University of Virginia Library

(Revised Edition.)

PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT.

In two parts, elegantly printed on fine white paper, 37½ cents each; or the
whole in one handsome volume, 12mo., cloth, $1.

A new work of novel and romantic interest. It abounds with personal
adventure, cannibal banquets, groves of cocoanut, coral reefs, tattooed
chiefs and bamboo temples; sunny valleys, planted with bread-fruit
trees, carved canoes dancing on the flashing blue waters, savage woodlands
guarded by horrible idols, heathenish rites, and human sacrifices.

—N. Y. Mirror.

—Morning News.

—Courier and Inquirer.

—Western Continent.

—Tribune.

—Cincinnati Herald.

—Anti-Slavery
Standard.

—Richmond Republican.

—Albany Even'g Journal.

—Albany Argus.

—American Review.

—Graham's Magazine.

—Hunt's Merchant's Magazine.

—New York
Courier and Inquirer, 2d notice.

NOTICES OF THE ENGLISH PRESS.

“Mr. Murray's Library does not furnish us with a more interesting
book than this, hardly with a cleverer. It is full of the captivating matter
upon which the general reader battens, and is endued with freshness
and originality, to an extent that cannot fail to exhilarate the most
enervated and blasé of circulating library loungers.

“Enviable Herman! A happier dog it is impossible to imagine than
Herman in the Typee Valley.

“To describe a day's existence would be to tell of the promised joys
of the Mahomedan's paradise. Nothing but pure physical delight;
sunny days, bright skies, absence of care, presence of lovely woman

Fayaway—who gave her that name?—is in herself sufficient to enchain
a human heart to a dungeon for life, yet she failed to wed the soul of
Herman to this happy valley. Like Rasselas, his pleasures palled. He
wished to be beyond the mountains, to be freed from luscious imprisonment;
for it has to be told that Herman is close prisoner in the valley, is
well cared for, fed, and housed (not clothed), but, for some mysterious
reason, watched during every hour of the day and night. As for Toby,
he escaped a month or so after they reached the valley, although how he
got away, and whither he went, are mysteries to the present hour. Mr.
Melville thinks he was eaten by the Typees, but that by the way. Once
or twice Herman asks leave to go back to his friends, but his request
meets with a rebuke, and he asks no more. Four months pass away in
a manner which will not fail to excite the worn out sensibilities of a
modern tourist, and the valley is suddenly excited. A boat has arrived
on the coast. The natives pour down the valley to meet it. Herman
entreated the king of the Typees to suffer him to join them. The king
frowned, but soon gave way and consented. When within a short distance
of the sea, the companions of Herman suddenly repented their
goodness, and shut the white man up in a roadside hut. He heard the
roaring of the sea, was mad with impatience, but the savages were looking
fiercely upon him, and he held his peace. A difference of opinion
arose. Some of the chiefs pitied their captive, some were disposed to
eat him. One fine old fellow, by name Marheyo, came to Herman's side
(we can fancy Mr. T. P. Cooke playing the part at the Adelphi), and
placing his arm upon the young man's shoulder, emphatically pronounced
two English words—`Home,' `Mother.' Herman understood him,
and thanked him, the lovely Fayaway weeping all the while. Lucky
Melville! cruel Herman! why so anxious to depart? The friendly natives
carry the mariner forward. He once more sees the billows, and is
mad with joy. A boat is waiting to receive him. He presses on; Fayaway
clings to him, sobbing audibly. The natives fight—the friendly
and the inimical—and in the midst of the fray Herman reaches the boat.
But is he safe? Not yet. He perceives Fayaway sitting disconsolately
on the shingles, and a party of the inimicals dashing into the water to
overtake him. If they reach him, he is speared and lost. A savage has
neared the little boat. He is a friend; but, like many old friends, he is
inclined to mischief for the present. Herman strikes at him with the
boathook—aims at his throat—and hits it. Another savage has his
hand upon the gunwale; a knife removes it; the little boat is already
close to the vessel to which she belongs. Herman is safe, but, over-powered
by agitation and strong excitement, he faints in the arms of
his deliverer, recovering, happily, to write his adventures, and to add
another volume to the 19 already issued of the Colonial Library.

