Text: Edgar Allan Poe (?), Literary, Broadway Journal (New York), December 27, 1845, vol. 2, no. 25, p. ???, col. ?

[page 390, column 2, continued:]

Editorial Miscellany.

THE BROADWAY JOURNAL may be obtained in the City of New York of the following agents: Taylor, Astor House; Crosby, Exchange, William street; Graham, Tribune Buildings; Lockwood, Broadway and Grand; and Burgess & Stringer•, Ann and Broadway.

A new volume will commence on Saturday, the tenth of January next. A very few sets of the first volume are still for sale at the office, 304 Broadway.

MR. THOMAS H. LANE is the only person (beside ourself ) authorized to give receipts or transact business for The Broadway Journal. For Prospectus, Terms, etc. see end of the paper.

DR. COLLIER, the eminent Mesmerist, has written to us in reference to the extraordinary case of M. Valdemar. We quote a portion of his letter:

Boston, December 16, 1845.

DEAR SIR — Your account of M. Valdemar's Case has been universally copied in this city, and has created a very great sensation. It requires from me no apology, in stating, that I have not the least doubt of the possibility of such a phenomenon; for, I did actually restore to active animation a person who died from excessive drinking of ardent spirits. He was placed in his coffin ready for interment.

You are aware that death very often follows excessive excitement of the nervous system; this arising from the extreme prostration which follows; so that the vital powers have not sufficient energy to react.

I will give you the detailed account on your reply to this, which I require for publication, in order to put at rest the growing impression that your account is merely a splendid creation of your own brain, not having any truth in fact. My dear sir, I have battled the storm of public derision too long on the subject of Mesmerism, to be now found in the rear ranks — though I have not publicly lectured for more than two years, I have steadily made it a subject of deep investigation.

I sent the account to my friend Dr. Elliotson of London; also to the “Zoist,” — to which journal I have regularly contributed.

Your early reply will oblige, which I will publish, with your consent, in connection with the case I have referred to. Believe me yours, most respectfully,

ROBERT H. COLLYER.

Edgar A. Poe, Esq., New York. [page 391:]

We have no doubt that Mr. Collyer is perfectly correct in all that he says — and all that he desires us to say — but the truth is, there was a very small modicum of truth in the case of M. Valdemar — which, in consequence, may be called a hard case — very hard for M. Valdemar, for Mr. Collyer, and ourselves. If the story was not true, however, it should have been — and perhaps “The Zoist “may discover that it is true, after all.

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THE TRULY beautiful poem entitled “The Mountains,” and published in our last Journal, will put every reader in mind of the terseness and severe beauty of Macaulay's best ballads — while it surpasses any of them in grace and imagination. Not for years has so fine a poem been given to the American public. It is the composition of Mr. P. P. Cooke of Virginia, author of “Florence Vane,” “Young Rosalie Lee,” and other exquisitely graceful and delicate things. Mr. Cooke's prose, too, is nearly as meritorious as his poetry.

For the deeply interesting paper “On the Poetical Literature of Germany,” (also published in our last number,) we are indebted to Professor T. L. Tellkampf, of Columbia College, in this city — brother of the celebrated German poet Adolphus Tellkampf.

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THE DAILY NEWS — Speaking of Dickens’ projected paper, thus entitled, the correspondent of the Liverpool Chronicle says:

I told you some time ago, if I recollect alight, that a new daily paper of ultra liberal politics was to be started, with Charles Dickens as the editor, and his father as field marshal or conductor. Messrs. Bradbury and Evans, the proprietors of Punch, are the spirited men ostensibly known in the new paper — that is to be. A number of “crack” reporters, all short-hand men, of the metropolitan journals, have been engaged, at salaries of seven, eight and ten guineas a-week, for three years certain. Dickens is to have two thousand a year! Jerrold, Mark Lemon, and others of “mark” and “likelihood,” are to be among the chief writers. There is plenty of cash in bank, and the parties are all men of undoubted honor. After a little “hitch,” the effects of which lasted only twenty-four hours, everything has gone on cheeringly. Charles Dickens had a dinner party the other day, composed of the principal lads engaged; each gentleman invited had come with six names for the future journal: after dinner these were discussed with the champagne and claret; some of the titles were funny enough, and your readers must lose a good laugh by my withholding them. By general consent, “The Daily News” was adopted. The paper is to be a rival of the old Whig Morning Chronicle.

A capital of £100,000 was required to commence operations — so great, in England, is the risk and difficulty of establishing a daily paper. The first number will be issued on the first day of the new year. Among the collaborators is “an American gentleman who has acquired much note as a Magazinist,” — possibly John Neal.

