-
can Literature is as suddenly silent as if it never
had a voice. Its authors, if they have not ceased
to write, have almost ceased to publish. Some of
them, through sheer necessity, are driven to other
and less congenial occupations; and the books which
are now given us from the press, are a kind which,
evidently, if they give bread to publisher and
printer, can afford little or nothing to the writer.
The inquiry into the cause of this singular and sud-
den change must be reserved for another commu-
nication.

I am, sir, with sentiments
Of real respect, very
Faithfully yours,
W. GILMORE SIMMS.

Woodland, Nov. 10, 1843.

NIGHT.

BY ANNA MARIA HIRST.

There is a holy silence in the air,

An audible stillness soothing to the ear;
The moon is passing in a golden glare

Over the azure of the starry sphere,
Save, when a cloud of fleecy, silvery grey,
Dims for a moment her delicious ray.

Hail to the Night, the noble, nun-like Night!
The city slumbers in a sleep, as sound
As though some seraph on an earthward flight
Around the scene a heavenly charm had wound,
And over mortal eyes a spell had shed
To make this seem-a city of the dead!

Nought breaks the silence but the cricket's note,
An orison that breathes the singer's bliss,
Poured thankfully from out its tiny throat

Upon the low breeze that my brow doth kiss--
A lay of love in joy, in rapture given,
To One, who hears it 'mid the hyms of heaven.

I gaze from out my lattice, and I see

Each loftier object glow with liquid light;
Palace and prison, temple, spire and tree,
Rise up, like Titans, gleaming on the night;
And far away the river runs, its breast
Dimpled with stars that lie in dreamy rest.

I love the day, the sun, the liquid sky,
Undimmed and stainless as was once my heart
When life was like a garden, and my eye

Had seen no sorrow, nor I'd felt its smart,
For it doth seem a warrior, clad in light;
But more I love the melancholy Night-

The noble night; for, over my spirit's care,

She breathes a soft and all subduing charm; And, in the coolness of the midnight air,

When seated in my chamber, dark and warm, I trace the presence of God's guardian things, And deem its breath the fannings of their wings. Philadelphia, August, 1843.

DONNA FLORIDA,

A Poetical Tale, by the author of "Atalantis," Southern
Passages and Pictures," &c. Charleston, Burges and
James. 1843.

After two careful perusals, we commend Donna Florida to our readers, because its perusal will well repay them, because it has beauty and humor; because it is a continuous poem, with variety of incident and delineations of character. One who looks into Griswold's "Poets and Poetry of America," will find that we have an almost countless throng of poetical writers; and, when he has gone through that long list, he can sum up many others not included in it, and who are just as worthy of a place as many who are. If he be a lover of poetry and ambitious of his country's fame in this charming department, he will ask, where are the bold conception, the sustained design, the outwrought idea of the master mind? Here, some production will arrest his attention, displaying no common genius, but the subject is often unworthy, is not elaborated and is evidently hastily despatched. The monthly, the weekly, the daily call and they print. Hardly one "longing after immortality," one ray of Hope beyond the grave, inspires their song, or illuminates their pages. Poets, of America! be not so impatient;-hoard your wealth; garner your thoughts in the store house of your minds, and let them "tarry long in their inner chambers." So shall the little you may do outweigh, outlast, outshine all that you ever have done, or ever can do, as you now seek Fame. Better far to leave one rare jewel to your children, never having seen it sparkle on yourselves, than deck yourselves with imitation gems whilst you live. Value not so much the mere sheen and flash, as the excellence and preciousness of that which emits it. Aim higher. You versify enough; but walk more difficult paths, attempt higher flights, that will require the sustained wavings of your bright pinions. Plan, study, execute for immortality. Eagles of thought, fly straight towards the Sun!