“We have been somewhat prolix in the narration of this history; first,
because the book of Mr. Melville is really a very clever production; and,
secondly, because it is introduced to the English public as authentic,
which we by no means think it to be. We have called Mr. Melville a
common sailor; but he is a very uncommon common sailor, even for
America, whose mariners are better educated than our own. His read

ing has been extensive. In his own province, the voyages of Cook
Carteret, Byron, Kotzebue, and Vancouver are familiar to him; he can
talk glibly of Count Buffon and Baron Cuvier, and critically, when he
likes, of Teniers. His descriptions of scenery are lifelike and vigorous,
sometimes masterly, and his style throughout is rather that of an educated
literary man than of a poor outcast working seaman on board of a
South Sea whaler.”

“Is there any one whose eye may fall on this page, weary of the conventionalities
of civilized life—some toil-worn Sisyphus bowed to the
earth with his never-ending task of rolling up the hill of life the stone
that ever threatens to fall back on himself—dispirited with the energies
he has wasted on unrewarded or uncongenial pursuits—cheated with
Hope until he regard her as a baffled impostor who shall cheat him no
more; whose heart beats no longer high for the future; but whose best
affections are chilled, and loftiest aspirations thrown back on themselves?
Is there any one sick of the petty animosities, the paltry-heart-burnings
and jealousies, and low-thoughted cares of what is called, in
bitter mockery, society?—Oh! `if such man there be,' let him take
the `wings of a dove,' or what perhaps will bear safer the weight of
himself and his woes—a berth in a South-sea whaler, and try the effects
of a `Residence in the Marquesas,' and take a `Peep at Polynesian
life,' and if he likes the peep make that life his own.

“Here, and we call Mr. Herman Melville into court, he need not fear
the single rap at the door which dissipates his day-dreams as surely as
the kite in the air scares away the feathered minstrelsy of the grove;
nor the postman's knock that peradventure brings the letter of the
impatient dun or threatening attorney; nor butchers' nor bakers' bills;
nor quarter-days with griping landlord and brutal brokers; nor tax-gatherer;
nor income tax collectors gauging with greedy exactness the
drops that have fallen from his brow. Here, strange to say, he will find
no money, no bargaining, no bankers with overdrawn accounts or dishonored
acceptances; no coin, and therefore no care; no misery, and
therefore no crime. No corn-laws, no tariff, no union-workhouse, no
bone-crushing, no spirit-crushing, no sponging-houses, no prisons. But
he may live as the songster wish'd, but dar'd not even to hope he could
live—

but not `alone.' For here are Houris even more graceful and lovely
than the flowers they are perpetually weaving to adorn themselves
with chaplets and necklaces, their only ornaments, but worthy of the
court of Flora herself; inviting him to repose his weary limbs beneath
the shadows of groves, on couches strewn with buds and fragrant
blossoms.

“Here the bosom of Nature, unscarified by the plough, offers up
spontaneously her goodliest gifts; food the most nutritious, and fruits
the most refreshing. The original curse on man's destiny, appears here

not to have fallen, `the ground is not cursed for his sake;' nor `in sorrow
does he eat of it all the days of his life.'

“In this garden of Eden, from which man is not yet an exile, there
are no laws, and what is more agreeable still, no want of them; unless
it be an Agrarian law, which works to every one's satisfaction. In this
paradise of islands, you have only to fix the site of your house, and you
will not be called upon to produce your title-deeds; and you may call
upon your neighbors to help you to build it, without any surveyor
being called in to tax their bills. Here you may, instead of going to
your office or warehouse, loiter away your morning beneath the loveliest
and bluest of skies, on the margin of some fair lake, reflecting their
hues yet more tenderly; or join the young men in their fishing-parties
or more athletic sports; or if more quietly disposed, join the old men
seated on their mats in the shade, in their `talk' deprived of only one
topic, your everlasting one, the weather; for where the climate is one
tropical June day, `melting into July,' it leaves you nothing to wish for,
positively nothing to grumble at.

