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We commence our article with a list of the most prominent monthly periodicals of the country, which are as follows: The Democratic Review, The Knickerbocker, Graham's Magazine, The Lady's Book, Sargent's Magazine, The Pioneer, The Lady's Companion and The Southern Literary Messenger. In the above order, we propose to offer a few thoughts concerning the character of each, and shall conclude with a remark or two touching the tendency of this kind of literature.

Were it not for its ultraism in politics, we should consider the Democratic Review the most valuable journal of the day. Its editor, John L. O’Sullivan, is a man of fine matter-of-fact talents, and a good political writer, though not a brilliant one. The principal contributors to the work are Brownson, the new-light philosopher, Bancroft, Whittier, Bryant, Hawthorne, and Miss Sedgwick. Now the productions of such minds are always worth reading, for they are imbued with the true spirit of talent and genius; and that Magazine which employs such writers cannot but become eminently useful, and in the end, a source of reasonable emolument. Another interesting feature of the Democratic Review is the department of Criticism, which we think has generally been conducted in a candid, sensible and upright manner. Beside the notices of new books accompanying each number, it generally contains two or three elaborate reviews, which make it an agreeable work for men of letters. And as to its embellishments, (for everything must be pictured into the world now-a-days,) we consider them of the most truly valuable kind, being accurate and well-executed portraits of eminent men. Now if is were not for the ultraism of its proprietors, we should probably be favored, from time to time, with the counterfeit presentment of a Whig politician or writer, for, after all, there are some few men of talents even among the Whigs. Would not a step like this be making the Magazine more truly democratic than it is? and would it not be likely to add materially to the subscription list of the publication? Most highly indeed, do we esteem the Democratic Review, and, take it all in all, we acknowledge only three as its superiors in any country: namely: Tait's Magazine, Frazer, and Blackwood. And these it will fully equal, when it has had the advantages of their experience. But to proceed.

The glory of the Knickerbocker is for ever departed. Once, it was a thrice welcome messenger of intellectual entertainment to everybody, ladies, gentlemen and all. Nearly all our distinguished literary men have at times, made it the medium of their communication to the public. But, alas! the good names now connected with it are few and far between, and its subscription list is rapidly dwindling away. A secondary reason for this, we imagine, is in the bad management of its pecuniary affairs; as it has been sold to a Boston publisher, and, being printed there, is a Boston magazine, and no more the Knickerbocker. But the principal cause of its melancholy decline, may be traced to the peculiar and unappreciated talent of its editor, Lewis G. Clark. The only redeeming quality which we (mind, we don’t say the public) can find in this gentleman, is in the fact that he is the brother of the late Willis G. Clark, who was one of the most gifted of our poets, and an exceedingly pleasant prose-writer. Mr. Lewis Clark has made a considerable noise in the literary world, but how he has made it, would be difficult for his best friends to explain. One of our readers might remark, “Why, don’t you know, it was by a long newspaper discussion, several years ago, between himself and his partner, Mr. Edson, wherein each one called the other all the hard names in the world.” Another, and a friend of his, points us to the Editor's Table of the Knickerbocker, with the significant assertion, “That is the monthly production of Mr. Clark.” Our answer to this remark is, that it is not so. But allowing it to be true: what is the “Table,” but a lot of detached sentences culled from various newspapers, concerning books aud authors, together with extracts from rejected articles which the gentleman passes off as original? The present condition of this periodical is that of a poorly-cooked-up concern, a huge handsome-looking body, but without a [page 303:] soul. The sooner it dies, the better will it be for the proprietors; but if they will secure an able and efficient editor, we doubt not tut that it might be placed in the noble station which it once occupied.

The most popular of all the magazines is that published by Mr. Graham, who is a practical business man and a friend to men of talents of every east. Every article which he prints is liberally paid for, and he has the honor of patronizing a large number of eminent writers in prose and verse, than any other publisher in the country. Can we say more in his favor or in favor of his magazine? But a word or two on the other side. The embellishments of Graham are not quite as good as they might be, because they are too many. It would suit our fancy better, though perhaps not that of the public, to receive one gem of an engraving every month, instead of three or four of an inferior quality. Neither do we like the nominal editor of Graham's Magazine. And why? Because, though a pretty good compiler, he possesses too many of the peculiar characteristics of Mr. Lewis G. Clark. Mr. Rufus W. Griswold is wholly unfit, either by intellect or character, to occupy the editorial chair of Graham's Magazine.