The Author of this Poem, Mr. Simms of South Carolina, is the most extensive, and one of the most popular writers in the South. Every department of authorship has engaged his attention, and in each no inconsiderable success has crowned his efforts. Even northern exclusiveness has admitted him to a participation in the bright rewards of fame. Had his literary efforts been even far less successful, great would have been his meed of praise, for his high aims and noble resistance to the tendencies and circumstances by which he was surrounded. The genius of the South is glowing, but yet how little is it employed in sustained and continuous literary pursuits! The eloquence, which so often pours forth in the forum, the legislative hall and on the hustings can be and is transferred to the inspiring page; but how seldom and, comparatively, by how few! Hence, it often happens that the pens of scholars and orators amongst us are rude and most ungraceful. Yet, Mr. Simms has made Literature his profession, his maintenance and his delight. History acknowledges his services; Fiction, well pleased, exultingly bears his conceptions to Nature and Nature owns them; and Poetry greets him with her smile; whilst Virtue makes no complaint for the injustice too often inflicted upon her. Were Mr. Simms to present himself to the Goddess of Poetry to receive the most welcome smile, to which he is entitled, he would not take "Donna Florida" as his offering; but we do not hesitate to say that this offering would be acceptable. "Atalantis" is of a higher aim and higher from Byron. It is true that the waywardness of attainment, and "Southern Passages and Pictures" would better sustain the author's title to the reputation of a Poet.

But, in our earnestness, we forget Donna Florida. This poem, occupying four cantos, was mostly the production of the author's youth, and, as such, he confesses a partiality for it, which induced him to publish it, notwithstanding some weighty objections in his own mind. Being of that class of persons, who endeavor to form a just judgment relatively to all the circumstances, we are glad it was published. The author's candor has, in the preface, given a fair criticism of the poem and, of course, he must expect many to concur with him. The metre and style of the Poem are borrowed from Don Juan, which the author thinks unfortunate. All poems are likely, in these respects, to resemble others that have been written; yet the more celebrated and unique the model, the more will the imitation suffer from the contrast. But the author has not borrowed his thoughts, nor his subject

his reflections, and the melange of pathos, humor and sober thought are copied after the Noble Bard, and there are many points of resemblance, many

concurrent ideas; but the delineations of character | are the author's own. Still the poem suffers greatly from the contrast with its original, in every respect, but one. It discards, with one or two slight exceptions, the impurity of its model. Having said thus much, we will proceed to consider the poem, pretty much as if Don Juan had never been

written.

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The sturdy knight laid vigorous siege; but his attacks were less effectual, than they had been upon the Moorish castles, and he was forced to retire in despair; but not without a serious expostulation The subject is the Love of Don Ponce De Leon with Leonora. Most disconsolate Ponce-and all, and his adventures in America, whither he comes the Poet says, for want of Quirk's patent wig! in search of the fabled "Fountain of Youth." But the Romantic tale of a Portuguese sailor soon The constant readers of the Messenger may recol-revives his hopes, and the withering Ponce dreams leet an article that appeared some time since, from of tasting a draught of immortal youth. He rushes the pen of another South Carolinian, on this subject. to the presence of Leonora, who mocks at his wonThe story purports to be told by the author's drous tale, though related by the "soberest man on grandam, on whose tongue many legends warmed, earth" and attested by the Alcayde. Ponce holds some beyond scope of rhyme and more of reason." up the record and beseeches her to read it. The poet says, "The maiden laugh'd more merrily than ever; You read it, good Don Ponce;' she slyly cried.

"And if to you such legends be dear,

No, dearest, I would have you satisfied;'
Again the lady laughed; the knight was clever;

Sit down, and while the warm South is breathing o'er us, 'What, take precedence of a lady, never!-
We'll bring the spirits of the Past before us."
There lived in Arragon, a most beautiful, though
fickle and teasing maiden, the envy of every lass
and the adored of every beau. She did not scru-
ple to trifle with the hearts that sought her favor,
and returned with scorn the hate of the envious;

"She heard the sighs of man and groans of woman, With an indifference that was scarcely human."