“Such is life in the valley of the Typees; and surely Rasselas, if he
had had the good luck to stumble on it, would not have gone further in
his search after happiness.

“There is, however, one trifling drawback—some shadows to temper
the light of this glowing picture—the Typees are cannibals! The
author makes an elaborate, but to our notion, a very unnecessary apology
for this propensity of theirs. The Polynesians have the advantage of
the cannibals of civilized life, for we have long since made the pleasant
discovery that man-eating is not confined to the Anthropophagi of the
South Seas. The latter have undoubtedly one redeeming distinction—
they only devour their enemies slain in battle: there is nothing which
man in a civilized state has a keener appetite for than his particular
friend. Go to any race-course, and you will find some scented Damon
picking his teeth with a silver tooth-pick after devouring his Pythias, as
if he had relished the repast. Go to Tattersal's or Crockford's, and you
will find that in a single night a man has devoured his own wife and
children—having been disappointed in supping off his intimate friends.
We know instances of highly respected country gentleman swallowing
at a single election the whole of their posterity; and could quote one
huge Ogre who can gorge in his mighty man a few millions of `the
finest peasantry'—nothing, indeed, civilized men are more expert in
than picking their neighbors' bones!

“Possibly, we may have pushed the parallel to the furthest; but it is
impossible to read this pleasant volume without being startled at the
oft-recurring doubt, has civilisation made man better, and therefore
happier? If she has brought much to him, she has taken much away;
and wherever she has trod, disease, misery, and crime have tracked
her footsteps. She finds man a rude but happy savage, and leaves him
a repulsive outcast, whose only relation to humanity consists in the
vices which stain it.

“We have dwelt more on the subject of Mr. Melville's `Narrative,'
and the reflections it excites, than on the book itself, which is one of the

most captivating we have ever read. What will our juvenile readers
say to a real Robinson Crusoe, with a real man Friday?—one Kory-Kory,
with whom we will venture to say they will be delighted in five
minutes from his introduction. The early part of the volume, narrating
the author's escape from the prison ship—with his strange comrade
Toby, whose mysterious fate, after baffling our curiosity and speculation,
is yet to be developed—for the best of all possible reasons, that the
author himself has not found out!—is full of vivid excitement. The
hair-breadth escapes of the adventurous seamen, their climbing up
precipices and perpendicular rocks, their perilous leaps into cavernous
retreats and gloomy ravines, are painted in vivid contrast to the voluptuous
ease and tranquil enjoyments of the happy valley which they
eventually reach. Although with little pretension to author-craft, there
is a life and truth in the descriptions, and a freshness in the style of the
narrative, which is in perfect keeping with the scenes and adventures
it delineates. The volume forms a part of `Murray's Home and
Colonial Library,' and is worthy to follow `Borrow's Bible in Spain,'
and `Heber's Indian Journals.' What traveller would wish for a higher
distinction?”

“Literary Sessions.—Alleged Forgery.—An individual, who gave
the name of Herman Melville, was brought up on a charge of having
forged several valuable documents relative to the Marquesas, in which
he described himself to have been formerly resident. A good deal of
conflicting evidence was brought forward on both sides, and it was obvious
that whether the papers were forgeries or not, the talent and ingenuity
of Herman Melville were, of themselves, sufficient to recommend
them very favorably to a literary tribunal. In the course of the
trial, it was suggested that as it would occupy too much of his honor's
time to set out the whole of the disputed matter in the pleadings, the
jury should take it home to read at their leisure. It was ultimately
agreed that the matter should be referred to the Superior Court of Public
Opinion, with a strong recommendation that every one being a member
of that tribunal should read the whole of the alleged forgeries, without
missing a word. The impression was decidedly favorable to Mr.
Herman Melville, and though no decision has been come to upon the
question of forgery, he has excited the greatest interest, and is received
everywhere with the most cordial welcome.”

