Text: Edgar Allan Poe (?), Literary, Broadway Journal (New York), April 12, 1845, vol. 1, no. 15, p. 235-236

[page 235, column 1, continued:]

THE MAGAZINES.

THE AMERICAN REVIEW for April announces that a body of the Whig senators, including Messrs. Webster, Berrien, Mangum, Evans, Morehead, Crittenden, Archer, John M. Clayton, and several others, “have voluntarily consulted respecting its establishment, and pledged themselves to support it by monthly contributions — each engaging his attention for a month assigned.” With assistance of such character Mr. Colton cannot fail in securing a very eminent position for the Review, which, we arc happy to know, is in other respects securely established.

The first paper (in the number for April) we sincerely regret to see — nor can we see its necessity in any respect. Its subject is “The Last Chief Executive.”

The paper on Thiers’ Revolution is somewhat too long for a Magazine article of so solid a character, but neither its discrimination nor its vigor can be doubted. “About Birds” and “Waltoniana” are both very amusing, and “How shall life be made the most of?” is full of admirable suggestion. “The Commercial Intercourse with Eastern Asia” is one of the most valuable (if not the most valuable) of all. With the exception of “Some Words with a Mummy” which had the misfortune to be written by “one of us,” there is only one really bad article in the number — but that one is ineffable, and how the good taste of Mr. Colton could have admitted it, is a mystery. It is entitled “Sir Oracle,” and seems’ to have been composed in a fit of spleen, amounting almost to mania, by some microscopical littérateur whose last effusion has been maltreated by the critics. We might, in fact, ascertain the author by finding out who, of late, has written the stupidest book. The gentleman thinks that all critics are “asses,” and declares that “Greek shall meet Greek,” ending with something about the Kilkenny cats. But it is impossible, without an extract, to convey any idea of the pitiable drivel of this essay. Here is a specimen. The author (who calls himself Nosmetipsi) is ridiculing the critical pretensions of some body whom he met at Washington. A conversation occupying three or four rages of “The American Review!” is detailed at length as follows — the writer pledging his word that he is “strictly faithful” in the account:

N. “Well, don’t you think Crittenden, Rives, Preston, and Buchanan are strong men?” C. “I guess they are! Ain’t it fun to hear them great speakers?” N. “Oh, capital! There's Colonel Benton, too, a gentleman, and a great egotist. ‘ C. “Yes, all he's great any how!’ N. “He's the great author of the ‘Gold Humbug.’” C. So he is — a great author, very great, indeed.” N. “But there's another Colonel, who has run for Lieutenant-General in the Loco army, but who is willing to serve as kettle-drum Mayor, or even to march in the rank and file.’ He is a great man; and, like a true soldier, has shown a deep attachment to the colors. C. “Yes, he likes the colors, I tell ye, and he’ll die by ‘em.” N. “But don’t you think Wright, and Van Buren, and Tyler, and Polk are great men!” C. Yes, sir, all of ‘em; very great men.” N. “The first, is the great Magician, the second, the Little Magician; the fourth, the Great Unknown. C. [column 2:] “Jest what I’ve often said, sir.” N. “It seems to me, that we have more great men than we need. Isn’t it a pity some three or four of them — for instance, Calhoun, Benton, and Van Buren — had not been born in other countries, to diffuse the blessings of progressive democracy?’ C. “I think it is now, a very great pity, very great, indeed. We could supply the world with Presidents, not to mention Vice-Presidents and Governors.” N. “Yes, indeed. What a pity, too, that here and there one of our great men indulges too freely in unnatural excitements, instead of remaining strictly ‘aqua potator! You understand me?” “Oh, yes,” said he, with great gravity, but eyeing us very closely. “Oh, certingly. Though I can’t say I like to see men such very ‘queer potatoes.’ The greatest men, though, are always a leetle queer. But, queer or not, the men we’ve named ain’t small potatoes, are they?” N. “No. sir, I consider them all to be large ones.” C. “That they are, the thumpin’est kind of big ones, or else I don’t know nothing about it.” After a pause of about a minute, with a violent, but invisible and noiseless inward cachination. we said, “From your very remarkable taste and knowledge, I should hope you are a Loco — that is — a Democrat.” C. I ain’t nothin’ else, I guess.” “That shows your judgment. All great men are Locos, except six.’ “C. “So I think. I s’pose you’re a Loco, of course?” N. “I’m almost afraid to say, for fear you’d tell on me, if we should be beaten.” C. “Indeed, I wouldn’t, friend. I’m dark as a wolf's mouth.” N. “Well, now, don’t mention it. I’m a Wino, sir — a Whig now and always, here and everywhere?’ C. “The d — l, you are! Now, who’d have thought it? Wall, ‘many men of many minds.’ I’m not a very strong Democrat, myself. Henry Clay's a great man. very great, very great, indeed.” N. “Yes, sir, too great for us to criticise, or for his country to appreciate. Good day, sir.” C. “Why now, you ain’t a-going a’ready? Take another cigar.” N. “I thank you, sir. I have had sufficient enjoyment in ‘smoking’ the biped.” And thus we parted, — he apparently pondering over the occult meaning of our last remark; and we thoroughly diverted at the ex cathedra decisions of the fellow, who found his bliss not in his real ignorance, but in the dubious conceit that he was wise.