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THE BOSTON POST says:

We have just learned of a most flattering compliment that has been recently paid by a crowned head of Europe to an American writer, Mr. A. J. Downing, of Highland Gardens, New York, who published, not long since, a most charming book on landscape gardening. Mr. Henry Wikoff, who arrived yesterday in the Acadia, from Liverpool, has brought over with him an autograph letter from the Queen of Holland, together with a magnificent ruby ring encircled by three rows of fine diamonds, in acknowledgment of the pleasure she had derived from the late perusal of Mr. Down-ing's book. A compliment like this from a royal personage to an American author is certainly quite novel, and what enhances its value is the new mode made choice of. The gift of a jewel is the familiar form that a crowned head usually selects to express royal approbation, but it is the first instance of the kind we know of Where an autograph letter was added to give a stronger emphasis to such a testimonial. We record with great pleasure this marked compliment to the talents of a fellow countryman, and congratulate Mr. Wikoff upon his honorable commission.

For our own parts we are glad that Mr. Downing has received the ring — especially as it consists of diamonds and rubies and has, therefore, much intrinsic value. We use the words “intrinsic value” not rigorously, but in distinction from the factitious value which, in the public eye, appertains to the present as that of a monarch — and which in our own sincere opinion is precisely nothing at all — unless, indeed, we are to understand that the individual monarch, in this case, is a very especial judge of the merits of a work on “Landscape Gardening.” What we mean to say, is simply this: — that the value of any approbation, or any testimony of approbation, for a book, is in the ratio not of the worldly eminence, but in that of the judgment and good faith of the person who commends.

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THE BOSTON COURIER says:

It is with deepest regret that we learn the death of Mrs. Maria Brooks, the authoress of “Zophiel.” She died on the 11th of Nov. last, at Matanzas, in the island of Cuba, from the debility consequent upon a severe fit of sickness. Mrs. Brooks was, at the time of her decease, about fifty years old. She was born at Medford, in this state, and for a considerable period resided in this city. About fifteen years ago she visited France and England, and while there formed many friendships with distinguished persons in both countries, among others with Lafayette, Wordsworth, and Southey. Of late years she has resided principally in Matanzas.

Mrs. Brooks was one of the most remarkable women that ever lived. To great attainments in literature, she joined a powerful and original genius, and a character of singular energy and individuality. Both in England and the United States, she has been considered by all who have read her writings thoughtfully, as unmatched among poets of her sex. Southey, who superintended the publication of her “Zophiel,” had the most exalted opinion of her powers, and pronounced her “the most impassioned and imaginative of all poetesses.” When “Zophiel” was published, Charles Lamb wrote to a friend, that Southey was trying to pass off the poem as the production of an American woman, as if, he said, “there ever was a woman capable of writing such a poem.” This is high praise, but it is borne out by the poem itself. It is one of the few compositions written during the present century, destined for durable fame. It is one of the most original, passionate and harmonious works of imagination ever conceived — and there breathes through the whole the vital life of genius. Though it has not been extensively circulated in the United States, there arc very few American productions which shed so much glory on our literature, or which are so often quoted abroad as evidences of American genius.

That a mind of so much power and brilliancy should have departed — that one of the lights of our literature should have been quenched, we consider an occasion for the most sincere regret. But the image of that mind, stamped on her productions, will not depart. The light that illumines the records of her genius will not be quenched. Her memory will never return to the dust; her mind, even on earth, will have no grave and no tomb. Silently and surely her genius will work its way into the great public heart of the country, and her fame grow with time. And we cannot conceive of the period when an American, in reviewing the causes which have conducted to place his country in a proud intellectual position, and assisted in giving to it the immortality which springs from literature, shall cease to regard with peculiar gratitude and admiration the name of the authoress of “Zophiel.”

The critic who writes this is somewhat given to excess of enthusiasm, and we certainly are very far from agreeing with him in his opinion that Mrs. Brooks was “considered by all who have read her writings thoughtfully as unmatched among poets of her sex.” The author of “Zophiel” was a truly imaginative poet, but no one, “who read her writings thoughtfully,” would [page 392:] think of comparing her with Miss Barrett — or even with Mrs. Norton. As for Lamb's pert query — “ was there ever a woman capable of writing such a poem?” — it merely proves that Lamb had little understanding of the true nature of Poetry — which, appealing especially to our sense of Beauty, is, in its very essence, feminine. If the greatest poems have not been written by women, it is because, as yet, the greatest poems have not been written at all.

TO CORRESPONDENTS. — Many thanks to our friend, W. D. G. We assure him that our paper has been regularly mailed to the Gazette. Thanks, also, to A. M. F. and H. T. L.