“From the first moment of his desertion from the whaler at Nukuhevs
harbor, to his escape from the Typee valley; or, to speak plainer, from
the first line in the first page to the last in the last, interest, information,
and the most genial freshness of description, pervade the whole volume.
It is all but visiting the Marquesas ourselves. Poee-Poee becomes a
familiar dish, tappa is cinctured round your loins; you are sanctified by
the Taboo, and clamber up the long shaft of the cocoa nut, while reading
this singular production. Throughout it there are snatches of drollery
that are occasionally irresistibly comic; drollery of observation; and

sometimes reflections of the most unstrained and winning pathos. If
alone as likely to correct the popular notion regarding the character of
savages, this book will perform a high mission, and is deserving of every
possible praise. The Typees, to whom the writer's remarks are especially
referable, are a nation of Indians, totally ignorant of any intercourse with
white men; Europeans have never ventured to anchor on their shores;
civilisation has never insinuated itself among their bamboo huts; they
have the reputation of being the most sanguinary barbarians, and the
most ruthless cannibals in the Marquesas. And yet, after a familiar
intercourse with them during the period already mentioned, the author
describes these same Typees as a set of the most harmless, the most
peaceable, the most affectionate, the most virtuous and generous hearted
beings; though pagans withal, and even cannibals withal! How cannibalism
can be reconciled with such tender qualities is judiciously proved
by the writer. We repeat the declaration proved, and refer every sceptic
to the work itself. If he does not acquire a love for that beautiful valley
of Typee; if he does not esteem the whole tribe of naked and tatooed
savages as worthy of sincere attachment, from the munificent King
Mehevi to Kory-Kory himself; if he does not especially extend his
reverence to Marheyo and Tinor, and his whole heart to the lovely
maiden Fayaway; even when she is devouring raw fish, or blowing the
nose flute; we will wager, to use an old but expressive country phrase,
that his heart is not in the right place. Better than the generality of
novels, because so true as well as so strange, is this narrative, with its
pure and sustained actuality. Every chapter has its separate picture,
and every picture is glowing with life; from the golden lizards among
the spear-grass, to the dumb birds with their dazzling plumage; from
the battle of popguns to the feast at the Ti; from the cooking of bread
fruit to the frequent bathing in the lake; everything is seen with a keen
eye, and recorded with a faithful pencil. Nor do the savages appear, in
closer view, to be so utterly barbarous in their style of living as might
have been conjectured. They are housed comfortably and elegantly;
they enjoy their siestas after meals; they revel in the perfume of tobacco;
they anoint their bodies with the most exquisite cosmetics; they adorn
themselves with trinkets, and flowers, and feathers—they are absolute
epicureans in their own way. Besides which, according to our author,
they are perfect specimens of manly and female beauty, in evidence of
which, the elaborate portraits, as sketched by him, of Marnoo and of
Fayaway, may be pointed out. What renders each event in this
`Residence among the Typees of the Marquesas' doubly interesting, is
the fact that all the circumstances transpired scarcely two years since.
We can cordially recommend the book as a most choice and delightful
one: if we could possibly squeeze the 285 pages into a single column
we would prove its excellence by transcribing the entire work. Mr.
Murray deserves well for its publication.”

—London Athenæum.

“This is really a very curious book. * * The details of the flight
from the whale-ship are extraordinary, and we remember few narratives

of escape with a more sustained interest or a more dramatic close. * *
As for the Typee valley the happy one of our dear old Rasselas was not
a more romantic or enchanting scene. * * *

—London Examiner.

“A book of great curiosity, and striking in style of composition. It
is the first account that has been published of a residence among the
Polynesian Islanders by a person who has lived with them in their own
fashion; for although hundreds of mariners have lived and died upon
these islands, and some of them—as Christian the mutineer—were perhaps
capable of writing a book, none of them that we remember have
ever done so.

Had this work been put forward as the production of an English common
sailor, we should have had some doubts of its authenticity in the
absence of distinct proof. But in the United States it is different. There
social opinion does not invest any employment with discredit; and it
seems customary with young men of respectability to serve as common
seamen, either as a probationership to the navy or as a mode of seeing
life. Cooper and Dana are examples of this practice. * *

—London Spectator.

—
London Critic.

—London Critic, 3d notice.

—London Eclectic
Review.

—Tait's Edinburgh Mag.

—Simmons's
Colonial Magazine.

—Gentleman's Magazine.

—
John Bull.