The Lady's Book, edited by Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Sigourney, is upon the whole a clever magazine for the entertainment of ladies. We should like it better if the productions of gentlemen were excluded altogether, for it would then be a unique affair. A lady's book should be supported by ladies alone. Some of the stories published in this periodical are exceedingly good, but the majority of them are “stale, flat and unprofitable.” A certain portion of sentimental nonsense is quite indispensable, but it would be well to make this portion as small as possible, and we hope the Editors of the Lady's Book will do all in their power to bring about this state of things. Let fewer stories be written and more essays — a less quantity of rhyme and more true poetry.

Sargent's Magazine. As yet, we have not made use of that modern but most expressive word humbug, but now we are compelled to do so. Sargent's Magazine is a perfect literary humbug, and for the following reasons. But first as to its origin. A certain aspiring gentleman, having, so we are told, a capital of some $15,000, which he was anxious to invest in a literary enterprize, obtained the name and services of Mr. Epes Sargent, who was then disengaged,! and started a new magazine. Being in receipt from that time of a handsome salary, Mr. Sargent devoted his whole attention to the cause. Having an extensive acquaintance with the literati, he could command any quantity of puffs, and so the work was issued with a grand flourish of trumpets, although wretchedly printed and illustrated. Besides the usual contemptible fashion plates, it was interspersed at the very outset with etchings, copied from English u magazines and books. Now as to the contributors. Among the , distinguished names announced as such were John Q. Adams and Mr. Paulding. How did they become such? why! as follows. Eight lines of poetry, abstracted from a lady's album, were printed in its pages without the author's consent, and the name of the Ex-President announced to the world as a regular contributor to the work. Another, but inferior piece of poetry was printed and advertised as having been written by Mr. Paulding, and yet Mr. Paulding politely declines the honor of being the writer. The only two really fine articles that have appeared in it, are a poem by Holmes, and a story by Hawthorne. But whose are those loud-sounding names which are monthly arrayed on the cover of Sargent's Magazine? it may be asked by the inquisitive reader. We will tell you, for we know them well. Mrs. Helen Berkley (we hope. to be pardoned for these contradictions) is Epes Sargent; Miss Emma F. Allston is probably Epes Sargent; Mrs. Kenneth Rookwood is undoubtedly Epes Sargent; Samuel Samson, clerk, is Epes Sargent; Henry Stanhope Lee is Epes Sargent; John Hanmar is probably Epes Sargent; and we doubt not but that all the other articles published without a name are by Epes Sargent, and of course the remaining articles by “The Editor[[“]] and “Epes Sargent” are also by Epes Sargent. According to this arrangement therefore, the Magazine in question does not belie its name, for nine pages out of every ten are by the editor Epes Sargent. This we suppose is to avoid the inconvenience of paying for good articles by good writers. While at school, Mr. Sargent wrote astonishingly well for a youth, but those productions have not been improved upon in his manhood. His mind and power of writing have not increased with his years; and, if we mistake not, some of the articles published in his present magazine as original have appeared in other periodicals in Boston years ago.

A little more than a year ago, a very good magazine, entitled the Boston Miscellany, was started, edited by Nathan Hale, Jr. It was [column 2:] supported by some of the ablest literary men of Boston, and gave token of a goodly promise. A quarrel having taken place between the editor and publishers, a separation took place between them, and Mr. Tuckerman was engaged to fill the vacant chair of editor. On a hint from Hale, Lowell the poet started a new periodical, called the Pioneer, in opposition to the Miscellany. As the case now stands, the latter is dead, very dead, and the former in the full tide of successful operation. It is printed in beautiful style, edited with great ability, and supported by a number of our most classical writers. Among men of taste it is, and we hope will continue to be, a great favorite. Its themes are of a dignified character, and the tone f its criticisms high-minded, candid, sensible, and just.

The Lady's Companion is a milk and water concern, edited by penny-a-liner and a foreigner named Hamilton. It is a receptacle of nonsense from first to last, of picture nonsense, fashion nonsense, poetical nonsense, and prose nonsense. Of course we do not allude to the occasional productions of Mr. and Mrs. Seba Smith, Mrs. Embury, and one or two other writers of reputation. It is a work of no beneficial influence whatever, and ought to be annihilated.

Last, but not least, we come now to speak of the Southern Literary Messenger, which has probably diffused more valuable information throughout the Union than any other literary work, for the past five years. But, alas! its honest, worthy, and hard-working originator, editor, and publisher, is no more — he has paid the final debt of nature, and a host of friends will bemoan his loss. Many able productions in the departments of tales, essays, and poetry, have appeared in the pages of the Messenger, and we trust that the same names which have so long been associated with it, will continue to amuse and instruct the public by their efforts, and that an able editor will speedily be employed to secure to it its former high-standing.