Her various charms the poet sets forth with almost wearying prolixity; and makes her, indeed, a lovely coquettish creature. "Her eyes the polar lights in Love's astrology;" her mouth, "that rosy bible on which love has sworn." She was young, scarce sixteen-" graceful as any willow by the wave;" and very much like Araby's daughter;

"Lovely as any pearl beneath the tide,

Down 'neath the Mexic waters, deep but clear." But we do not see the beauty of the useless repetition in these two lines. The Poet heaps too many pretty things upon his heroine and the description is so unnecessarily protracted, that it is interrupted in several places. Yet the author seems to have

"had his eyes open;" for he boldly declares, With a tradesman dread,

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Lest you should not appreciate my wares, I'll dwell at large on each particular head, &c." He should have remembered that tradesmen sometimes prevent an appreciation of their wares, by dwelling too much on their value.

This fair girl had a sire, "a thick, short, gouty, drowsy, frowsy knight," who cared for nothing, but "how to boil eggs," and left her to do as she pleased. Among the numerous suitors of the Lovely Leonora, there was one whose fame, won in the Moorish wars, had filled the nation. This was Ponce de Leon, the bravest of the brave, but time had laid its silver on his head, and something of its stiffness on his limbs. He woos the lass, reckless of her mischief; and, Othello-like, strives to move her by his dangers past and glories won. But

For on his cheek a deep red flushed the brown-
Prompt at evasion, though it touch'd his pride;
But still he kept the paper upside down.
"And, spite of all her laughter, he proceeded:
'Be mine, dear Leonora. Let us seek
That fountain, then-its waters, haply needed
By all, will bring back beauty to my cheek;

Life, youth and love, not ignorantly pleaded,

From heaven, shall be our ministers, and speak
For each desire that gathers in the breast,
Ere yet it rises to our thoughts confess'd.
"The youth that is perpetual, won from heaven,
Shall bless us twain on earth. The flow'rs shall bloom
Perennial, and all blessings shall be given,

Unqualified, untainted, free from doom;--
No treasure then can from our grasp be riven,
Life shall have no derial, earth no tomb;
Days dawn and set, and every day endear ye
To other days! Ah!' said the maid, 'how weary!

666

What, shall there be no quarrels-no commotion,
Will tempests sleep-shall I not use my tongue;-
Will the storms cease to scare us on the ocean;

Shall we no more by sweetest woes be wrung;
No widowhood!- no children!'- What a notion!'
Replied Don Ponce. Why, shall we not be young,
Forever loving, Leonora'- 'can, sir,

You stop awhile,' said she, 'and take my answer?
"This fountain, should you find it, is a treasure,
That richly must repay your toil and care;
When you
have found it, it shall be my pleasure,-
Provided always that it makes you fair,-
To be your wife, sir, at your earliest leisure,

On one condition more, which you shall hear :
Namely, that you shall bring across the ocean,
Some dozen bottles of this princely lotion.
"They shall be bottled by your knightly hands, sir,
That so there may be no deception done;

You shall, to have the bottles clean, command, sir,

At least three days of washing for each one;
Fill'd, then,-cork'd, sealed and labelled.-understand, sir,-
And thenceforth sacred to my use alone;

You shall, in all your troubles, storms and strifes, sir,
Watch these same bottles as you love your life, sir.

"These unto me deliver'd, and your youth
Renew'd, as you avow it then will be;
Your love the same as now, soul full of truth,
No loss of member or of strength to see;
My promise, which I make to you in sooth,

Shall be fulfill'd, bear witness, heaven, for me;
Provided, while you're seeking youth o'er sea, sir,
There comes no lovelier youth a-seeking me, sir.'"

'Ha! then, you love?'-The youth responded 'yea,'
And a slight redness tinged his cheek the while,-
I love, Don Ponce, but love without a penny

Is sure, in Spain, the maddest love of any."