Now this is seriously intended as satire on criticism in general. The whole article will put the reader in mind of the scratching, biting, kicking and squalling of a very fat little booby while getting flogged. For our own part, had we been editor of even the “Paul Pry,” we should have rejected “Sir Oracle” as too undignified, and immensely too stupid for its columns. Such things seriously injure in degrading a Magazine.

THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER, for April, has Fits usual array of good papers, and among them we notice in especial — “ A brief Vindication of the Government and People of the United States from the Accusations brought against ‘ them by the Author of ‘Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs and Conditions of the North American Indians. Written during eight years’ travel among the wildest tribes of Indians in North America. By George Catlin.’” Mr. Catlin's book was published in 1841. The Vindication, etc. is, we think, from the pen of one of the ablest men in Virginia, and we have only to regret its terminating sentence.

The review of Miss Barrett will be well received by the unpoetical alone. The critic merely shows that her poetry is no poetry to him. She is unquestionably, in spite of her numerous faults, the most glorious woman of her age — the queen of all female poets.

“The Carolinas During the Revolution,” is the title of another very valuable article, the paternity of which we are quite at a loss to designate. There is also an original letter from Baron Von Washington, containing some interesting particulars respecting the Washington family.

The poetry of the Messenger is not at all times equal to its prose — but in the present number we observe some very effective stanzas (The Child's Grave) by Mrs. Jane Tayloe Worthington — also a sweet poem by Miss Mary G. Wells. The Critical Notices are brief, and to the point — although in many particulars we disagree radically with the opinions of the critic. We should be inclined, for example, to think far more highly than he, of the “Vestiges of Creation.” If not written by Dr. Nichol, this work is at least worthy that great man.

THE DEMOCRATIC REVIEW has a characteristic article by Hawthorne, — a semi-critical essay in which he has prolonged the lives, to the present day, of all the dead authors if the century, [page 236:] giving their imagined peculiarities in their dotage, and sent all the living writers to the tomb, giving the imaginary obituaries which their decease would have elicited. There are several other good papers in the magazine, the best of which are an admirable disquisition on plagiarism, an essay on Hawthorne, and an article on Marshal Ney. The embellishment is a well executed portrait of General Cass.

HUNT’S MERCHANT’S MAGAZINE contains the full amount of valuable statistical matter which we have been accustomed to find in its pages, but it contains one article, the spirit of which should, in some form, always he found in a work intended, like this, for the eye of the merchant. It is a review of Dymond's essays, but is called “Morals for Merchants,” which would be a startling term to those who did not know that the laws of the State, by interposing their authority between individuals in the adjustment of private claims, have created a mercantile immorality, and given rise to what are called debts of honor, which are generally the most dishonorable of all obligations, but which, being placed beyond the cognizance of statute law, are taken in charge by the law of honor. It is a subject of great astonishment that men will not learn from this anomalous class of debts, that if all debts were made debts of honor, there would be fewer debts unpaid than there are now. The present number of the Merchants’ Magazine, contains an announcement, as a rare occurrence, that two merchants who had been legally released from their business obligations, had recently paid their debts with interest. What more need be said for the morals of a profession, when one of its members is publicly applauded for a simple act of honesty which the lowest gambler feels himself bound to perform. It is but a year or two since men who could not pay their debts, were shut up in prison, and now that we have left that barbarous practice behind us, so strange and unnatural does it seem, that we can hardly believe that the stuccoed temple in the Park has contained within its walls thousands of human beings, who were shut up in killing confinement, for no other cause than an inability to pay their debts.