In speaking of the mass of matter published in the above-mentioned periodicals, it can only be designated as sentimental, love-sick, or fashionable stories, and unmeaning rhymes. Now, if this be true, who can deny that an exceedingly bad influence is exerted by our magazine literature? Thousands of articles are written, prompted by nothing but a petty ambition, and, when published to the world, do a great deal more injury than good. Instead of instructing the youthful mind, they “please with a rattle, tickle with a straw” — instead of instilling a sound morality, they inculcate a neglect of everything that is valuable — instead of making the poor contented with their condition, they descant upon the luxury of fashion and wealth, causing a thousand hearts bitterly to ache for an imaginary want. Is not, then, this kind of literature a nuisance? Ought not its influence to be checked? True — but how can this be one? Let every candid and upright man, who believes that the tendency of this literature is bad, refrain, carefully and continually, refrain, from purchasing the magazines which publish it. People may talk and talk, but all in vain — nothing will have the desired effect but the keeping back of the necessary funds. As to those who tax their brains to produce this literature, let them enjoy, (if they are satisfied with it,) their only legitimate reward, viz: the flattery of fools — foolish young men and foolish young women. Let every person who acknowledges such men as Ingraham and Willis, (Willis, we mean, as he is now — not as he was formerly,) and such women as Helen Berkley, and all their followers, (for their name is legion,) let such people, we say, be laughed at for their taste, and see what will be the effects of the ridicule. The conclusion of the whole matter is this the light literature of the present day, particularly as disseminated in our fashionable magazines, is almost without a single redeeming quality. L. . .

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COMMENTS BY THE EDITOR. — We have consented to publish the foregoing, not because we agree with it, but because we do not. We like occasionally to differ with our correspondents, by way of allowing their independence — reserving to ourselves, however, the high privilege of expressing our disagreement with their views, opinions, prejudices, predilections and decisions. Now the writer of the above is, of course, altogether in the wrong; the magazines of our country are the most admirable affairs imaginable — polished corners of the temple — caned cariatides on the portico of literature. The generous commendations in the newspapers which always herald their monthly appearance are perfectly disinterested and just, and if we are to believe them, nor heaven nor earth nor the waters under the earth ever contained anything so beautiful, so exquisite, so superb, so splendid, so entrancing and soul-subduing. What makes it very wonderful is, that though every number never can be surpassed, the next is better still, and thus “the agony of praise is piled up,” till Pelion towers over Ossa, and the acme of superlative is overflown by [page 304:] the wings of mounting exaggeration. Nevertheless, our fat friend the public — good, easy, old gentleman — sits in his elbow-chair and laughs at the attempts made to gull him into believing that silly stories are “grand and thrilling,” and that revamped engravings — than which he can buy a hundred better for a few shillings in any print shop — are elaborate and magnificent specimens of art. He sits quietly, letting his boys and girls, if they will, take in the pretty books while he, sensible person! continues to read the New World, an wonder how anybody can possibly be so stupid as to find entertainment in any other periodical whatsoever.

Now there was one peculiarly forcible reason, why we liked no to print the foregoing comments. They are too severe, and, as toute le monde et sa,femme knows, we cannot bear to be severe; it is not our way. We praise everything; it encourages American literature and makes “Young genius. plume his eagle flight,

Rich, dew-drops shaking from his plumes of light” Where a critic is so savage and ferocious and cruel and hard-hearted and brutal, as not to praise to the utmost the pap and porridge of literature, hour the deuce does he expect to have any jellies and that “Perpetual feast of nectared sweets

Where no crude surfeit reigns?” Certainly, he ought to sing “Io Paean” over all things good, bad an indifferent — then he is called a good-natured fellow, a discerner of excellence in others, a nice, pleasant individual with a heart as warm as a buckwheat cake — ought to be. For a reputation like this being very ambitious, we don’t like to be severe and never are — are we, dear, mild, mellifluous Miss Jenkins, etc?

But what avails running on in this way, like John Neal, hurry-skurry? “Behoveth us,”as Knowles fifty times in every play has written, “behoveth us” to be sedate and serious. Really, our correspondent says harsh and unkind things in a pleasant way. We like the Knickerbocker and the rest, and consider them very well edited. We have a high personal respect for the editors. As for Sargent's Magazine, though in its infancy, it has, we are told, begun to go alone; and if Mr. Sargent does write all the articles, so much the more to the credit of his industry, and to the Protean character of his style, now assuming the guise of a lady, now that of a gentleman: at this minute Helen Berkley, and at the next Sam Sampson, (what a funny name!) That we wish Mr. Sargent the most measureless success, our readers well know from the notices which have graced our columns.

A word in conclusion. We can’t say that we ever read any of these Magazines. We have frequently tried to, and couldn’t.