"Unless it be the grey-beard love; our knight
Thoughtfully murmured. Strange!' he mused a space;
This youth and I were both in better plight
Were we but fortuned in each other's case;

Leonora then sings him a Lay, very unequivocal Had he my wealth, his barriers would be slight,

in its insinuations. "Fizz, fuzz, pop, bang, the knight's rage was terrific." Still, he protests that the waters when bottled lose much of their virtue, and urges Leonora to go over as his bride and see him quaff the rejuvenescent draught, but she was

"Sorry she could not then afford relief;

Must first behold the change on beard and hair; And then, if no one better graced came seeking, He might renew, on terms, his present speaking." Leonora's treatment of Don Ponce is malicious and heartless; but, allowing for the intentional exaggeration and burlesque of the author, true to Nature. What a dance, do young belles, even now, often lead" old bachelor" lovers! The ordinary associations connected with this subject constitute one defect of the Poem; but there are many accessaries, skilfully used by the poet, which counteract their influence.

No alternative is left the defeated Ponce, but to seek that enchanted Fountain. With saddest heart, tho' tearless eye, he bids adieu to Spain, and follows the sun as he goes "down behind the billow's breast."

Like Harold, he pours forth his lament, which suffers from the contrast, though there are some good things in it. His indignation breaks out against the relentless beloved, for

"Packing him forth o'er sea and wood and mountain To bottle water for you from that fountain." Hope of gain, love of adventure, flight from punishment and attachment to himself had collected him a bold and motley crew. Among them was a tall, brave looking lad, whose sparkling eye secured the Knight's attention."

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"Your name? Who are you?'-thus to the unknown

Spake Ponce de Leon. We have met before!' 'Perchance,' replied the youth; 'but I am one You know not-of my lineage proud, but poor;

Of friends bereft, by cruel fate undone,

I seek my fortune on the Indian shore ;-
I feel that I have in me soul and strength,
And trust in God to make them known at length.'
""Tis a brave spirit ;-but, declare your name!'

'That I must make;-a pride that will not bear The sting of sympathy, and feels its shame,

Forbids me yield my father's to your ear:
Too proudly chronicled by deeds of fame,
Let it be silent till mine own appear;
When I have won my laurels I will speak,
What now would bring the blush upon my cheek!
"Meanwhile, I am Don Ferdinand de Laye,
Provençal lineage ;-this shall be my style;
Till, with occasion, I may pierce my way

To glory, that my deeds may win one smile'

This

Mine were all tumbled an I wore his face ;-
The devil take these women-how they worry us,
Tease, tear, vex, wear, and flurry, hurry, scurry us!'"
Don Ponce makes this proud lad his confidant and
unceasingly pours his laments into his ear.
De Laye was Leonora's own Alphonso: and when
no one was near he feasted his heart with her love-
breathing letter. De Laye, too, sings his parting
strain:

"That sun which sinks with glorious train
Beneath the dark blue sea,

Shall hail me when he soars again,

Far distant, love, from thee;
Yet when he rises in the east,

I'll fancy that he bears

A tribute from thy heaving breast,
Affection's gift of tears.'

*

"Yet, though the soothing dream be vain,
Of joys at future meeting;
Of early bliss renew'd again,

As dear and not so fleeting;
Yet shall the bird of better days

From memory's lab'rinth wander,
To glad the pilgrim's devious ways,
With music sweeter,
fonder."

"Yes, thou wilt watch that sun's last tint,
As in the west declining,

Thou seest him leave his latest print
On rocks where I am pining;
And think and fancy brighter days,
When we may see it streaming
Its fires upon our mutual gaze,

In milder lustre gleaming."

"Farewell, the home that hope endears,
Where young contentment found me,
Nursed in the arms of friendly years,
With spring-flowers bursting round me;
Farewell, dear maid,-yet, ah! the song
That wakes such fond emotion,
Is silenced in that thunder gong,

That shakes the realm of ocean."

After a long voyage they reach America, where opens the fourth and best Canto, containing much really heroic. The author now invokes the Muse and takes occasion to pay a patriotic tribute to his country. The Poet should ever seek to celebrate and exalt his land.

"She must have health and strength-a wing that soaring
Through cloud and storm may make the heavens her own;
An eye that far, thro' depth of sky exploring,

May challenge the keen glances of the sun;
A wealth of thoughts and images outpouring,
Worthy the wondrous world, her wing hath won;
And, still subservient to her song, the splendor,

Of all that makes her realm, of rich, and wild, and tender!

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